Breaking Free

Chapter Four

Dylan arrived home as Heidi was getting ready for school. She was pale, eyes avoiding his as she ate her cereal at the round oak table in front of sliding glass doors that overlooked their garden and the fields beyond.

He had to forcibly tamp down a surge of anger. She was safe. That was the main thing. He closed the front door quietly behind him, and entered the kitchen area, struck suddenly by how much his daughter’s thick blond hair resembled Megan’s—and Sally’s—drawing another parallel between the two women he didn’t care to see.

He’d made a terrible mistake falling for Sally.

They’d both been too young to start a family, and completely incompatible on any long-term basis.

Sally had been sexy, flirtatious, artsy, full of vibrant laughter and energy, and it had translated into a dynamic experience in bed. But outside the bedroom her craving for the continual excitement of a metropolis, alternative lifestyles, and the flattery of men, had begun to cost them.

Sally had needed to be the centre of attention, and loved going out to parties all the time.

Dylan was more traditional. He liked the outback, bushwalking, the ocean. Winter nights by the fire. He liked things simple. Wholesome. Sally called it boring.

But by then they were married, and things had started going sideways.

And when she’d become pregnant at twenty-four, she’d felt overweight, unhappy and lonely with Dylan doing long, gritty hours of overtime to support them.

When Heidi was born Sally had detested being cooped at home with only other young mothers for company. She’d rebelled and had a raging affair, seeking validation in another man, an artist.

Her infidelity had completely broken Dylan.

He was a one-woman guy. A lifer. When he fell, he fell hard and forever. And falling for Sally had cost him a mighty big chunk of his life.

He’d avoided getting involved with other women while raising Heidi solo. He’d dated, but only superficially. His focus was his family.

“Hey there, kiddo,” Dylan said gently.

Heidi said nothing, just stared at her cereal.

He heaved out a lungful of air, removed his Glock, locked it in the gun safe, and undid his heavy gun belt, setting it on the counter with a soft clunk. He sat down, rubbing his neck, his back stiff.

“Talk to me, Heidi.”

She pulled her mouth into a tight pout, glaring at her cereal bowl, stirring milk with her spoon as she hunkered down behind the super-size cereal box.

Dylan moved the box aside. “Heidi, I’m not going to be mad,” he said, struggling to hold on to his temper. “I just want to know where you were going last night.”

Silence.

Irritation itched at him. Their dog Muttley scratched at the glass door, and Dylan got up to let him out. His mother usually let Muttley out first thing in the morning, but she hadn’t come down for breakfast yet, which was unusual for her. Tension knotted in his shoulders.

He took a seat opposite Heidi. “Were you going to the party?”

Her eyes flashed up at him. “No. I needed to see Anthem.”

He waited a beat just to make sure his voice came out neutral. “Why so late? Why didn’t you wait until this afternoon, after school?”

Her bottom lip started to wobble a little. Dylan’s chest tightened. “Heidi? Talk to me. Please.”

She looked up slowly, and was about to say something when they heard Dylan’s mum coming down the stairs.

Heidi cast her eyes down, then suddenly pushed her chair back from the table, grabbed her schoolbag and started for the door, unfinished cereal left on the table.

“Heidi!”

“I’m going to miss my bus,” she snapped, and the door slammed shut behind her.

Dylan cursed and looked up at the ceiling.

“Morning, Timmy,” said his mother, moving towards the kettle and filling it. “Did you sleep well?”

“It’s Dylan, Mum.”

She looked momentarily confused. “Of course,” she said softly, plugging in the kettle. “I know that.”

Dylan got up to let Muttley back in, his heart sinking. He felt flat. Tired. His mother was worse than he thought. This was the second time in a week she’d called him by his brother’s nickname.

A brother who’d been dead for thirty years.

He needed to take June for another checkup. That would require a trip to the city, impossible right now. He also had to find a way to break through to Heidi. And he had to get back to work. He’d had no sleep, but no one else would be in the station today.

