Mounting Danger Read online

  “It’s a mistake, all right, but not one I can fix. I’m stuck with you.”

  Anger finally pushed past Rachel’s confusion. She held herself still with a tight grip on the cold metal arms of her chair. “Hey, I said I didn’t ask for this. It’s not my fault that the entire department is pissed at me. According to the domestic violence laws—”

  Abby waved her hand. “Don’t quote state laws to me, Bryce. Yes, you followed procedure to the letter. And yes, Sheehan’s an ass and he belongs in jail. But sometimes playing the game has nothing to do with the rules. You lost the respect of the department and you’re going to have a hell of a time getting it back. I don’t want you dragging my unit down.”

  Rachel crossed her arms over her chest, feeling the comforting pressure of her Kevlar vest. Hargrove was crazy. Rules were the only thing holding society together. Without them, everything would fall apart. “So I’ll refuse the job.”

  “Don’t you think I tried to get someone else—anyone else—appointed? But you’re the only sergeant with any riding experience.”

  So Abby had already known the answer when she asked Rachel if she was a rider. A few months ago, this posting would have been a dream come true. Now it was only a very public, very spectacular way to fail. “You saw how those horses were acting yesterday. There’s no way anyone could have them ready in a little over a month.”

  “Alex assured me they’d be more than ready by the Fourth. Stick with his training plans and try not to make them worse than they are.”

  “But you said yourself, they won’t listen to me.”

  “Exactly,” Abby said. She tapped the paper with Cal’s name on it. “So you get Callan Lanford to do the actual training. Your position as sergeant is merely a formality. You put on the uniform and sit on a horse. You’re qualified to do that much, at least.”

  Abby handed Rachel a manila folder. “The security code for the stables and keys to the tack room and your new office. Remember, Alex was an experienced mounted officer and he kept detailed lesson plans. The riders will respect Callan. All you have to do is keep a low profile. Keep out of the way.”

  Rachel left the office and walked down the stairs, keeping one hand firmly on the metal railing for support. Get outside. Get into the privacy of her patrol car before she gave in to her confusion and despair and frustration. Why had everything gone so wrong? She had just been appointed to a plum position on the force. Despite her short time as a sergeant, her bad reputation, her new superior’s wishes. If there was any smidgen of good feeling toward her left on the department, it’d be gone by the time news of her promotion spread. Rachel stepped outside and looked up at the flag flying at half-mast. She would have been delighted with this job if her squad liked her and her lieutenant had faith in her. Even more, if she didn’t have to call Cal Lanford and ask for her help.

  *

  The soft crunch as Rachel’s sneakers hit the fir-needle-strewn path was a rhythmic accompaniment to her breath. Two footfalls for each inhale, two for each exhale. The park was quiet except for the ordered sound as Rachel jogged through the darkness. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the quarter moon, but she could have run this trail blindfolded. She broke free of the trees and crossed the pavement, following the road for a few yards until another dirt path led her toward the bluff.

  Point Defiance Park’s Five Mile Drive was a meandering road through a cool, dense forest. Rachel followed a series of hiking trails on her usual jogging route, crisscrossing the Drive at intervals. During the day, during the summer, the road was often filled with cars. Families driving at a leisurely pace among the fir trees and rhododendrons. Stopping to take photos of the raccoons and deer, pausing at viewpoints so they could watch eagles soaring over Commencement Bay. But at three in the morning, there weren’t any people except for Rachel. No sounds except for the slap of her shoes, the even rasp of her breath, the occasional scuffle as a small animal scurried through the brush. No city smells, only the wet odor of moss and fir and the fishy scent of Puget Sound. The park was officially closed at sundown, but this was the single rule Rachel ever broke. She needed the space, needed the solitude if she wanted to keep breathing through the rest of the day.

  She hadn’t heard the single shot, muffled by a silencer, which had killed Alex a week ago. She hadn’t started her run until a few hours later. And by the time his body was found, she was already at work. She hadn’t noticed anything unusual on her run, so why admit to anyone that she used the park after hours?

