Love's Last Battle: The Barlow-Barretts, #6

Chapter 1

Tally Ho! Morgan Barlow-Barrett sat astride the raw-boned bay Thoroughbred she rode most Wednesdays and watched Claude picking his way toward her, the hounds feathering through the woods. She’d spotted a fox slinking through a few minutes earlier and had called Claude on the radio. Behind him, the other masters of the hunt rode with the field following just a bit farther back. As Claude had gotten older, he preferred everyone to ride more in his pocket than when she’d first started helping him.

Morgan watched him now with a wistfulness she couldn’t hide. This was his last hunt. He was just the honorary huntsman in addition to sharing duties as one of the masters. Theirs was a small hunt after all. Now Claude was retiring and selling the farm. He’d made provisions with the new owner to keep the kennels there and allow her to keep her horses there too. While that was good news, Morgan still had to blink back tears at the thought of losing her longtime friend.

Hearing Sadie’s bell-like bay floating through the chilly morning air brought Morgan’s  attention back to the task at hand. Sadie was the first hound to hit the line, and the other hounds fell in behind her. Soon a chorus of voices rose: the basses and baritones of the dogs blending with the shrill, soprano screams of the bitches. Heads down and sterns feathering, Morgan watched while the pack deciphered what their noses were telling them. And then—tally ho—they were off. Claude blew Gone Away, and Morgan grinned, goose bumps shivering along her arms. She would never tire of that doubling up on the horn.

She turned, staying on the outside near the front. Claude liked her riding up where he could use her speed and her daring to get to hounds he could no longer pursue as fast as he once had. Morgan didn’t mind. Every time she fox hunted it was a thrill as exciting as the first time. Today, her excitement was tempered with the knowledge that life was changing.

The radio clipped to her hunt jacket crackled. Sinbad’s rioting, lass. Cut him off.

Morgan leaned forward and squeezed her legs on her mount, knowing she’d get a giant leap forward in response. Grimes was an ex-racehorse, so when she asked him to go, she got fast and now. And right now she had to catch up with the undisciplined hound. The only fact in her favor—Sinbad had no credibility with the rest of the pack. Following him usually meant following the wrong quarry and receiving a harsh scolding. So, while the rest of the hunt galloped off in one direction, Morgan raced in another, Grimes’s ground-eating strides covering the territory with ease. She’d scold Sinbad, who’d promptly leave off whatever wild animals he’d decided to hunt and follow her back to the rest of the field, just as he had so far.

She’d spent most of her life in the saddle foxhunting, and the same amount of time hiding it from her family. Sure, her parents tolerated her taking some riding lessons, but to their knowledge, she’d never asked for anything more. As far as they knew, she rode at the neighbor’s house a couple of afternoons a week. After all, she needed some explanation for the horsey odor it was sometimes difficult to eradicate.

Her parents had no idea of the true extent of her involvement with horses because Morgan had learned to keep her life hidden. She’d avoided the interference all her siblings had endured. Even her sister, Preston—Dr. Anna Stevenson now—didn’t know Morgan rode to hounds. No one did, and since none of the hunt crowd could stand her mother, keeping it a secret hadn’t been difficult. Morgan fielded the occasional wink at the country club. But no one breathed a word.

Thank God. No way did she want the ‘this-is-not-what-we-expect-of-a-Barlow-Barrett’ speech.

Rounding a turn in the trail, she was just in time to see three deer take off in front of the errant hound. Sinbad started to alter his course. Morgan swung her hunt whip with a loud crack and growled, Leave it, Sinbad!

The hound halted, shook himself, and trotted back to her, tongue lolling.

Morgan scowled at him from the great height of Grimes’s back. Better hounds than you have disappeared from this pack for refusing to follow the correct scent. Do you really want to be someone’s porch dog? And I don’t mean curled up on top of it either. You’ll end up being one of those hounds skulking underneath.

Sinbad tilted his head and wagged his tail.

Or... Morgan paused, "you could become a house dog...people talking baby talk to you and making up ailments so you have to go to the vet, not to mention the whole neutering thing."

Sinbad whined.

Fox, Sinbad. We hunt fox.

Two hours later, Morgan rode back to the meet with Grimes walking on a loose rein. She’d picked up two young hounds that had lost their way and now followed her as though she were their rightful leader. She enjoyed this part, where instead of being the bad guy, her role as whipper-in was in rounding up missing hounds and bringing them back to the pack, safe and sound.

Everyone else was already gathered around a portable picnic table, sucking down food and beer, their horses untacked and resting while tied to the scattering of horse trailers. When she finally approached the crowd, someone pressed a cold beer into her hand.