Dylan had also been left with no choice but to place Peebles outside Louisa’s hospital room for the first shift, short of doing it himself. And that wasn’t going to happen—he still had an investigation to conduct, because no matter how he looked at it, things were just not adding up with Louisa the way he’d like them to.

He stood for a moment at the glass door, absently studying the smoky haze in the distance as he rolled the facts over in his mind again.

As much as he hated to admit it, Megan had hit on the key thing troubling him. It was possible Louisa’s gun had been stolen from the cabinet, and that she hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger.

But she could also have hired someone to do the job. That might explain the arson. Because again, he was forced to agree with Megan—he didn’t see Louisa as capable of torching horses.

He needed better evidence against her, or evidence of an accomplice, or they were going to end up having no case.

And there was that other nagging question in his mind. Why Lochlain? Why had the murder and arson happened there? He needed to find that link. The only connection he could see with Lochlain Racing so far was that the homicide victim was the father of Daniel Whittleson, who worked as Lochlain’s head trainer.

Secretly, Dylan was relieved Louisa was in hospital.

It bought him time to dig deeper before having to officially charge her and get her in front of a magistrate.

He rubbed the back of his neck again, trying to ease the stiffness. What he really needed was a full-on homicide team working this, as would ordinarily be the case. But until the APEC stuff eased off, he was it.

And that was the other thing Megan was right about— D’Angelo was going to go for him personally, potentially crucifying him on points of police procedure, like putting the probationary cop outside Louisa’s door.

Damn, but he was in a no-win situation.

Megan sped along the country road, autumn wind in her hair, the vineyards, vibrant with reds, oranges and gold, flashing by in a blur.

She’d spent the morning with D’Angelo and Louisa at Elias Memorial, rehashing the arrest, going over every little detail that had led up to the heart attack. When they’d finished, D’Angelo had pushed his glasses up his Roman nose and told them with his classic trademark equanimity that he would personally make Detective Sergeant Dylan Hastings his target in getting this arrest overturned.

D’Angelo had been particularly pleased to discover the probationary rank of the constable guarding Louisa’s door. He’d noted this was against NSW policing regulations, adding that police staffing problems in the Hunter LAC were going to be their ace in the hole.

So was the fact Louisa had not yet been officially charged.

D’Angelo’s criminal team was now in the process of putting together a case to nullify the arrest, focusing on police ineptitude, Dylan’s in particular.

Megan felt conflicted by this.

That wasn’t justice. Not in her book. That was legal chess.

It went to the heart of why she’d dropped criminal law.

In her mind, the one and only way to exonerate her aunt and put a simple end to this was to find the real killer, and the cop sure as hell wasn’t going to be looking any further—he thought he had his suspect.

Which was why Megan was on the road to Lochlain Racing now. She wanted to see the arson site herself, speak to owner Tyler Preston, find something—anything—that might help solve this case.

But a cold and faint finger of doubt touched her again as she turned onto a dirt road, slowing for some riders, the sun warm on her arms.

What had Dylan meant by saying Louisa had bought justice before? And why had Louisa’s pistol been used as the murder weapon?

Megan drove up the Lochlain driveway, and pulled up under a tall stand of gum trees alongside one of the farm outbuildings.As she got out of the car, the first thing she saw was a young teen in a navy-and-white school uniform on some risers near an empty dressage ring in the distance. She was bent forward, face buried in her hands, crying. Not just crying, but sobbing, her frame physically racked by emotion.

Megan glanced around. There was no one in the immediate vicinity. She hesitated, then walked up to the girl. And as she neared, something in her heart squeezed.

The child reminded her of herself at that age.

Perhaps it was the thick honey-blond hair in two pigtails, the proximity of a dressage ring, the scent of horses in the air—all combining to prod loose a certain memory thread. It was at about the same age as this girl, Megan had lived to ride.

Dressage had been her performance class, a passion passed down from Granny Betty to her mother to her.

She’d lost touch with the sport after her mum and dad’s accident. Life had changed after that. She’d been sent off to boarding school, the horses sold. But right at this moment she felt the old passion stirring oddly, deeply, inside her once again.