  Rachel skirted the zoo’s parking lot, keeping to the shadows out of habit, and ran downhill toward the ferry landing. She could barely make out the bulky shapes of the caribou where they clustered on a small knoll in their enclosure, their habits as predictable as hers. Normally she would head uphill here, back to her small apartment, but today she crossed the road leading to the ferry and paused to catch her breath.

  Crouched over, with her hands supported on her knees, Rachel stretched her lower back as her respiration rate slowed. The long run had eased some of her tension, unkinking the muscles she relied on to keep her in control and calm every day at work. She was still in the park, but at its very edge where residential streets abutted the huge green space. An empty lot, once used as a storage dump for branches and dirt and rocks left behind after storms or landscaping projects, had been converted into a stable yard for the mounted unit. When Tacoma last had mounted police, they had been housed near the southwest corner of the park, where Rachel started her nightly run.

  She had liked knowing there were horses in the park once again. Police and trail horses had once traveled the hiking trails now used only by people and deer. Occasionally during her runs over the past two months, since the horses had arrived, Rachel had heard them moving about in their stalls, snorting or whickering in the night. Sometimes she saw hoofprints on her trails, or she’d notice the lights on in the yard and know Alex or one of the officers was there. When the wind was just right, blowing off the Sound, familiar smells of barn and horse hit her as she turned for home. But she had never been inside the chain link fence surrounding the barn.

  Rachel had her identification card on a cord around her neck. She fished it out from between her breasts and wiped off a light film of sweat before swiping it at the gate. She keyed in the security code she had memorized that afternoon and stepped into the mounted-police headquarters. Her mounted unit’s headquarters. She belonged here. She might feel like a thief, sneaking around in the night, but this would be her new office starting tomorrow.

  She walked around the small yard, familiarizing herself with its dimensions while she still felt in control, protected by the dark sky. Before she had to face the scowling faces of her new unit. She didn’t have to guess how they must have reacted to the news. She’d be surprised if they didn’t all resign from the division before she even spent one day in charge of them.

  There was a small tanbark arena for schooling, cordoned off with bright orange pylons and crime-scene tape. Fancy. It would be tight quarters for four riders, but mounted horses didn’t have the luxury of space. They’d spend their working hours in close quarters with citizens, perps, and cars. The barn was simple as well, an L-shaped structure with stalls for six horses, four of them occupied. No inside aisle, but a wide overhang offered a sheltered space for grooming and tacking the horses. She walked slowly past the stalls, peering over the top of the dutch doors. Three of the horses were asleep standing up, knees locked and a hind hoof cocked. The fourth, Clark’s bay, was curled on a bed of clean shavings. Rachel kept her movements calm and quiet, humming softly under her breath as she moved past each stall. Ears flicked in her direction, the only sign that her presence was noted.

  When she came to the short side of the L, she fished the key Hargrove had given her out of her pocket and opened the first door. A tack room. The meager light of the moon didn’t reach into the darkened room, so Rachel ran her palm along the wall until she located the light switch. The sudden brightness start
led her. She didn’t like being backlit, visible to anyone who might be lurking in the deserted park, so she quickly turned the light off and plunged the room once more into blackness. She stood pressed against the wall until her eyes adjusted to the night again. A flashlight. She should have brought a flashlight with her.

  She locked the tack room door and moved to the next one. Alex’s office. No, her office. This time, she closed and bolted the door behind her before she fumbled for the light switch. The office was as tidy and well-ordered as the tack room had seemed to be in her brief glimpse of it. The desk was bare except for a plain Page-A-Day calendar and a metal in-box. A bunch of pens sat in a wooden cup next to a plastic paper-clip box like the one Hargrove had played with during Rachel’s meeting with her.

  Rachel sat in the cheap swivel chair, its lack of back support and loose casters sure signs of its advanced age. She opened the desk drawers one by one. More pens. Alex must have swiped a handful every time he walked by a supply closet. Miscellaneous office supplies. A stray hoof pick. The bottom drawer was wedged tight with file folders, and Rachel pulled them out one at a time. Hargrove hadn’t been kidding. Alex had kept meticulous records on the health histories for each horse, plus expense accounts for tack and feed.