Thanks.

We sure are going to miss Claude, Mrs. Wyatt, a founding member of the hunt, said. You’ll still whip-in won’t you?"

As much as I can, Morgan said. Mainly Saturdays. I-I have to work.

The older woman raised her brows. Daddy cracking the business whip?

Yes. Morgan forced a smile. "I’m joining the staff of National News Online. It’s a junior writing position, but Daddy says I’ll at least be able to put my education to work."

What do you say, Morgan? Mrs. Wyatt cocked her head as she awaited Morgan’s reply.

Morgan swallowed a hefty sip of beer. It’s not really my decision, is it? When you’re part of a family like mine, I suppose you have to make some concessions.

Preston didn’t. Mrs. Wyatt regarded her steadily.

Morgan took another swallow. I’m not as brave as Preston.

The older woman squeezed her shoulder. Don’t sell yourself short. Just because you’re the baby of the family doesn’t mean you don’t have a voice.

Morgan laughed. I’d have to be noticed first, so someone could hear it.

Gradually, the hunt members loaded horses and headed for home. When it was just her and Claude, Morgan trailered their geldings and shut the door to the gooseneck. She looked at her friend and mentor. He was stooped now, his hands knobby with arthritis, but his blue eyes still sparkled with life.

Morgan’s throat ached and her eyes burned.

None o’ that, lass, he scolded.

I just hate I won’t be there tomorrow to help you move.

Mr. Van Pel is giving me a hand. You’ve got family things to do. I hate you were off at school every time he was out at the farm. Claude threw an arm around her waist, no longer tall enough to toss it across her shoulders as he had when she was a girl. We’ve had a good run of it, haven’t we?

They had indeed, and Morgan tried to focus on that. What will you do if you’re not hunting?

Claude laughed. Well, I’ve a mind to head back to Yorkshire for a bit. Been thinking about getting a good terrier. They’ll let you keep small dogs at the place I’m moving.

Morgan laughed. As if a terrier’s small in anything other than size. You bring back a good terrier and she’ll be running that place in a month or two.

Claude laughed, as she’d meant him to.

By tacit agreement, Morgan drove, as she had ever since she’d gotten her driver’s license as a teenager. After they pulled onto the narrow highway headed back to the kennels, Claude said. I don’t want you to worry. I’ve told Mr. Van Pel what a good lass you are, and he’s agreed to you keeping Grimes and Pudding at the farm.

Morgan nodded. Her arrangement with Claude had worked well over the years. He’d even helped her buy the two geldings after she’d saved up money from birthdays, holidays, and her allowance. And it wasn’t just about the horses either. Claude had helped her nurture her other vice. Writing. Not the fact-driven journalism that had spurred her family to prominence. Morgan wrote fiction. And as it was turning out now, not just any fiction. Under the name B.B. Morgan, her first suspense novel was rapidly climbing the bestseller lists. Already she was being compared to John Grisham or Dan Brown.

She wasn’t even old enough to tap into her own trust fund. She wouldn’t be able to for another two years when she turned twenty-five. Then she planned to make a clean break of it. Maybe sooner now that her book was selling as fast as it could be printed or downloaded. There was just one hitch. Her agent and her publisher wanted her to do publicity.

Some lines she was afraid to cross. What if she was a one book wonder? What if One Minute More was the only book she had inside her, like Harper Lee? And yeah, she wasn’t sure she believed the whole second book thing. Anyway, Morgan couldn’t afford to blow off her family connections right now, but in two years? She could finally end all this subterfuge.

It’ll only be a couple more years, Claude.

You’re strong enough to stand up to ‘em now, girl.

I don’t think so.

She guided the truck and trailer down the narrow drive, past Claude’s house to the stables and kennels beyond. Horses came off first. Pudding and Claude’s other gelding, March, stood at the paddock fence watching with interest as the two hunters stepped off the trailer. Low nickers of greeting were exchanged.

"Besides, Claude, I’m trying to look at working for National News Online as research. Who knows, maybe I can get my next book out of the experience."

He snorted. Maybe. Take the horses to their stalls, lass, and toss them some hay while I get the hounds settled. Then you change and run on. Don’t want you late to home.

Morgan nodded. Late wouldn’t work, not this evening. Everyone would be there. Phillip and Pippi were getting ready to christen their son tomorrow, and this evening her parents were throwing the freshman congressman and his bride a party to celebrate.

Morgan tossed hay to both horses, then cleaned and filled their buckets. Claude would give them grain a little later after the two had a chance to consume the roughage. After stroking Grimes along his silky neck, Morgan headed for the mudroom and shower.