“Hey there,” she said, edging onto the wooden bench alongside the girl. “You okay?”

The teen stilled, then sniffing and wiping her face, looked up cautiously. Her cheeks were streaked and blotchy, but she had incredibly beautiful big green eyes. Again an odd sensation gripped Megan. She had a weird feeling of looking back in time, at herself.

“My name is Megan Stafford,” she said softly. “Can I help?”

The girl swiped her eyes, looking embarrassed, then shook her head.

“Did something just happen?”

She glanced away, stared at the empty ring, her gaze shifting slowly towards the fire-damaged barns that had been cordoned off with construction fencing and checkered blue-and-white crime tape. Her eyes brimmed with fresh tears and she moistened her lips. “My horse, Anthem—” she said, eyes fixed on the charred ruins “—was injured in the fire.”

Megan’s heart clutched. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Did… did you lose her?”

The girl bit her quivering lip as tears spilled silently down her cheeks again. “I…might. She’s got smoke inhalation damage. I don’t know if she’s ever going to be okay, and…” She was racked by another deep sob. “I can’t be with her because the vet is in there with the other horses now. Anthem was doing all right, and…and then suddenly there was a whole lot of fluid in her lungs yesterday…” Her voice choked as a wrenching surge of raw emotion took hold of her.

Megan instinctively put her arm around the teen, drawing her close, just holding her, stroking her hair. She recalled how many times in her own youth she’d wished her mother had been around to do just this, hold her—how alone in the world she’d felt after her parents had died.

Megan hadn’t thought about this in a long while.

After a few minutes the girl looked up sheepishly with redrimmed eyes. “Thank you,” she said, wiping her face. “I’m sorry. I…I just couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

“It’s okay, hon. You need to let these things out.” Megan had a sense the child had also desperately needed the tactile comfort of another human. “Are you here all alone?”

She nodded. “I got off the school bus here because I was hoping they’d let me see Anthem. I usually ride her on Tuesdays, but…” She sighed deeply. “They’re so busy with all the other horses and Anthem is not a Thoroughbred. I’m worried they’re not watching her closely enough.” She glanced up. “Anthem’s depressed. I think she needs special attention or…she might just give up.”

“I’m sure they’re treating all the horses the same, sweetie.” She shook her head. “I don’t think so. If we had money, I’d take her someplace she could get individual care. I bet if she was an expensive racer they’d have gotten her out of the fire earlier. She wouldn’t have been left until last.”

“I’m sure it didn’t happen like that.”

She looked up with an expression that made Megan’s heart ache. “I’m sure it did.”

“Why is Anthem stabled here?”

The girl sucked in a shaky breath as galahs, pink and white, flitted and chattered in the tree above. “Tyler Preston, the owner, was giving me lessons.”

“Dressage?”

“No, Anthem and I have been working on that ourselves. Tyler teaches a couple of us local kids the basic stuff. He’s really good—he used to have his own TV show. He gave my friend Zach a part-time job as a groom, and his payment is the lessons. Zach uses one of Tyler’s horses when he rides here, but he has his own at Huntington Stud, where his dad works as a trainer. And because my dad has a stupid job and doesn’t make enough money, he can’t afford stabling costs or lessons anywhere, so Tyler offered for free.” Her big green eyes flashed up to Megan. “You see? Anthem is not a priority, and I’m worried the vet is going to neglect her since he’s so busy with the prize horses.”

“I tell you what, I’ll talk to Tyler and get the low-down, how about that? I’m here to talk to him about the fire anyway.”

The teenager stared at Megan in bemused silence as she digested this. “Why would you do that for me?” she asked very quietly.

The question caught Megan off guard. “Why wouldn’t I?” She hesitated a moment, then smiled gently. “Besides, you remind me of someone I used to know, someone who used to love riding with all her heart.”

“What happened to her?”

“She forgot to follow her heart. Come—” She held out her hand. “We’ll go talk to Tyler, and then I’ll give you a ride home. Where do you live?”