  And training notes. Rachel flipped through the pages in the file. Alex had kept daily records of every ride, every lesson. And a notebook for each officer with their riding abilities and issues, how they performed in each lesson, their goals for the next ride. Rachel frowned as she tapped the stack of papers against the desk, tidying the pile before she stuck it back in the folder and wedged the whole thing back into the drawer. From the outside, the whole barn looked perfect. Perfectly managed, perfectly organized. And if Alex had been a riding instructor, preparing his students for a show or teaching them the fundamentals of riding, Rachel would have been as impressed with him as Hargrove seemed to be. But these officers and horses were preparing to be on the city streets in five weeks, chasing criminals, patrolling through rowdy holiday crowds, while being touched and bumped and spooked. They had barely made it through their short time at the memorial service without disaster. How would they handle Tacoma’s jammed waterfront on the Fourth?

  Rachel turned out the light before she unbolted the door and stepped out, locking the office behind her. She glanced at each horse once more before leaving the stable yard and walking slowly home. The first signs of dawn were glimmering in the east, and she heard the whistles and chirps as the park’s residents greeted the new day. She wished she shared the birds’ enthusiasm, but all she felt was puzzlement. After her meeting with Hargrove, Rachel had searched on-line for any information she could find about mounted police horses and their training. Her brief, slightly panicked search had given her plenty of information about desensitizing the horses and getting them accustomed to gunshots, cars, and contact with people. Alex had experience. He had spent a few years as a mounted officer in Portland before transferring to Tacoma. Why had he spent the past two months teaching these riders nothing more than how to sit in a saddle? Rachel jogged across a street and climbed the stairs to her apartment. Maybe Alex had more notes at home or in the tack room. She’d search for them later. In the meantime, she needed a shower before she had to go talk to Callan Lanford and admit she needed a babysitter to help her do her job.

  Chapter Three

  After a shower and a quick breakfast of toast and coffee, Rachel drove out to the Lanford farm, home of the Pacific Northwest Polo Team. About a half mile beyond the city limits, she turned off the main road and crunched over a gravel driveway until she reached the large barn. She could have called Callan instead of driving so far, but she hated the words she had to say. I need your help. I have no idea how to train a mounted unit, and even if I did, my squad won’t respect me enough to listen.

  Rachel didn’t want to ask for help. Didn’t want to need Cal’s help. It sucked. She wasn’t qualified for her new job, but she didn’t have a choice. She somehow had to become a success in this new post and earn back a little respect, or she’d have to resign. She couldn’t keep going to work day after day and face the angry stares. Or worse, the vacant looks that passed right through her as if she weren’t even there.

  On the phone, Cal would only have heard Rachel’s voice. At least in person she could wear her uniform. Give the impression she was strong and capable. Rachel got out of her patrol car and looked around. Exactly the kind of place where she’d expect to find Cal. Acres of mesh-fenced green pastures dotted with shiny, grazing horses. A huge indoor arena and an even huger outdoor polo field with pristine grass that would rival any PGA putting green. Three barns, a clubhouse, the main house that looked like a mansion. Every building was surrounded by neat, multihued gardens filled with fresh red beauty bark and colorful spring flowers. The Lanfords must have a battalion of workers to maintain the yard. And another one to clean the stalls and take care of so many horses.

  A frenzied salvo of barks made Rachel stop admiring the view of Mount Rainier and turn toward the barn. A flurry of white came at her like a tornado. She might have been more concerned if the dog’s tail hadn’t been waving so hard she looked like she was about to spin right off the ground. Rachel bent down and tried to calm the mass of tongue, fur, and wagging tail, finally identifying her as a rough-coated border collie, pure white except for a patch of black fur extending over her right eye and ear, like a jaunty beret.

  “Feathers! Pipe down and come back here.”