A half hour more and she found Claude brushing mud from hunt coats. You don’t have to do that. I can stop by tomorrow afternoon.

He glanced over his shoulder. I’ll be moved then lass. Don’t worry about your room out here in the barn. You still have the key, and Van Pel agreed to let you have use of it. ‘For studying’ I told him.

Morgan stopped breathing. At last, it hit home. Claude was leaving. He’d sold the farm, lock, stock, and barrel, including his horses and most of his furniture.

Claude? Her words choked off. Tears sprang to her eyes. This man had been like a father and grandfather all rolled into one. He’d been her refuge for most of her life, the friend she’d never shared with anyone in her family. He’d taught her to ride, to hunt, to care for the hounds and horses on his farm, and to respect the land. He’d given her the time and space to try her wings as a writer. I-I don’t want you to go.

Oh, lass. He held his arms open. Morgan leaned into his embrace. It’s past time I did this, and I’ll not be disappearing. You can visit.

She stepped back, wiping her eyes. I know. Her gaze drifted to the clock. Oh lord! I gotta go.

She kissed him on the cheek and hopped into her little BMW. As she drove back to her parents’ showplace, Morgan marveled at how long she’d managed to keep her secret from them. Of course, since she’d been careful never to cause them any problems, they’d barely noticed her existence.

A short, sharp rap sounded on Morgan’s bedroom door that evening.

Come in, she called.

The door opened and her elder brother, Brandon, stuck his head in. Come on, squirt. Mother’s getting nervous, so she sent me up to get you.

She looked in the mirror one more time. She’d worn her contacts too long today. She could either stick on her glasses or be half-blind all evening. It was just her luck, when she’d tried to get corrective surgery, her doctor had told her she wasn’t a good candidate for it. Maybe in a few years. That didn’t help now. With a sigh, knowing she would have to bear her mother’s disapproval, Morgan opted for vision and slid her dark framed glasses on. In an instant, her little black dress went from looking sexy to being librarian dressy.

You look great, Brandon told her as he hurried her toward the door. Let’s go.

Morgan laughed. Only a big brother could pass that lie off. Well, it’s not like anyone will notice me anyway.

People notice you, squirt. He held out his arm.

Where’s Lucy? She changed the subject.

Downstairs comparing baby bumps with Stacey.

Morgan shuddered. Remind me not to drink the water.  All my siblings or their spouses have either just given birth or have one in the oven.

Brandon laughed, tucking her fingers in his arm and covering them with his other hand. Your time will come.

Not if I can help it, she muttered, drawing another laugh.

The evening was yet one more in a long list of evenings Morgan would have paid to avoid. After shrugging off her mother’s disapproving glare at her glasses, Morgan snagged a champagne flute, downing a couple of glasses before dinner while listening to one of her brother Phillip’s fellow congressmen. Obviously out of his league amid her parents’ friends, he’d latched onto Morgan, who’d been doing her best to blend into the shelving in the corner of the room. As far as she was concerned, seeing her nephew and listening to Pippi play the piano were the highlights of this evening. She only wished she’d been able to go back upstairs with the baby.

Morgan, her mother called with an imperious note in her voice. I’d like you to meet another of Phillip’s colleagues.

This was her mother’s latest push, introducing her to single politicians. Right. Because Morgan was sooo fascinated with legislation and the inner workings of Washington. Now, had the guy had a military or FBI background, she could have pumped him for information.

Quit making faces, Morg, Phillip whispered. He’s from California. You couldn’t get much farther away.

She darted a glance at the sibling closest to her in age, but as always, his expression revealed nothing of what he really knew. Morgan always suspected he knew a lot more than anyone else. Somehow, he’d picked up on her desire to escape her parents and the albatross of working at Barrett Newspapers.

I’m not tying myself to someone just to get out of here.

Of course. I’d forgotten how overjoyed you are at going to work at NNO.

I can write five hundred words or less all day long with one hand tied behind my back.

And die a little each day you do. Break out of it, Morgan, or truly give in, but your surreptitious rebellion’s not getting you anywhere.

She drained her champagne glass, thinking of B.B. Morgan’s advance check and the money already accruing in books sales. It’s worked for me so far.

After setting her latest glass on a passing waiter’s tray, she pasted a smile on her face and joined her mother and the man—oh, peanuts—who was shorter than she was.

This is Phillip’s younger sister, Morgan. Darling, this is Congressman Victor Brueger.

Morgan smiled and bent her knees a bit to make herself appear shorter while she tried to make conversation with the serious young politician, but in just a few minutes she found her mind wandering when his discussion of state budget crises seemed to go on and on and on. Maybe she could work on a plot line involving a congressman’s daughter. Tie it into terrorism... She wondered if Grimes was comfortable. She’d hated leaving him in such a rush after the hunt. Normally, she would have stayed to poultice his legs. Claude probably wouldn’t do it either. He’d be busy packing...