“Pepper Flats, near the village,” she said, getting up, dusting off her school uniform. “My name is Heidi. How do you know Tyler, Megan?”

“I don’t. Louisa Fairchild is my great-aunt and I’m visiting, and…well, I’m helping her out with a bit of a problem.”

They walked together over the gravel driveway toward the main house. “So you’re not riding at all at the moment, Heidi?” said Megan.

She shook her head. “You know, Louisa has some really good dressage horses and she might be able to spare one. Would you be interested in riding at Fairchild for a while? Just until Anthem is better, of course.” She grinned. “Besides, I’d enjoy the company. I think I’d like to ride again myself.”

“Why’d you stop?”

Megan sucked in a deep breath redolent with the scents of the fall air—eucalyptus, the tinge of distant smoke, hay, horses. It was a grounding scent, earthy. “I stopped when my parents died,” she said. “They were killed in a car accident, and my brother and I were sent to boarding school. Life sort of changed after that. We didn’t really have a family anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

She put her arm around the teen. “Hey, it’s okay. Brookfield ended up being a great school and—”

Heidi jerked to a stop. “You have got to be kidding me! You went to Brookfield art school?”

“Yes.”

Her hand went to her chest. “Oh, my gosh. That’s where I want to go.”

“It’s a good school. I’m sure you’d like it.”

She pulled a face. “We can’t afford it.”

“There are bursaries. I could always talk to someone.”

She stared, open mouthed. “You really could do that?”

“Well, I might if you show me some of your art and tell me a bit more about yourself,” she said with a warm smile. “You haven’t even told me your surname—”

“Megan!” a powerful male voice called out to them.

They both turned to see a tall dark-haired man in a cattleman’s hat, his left arm in a sling, striding towards them, three border collies at his heels.

“That’s Tyler. I thought you said you didn’t know him?”

“I called ahead. He’s expecting me.” Megan grinned. “And I guess he recognized Louisa’s Aston Martin.” She laughed. “Louisa claims it’s the Thoroughbred of motor cars.”

“That’s our place,” Heidi said, pointing to a rambling brick house behind which a field of tall dry grasses bent softly in the breeze. In the distance kangaroos grazed under eucalyptus trees fringing a ridge.

Megan slowed the convertible, pleased to finally be getting the hang of changing gears. In spite of its flash she liked the way the car’s manual shift connected her with driving—it made her feel more grounded. Everything about this valley seemed to be changing her in subtle ways, reminding her who she really was. What she liked.

Turning into the driveway, Megan caught a glimpse of a swimming pool at the rear of the house. She pulled to a stop in front of the brick garage. A tire swing hung from the branches of a gnarled deciduous tree, dog toys dotted the front lawn, and someone had carefully tended a lavenderfringed bed of iceberg roses that were peaking with a soft blush of pink. Feminine flowers, thought Megan. “Your mother must have a real green thumb,” she said, opening the driver’s-side door.

Heidi shot her an odd look. “My gran planted those.”

“They’re beautiful.” In fact, there was something genuine about the whole scene. It held a warm sense of family so welcoming and simple that it snagged Megan’s chest forcibly, and she had to stop for a second to analyze why.

Perhaps it was because she’d come to the Hunter Valley looking for her own roots and a sense of her own family, hoping to find it by discovering what had happened between Betty and Louisa. Maybe she even harbored a subliminal desire to bond with her great-aunt herself.

But as Megan climbed out of the convertible, the front door of the house flung open, and she froze.

Storming out of the house, bare-chested, damp tousled hair, bleached jeans slung low at his waist, a hairy mutt at his heels, and daggers in his clear blue eyes was…Detective Sergeant Dylan Hastings.

Her jaw dropped.

“Is that your dad!” she whispered to Heidi. Then it hit her—he’d said he had a fourteen-year-old child.

She’d just given the cop’s daughter a ride home.

This warm family house belonged to the detective trying to nail her aunt for murder, the man who’d declared personal war on the entire Fairchild clan.

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