Read The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) for Free Online

their situation. That farm couldn’t fall into anyone’s hands but theirs.
     
    ~*~
     
    Emmie pulled off her left boot with a sharp tug and a grunt, then fell boneless onto the bench just inside her front door, too exhausted and harried to face the task of showering just yet. Catching Tally had been only the beginning.
    She and Becca had returned to the barn spotted with beggar lice, sweaty, and grumpy from managing Tally on the ride back, only to find that the barn had been beset upon by not one, but two problems. First had been Tally’s owner, Patricia Cross, red-faced and frantic as she demanded accommodations for her horse. The fences must be built higher. The pasture situation must be re-evaluated; surely Tally jumped because he was being chased, not because he was making mischief. More food, that’s what he needed; his rations needed increasing because he was jumping to get to better grass, the poor hungry baby.
    Becca, stressed and eighteen, had said, “We can’t change the whole freaking barn for one horse.” She’d clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes closing in regret the moment the words left her lips, but it was too late. Damage done. Patricia exploded, words pouring out of her in an angry tirade. It had taken Emmie fifteen minutes to smooth things over, and even then, there was still no solution to the Tally problem.
    Then there’d been Brett.
    Brett Richards was Davis’s ne’r do well grandson, her mentor Amy’s son, and had been given the title of groundskeeper and an undeserved paycheck as a means to (unsuccessfully) keep him out of further trouble. He mowed the grass when it suited him. Most of the time, he was meddling in barn business and making life difficult for the Briar Hall employees he deemed lesser than himself, him being related to the owner and all that.
    Tonight, he’d taken the tractor and manure spreader, who knew why, which meant Fred couldn’t empty the spreader and prepare it for the next day’s stall-cleaning. Emmie spent a half hour tracking the equipment down, only to be told by Brett that she’d get the tractor back “when he felt like giving it to her.”
    What she should have done was march up to the house and inform Davis of the problem. What she did was flip Brett the bird, conduct one last sweep through the barn, shut out the lights and lug herself up the stairs to her apartment.
    Exhaustion fell across her, made it hard to breathe. Not just physical, but mental, emotional – total exhaustion, the kind that left her unsteady. She let her head fall back against the smooth plank wall and stared up at the rough-hewn beams of the slanted ceiling.
    She loved her apartment. It was a large loft space, with dark timber and plank walls, so it gave the feeling of living in a cabin. Her bed was tucked beneath one eave, leaving plenty of room for her small kitchen, café table, dresser, steamer trunk and desk. Her clothes were on open, wheeled racks, pilfered from a going-out-of-business Dress Barn. The bathroom was hidden in the far corner. It was cozy, comfy, perfect for her.
    And she’d have to leave it behind when the farm sold.
    Her phone rang and she groaned. “What now?” She checked the wall clock as she pulled the cell from her pocket. Ten till nine. “Hello?” she answered.
    “Emmie, it’s Joan,” a familiar voice said on the other end. Deep sigh. “I’m sorry, doll, but you’re gonna have to come get your daddy.”
    She closed her eyes, fighting the scream that welled in her throat. She swallowed and said, “How long’s he been there?”
    “Since three.” Which meant he was good and pickled at this point.
    “Right. On my way.” She disconnected and reached for her boots.
    Maybe, she thought, if this horse business didn’t work out, she ought to go into bartending. If nothing else, her dad would enjoy the family discount.
     
    ~*~
     
    It was five-forty-five the next morning when Walsh pulled into the Lécuyer driveway. The little white house was