  Rachel recognized Cal’s voice before she even stepped out of the barn. Strong and confident, with a layer of laughter under every word. The few times she had played against Cal’s college team, Rachel had heard Cal call out encouragement and directions to her teammates. The throaty sound had given her goose bumps when she was a young starstruck college kid. Now, as she faced the very adult, very beautiful Callan Lanford, Rachel felt her reaction travel further than skin-deep. Everything about Cal seemed to glow, from her thick gold hair, pulled into a high ponytail, to her eyes so blue-gray they flashed like silver in the sunlight. Her skin was flushed and faintly shiny and she had a red mark across her forehead. She must have been riding, wearing a helmet and sweating in the late spring heat. Rachel clenched her teeth to make sure her jaw didn’t gape open. This was not good at all.

  “Feathers, get over here,” Cal ordered. The white dog finally, and with seeming reluctance, obeyed, and Cal grabbed hold of her collar. “Hi. Sorry about that. She gets kind of excited when we have visitors. Hey, I remember you from college polo, don’t I? WSU?”

  Rachel had been prepared to identify herself, explain how she knew Cal. She certainly had never expected Cal to remember her. She reached out and shook Cal’s hand, feeling the ridge of small calluses on Cal’s palm, at the base of her fingers. Where her polo mallet would rest. Rachel’s had softened over time, after a few years of not playing. She imagined Cal’s polo-roughened hand brushing over her body, and her nipples hardened in an involuntary response. Damn. Definitely not good at all. “Um…yes. We’ve met. I’m Rachel Bryce.”

  Cal smiled at Rachel’s firm handshake. Exactly as solid and impersonal as she’d expect from a woman in uniform. A very sexy woman in uniform. With handcuffs. Tasty. Cal assumed the visit was about the training job, and even though she was still adamant about refusing it, she was willing to entertain the envoy for a few hours.

  “This is Feathers. I can see you’ve met, because you have white hair all over your pants.” Cal nodded at the white dog she still held tightly by the collar. Her other border collie, a smooth-coated black dog with a white chest and nose, sat quietly and obediently by her side. “And this is—”

  “Don’t tell me,” Rachel said, holding up her hand. “I really hope his name is Tar.”

  Cal laughed. Sexy and smart. She silently thanked Lieutenant Hargrove for dropping this woman on her doorstep. Rachel Bryce. All grown up, with her duty belt full of whoop-ass. A gun, handcuffs, a nightstick. Cal could easily think of some fun they could ha
ve with the latter two items. And a Taser strapped to her thigh. Cal didn’t have any use for the Taser, but she had a good idea what she wanted to do while Rachel’s thigh wrapped around her waist and drew her closer.

  “Very good,” she said. “You’re right. Tar and Feathers. And you’re a little overdressed for a polo reunion. Sorry about the dog hair.”

  Cal gave in to her desires and brushed over Rachel’s legs, prolonging the contact as she wiped off the white hairs that had attached to Rachel’s dark uniform.

  Rachel stepped back, out of reach. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind a little dog hair. Anyway, I’m here to ask for your help.”

  Whatever you need, darling. Cal’s resolve to decline the job suffered a minor setback. She remembered every opponent she’d ever had. During college, after college, she studied team rosters. Memorized faces. But, more important than that, she watched the opposing team as they rode onto the field and played the first minutes of the first chukker. She knew Rachel from her games against WSU. Rachel had been young, two years behind her. And rough. She obviously didn’t have much formal training and she looked more prepared to ride out with a herd of cattle than to play a refined game of polo. But she was a natural rider. And she had clearly understood the rules of polo and followed them to the letter. She wasn’t team captain, but her team turned to her time and again as their true leader.

  “You scored against me in our first game together,” Cal said. “It would have been a shutout if you hadn’t gotten past me in the third chukker.”

  Yes, she noticed every opponent. Evaluated them, studied them. But some women had stood out more than others, and Rachel Bryce was one of the more memorable players. Something about her Cal couldn’t quite put her finger on. But she wanted to get her hands on Rachel and find out every detail about her.

  “Yeah, well, you left your near side open,” Rachel said. She looked unfazed by Cal. “Totally unguarded. A Pony Clubber playing broom polo could have scored against you.”