So what do you think?

About what?

Brueger looked crushed. I wondered if you would like to attend the gala at the senator’s house with me next Friday evening. Celestine is entertaining.

She liked Celestine. Wait. Maybe the congressman’s daughter could be famous in her own right... Do you mean Senator James? Celestine is entertaining there?

Yes.

It would mean a late night before the first hunt with Van Pel, but she’d be all right. Morgan smiled, genuinely this time. I’d love to.

* * * *

I’ll double your salary and your time off.

Nick glanced up from where he’d been shoving the remainder of his clothes into a big duffel bag. Celestine, the pop singer he’d headed security for since damn near forever, reclined on his bed in the small apartment he kept at the back of her mansion. Although he knew her as Celia Kelly, she was famous enough now to go by just the one name—Celestine.

No. You’re settling down, and so am I.

Damn lotteries. They should be illegal. She pouted and batted her eyelashes. I don’t want you to go.

I can’t help it if I had the lucky ticket. Besides, since you’re not on the road that much nowadays, I spend most of my time twiddling my thumbs. I need to find something new.

He zipped the duffel bag. The rest of his belongings he’d shipped ahead. It’s time, CeeCee. Winning the lottery just gives me a graceful way to exit, and plenty of money to do it. You and I both know Jim will be a better security chief for you. He’s still hungry for it. I’m ready to do something different.

Moldering away on a farm is not how I would have pictured you.

He wasn’t at all sure it was how he pictured himself. I’ll have time to read and ride. Who knows, maybe I’ll write my memoirs about my crazy years with one of the world’s best singers.

One of? She arched her perfectly shaped brows.

Nick laughed, crossing the room to give her a hug. Come visit. You can go for a pony ride with the kid who keeps her horses there.

That’s another thing...I can’t believe you agreed to let some girl hang out. Be careful, Nick.

He shook his head. Claude talks about her like she’s his grandkid. How could that be a problem?

Celestine shook her head. You’ve never noticed it. In all these years, Nick, baby, there’ve been girls panting after you at the same time I’ve had fans panting after me. If I weren’t old enough to be your mother, I’d have taken you into my bed years ago. She pointed a finger at him. And if you ever share my true age with anyone, I’ll hire a hit on you.

He gave her another hug before slinging the duffel across his back and heading out. It was time for a change, time to do something where he could relax and not wonder constantly when he wouldn’t be able to dodge a bullet or best the bad guy in a battle of fists.  Taking it easy sounded kind of nice for a change. And who knew? He might go on a few pony rides with the kid at Claude’s place.

The sun had nearly set by the time Nick pulled into the long gravel drive that led up to the old man’s house. He really had to quit calling it that. It was his place now. Paid for in full. As he switched off the engine and stared around the barnyard, Nick narrowed his eyes. No sign of the kid. She was probably at home getting a bath and dinner.

The front door of the rustic house opened as Nick was getting out. Claude descended the steps stiffly, his gnarled, work-roughened hand outstretched. Nick shook it and glanced around. Nice and peaceful, Claude. I think I’ve gotten the best end of this bargain.

That you have. I’ve got it all packed so we can get loaded first thing in the morning.

Claude gave him the tour. Nick didn’t figure he’d change much. He hadn’t bought it to do a makeover, just to have a place to chill, a place where he could put down some roots.

I hate I can’t introduce you to Morgan today, lad, but the lass had a family obligation, brother’s baby being christened and all, but you’ll likely see her tomorrow afternoon. She’s here every day.

Nick nodded absently as Claude rattled on. The last thing they needed was a kid in the middle of things, getting in the way while they were trying to move the few belongings Claude had decided to take with him. Nick was more than ready to turn in when Claude suggested they make an early night of it.

Wow, wasn’t he already going all early to bed and early to rise. If he wasn’t careful, he would be planting a vegetable garden and turning in his jeans for some overalls.

Not effing likely. He laughed quietly as he punched the pillow in the guest bedroom and willed himself to sleep.

Claude mentioned again that he wished Nick had had the chance to meet Morgan as they loaded the last of the old man’s belongings into the farm truck.

Just to keep the guy happy, Nick asked, Do you have a picture of her, so I’ll know who she is?

Aye. Claude dug out his cracked leather wallet and extracted a somewhat crumpled school picture. Nick stared at it. Cute kid. Bet she’d be a knockout when she grew up. Long, blond braids hung down over a white blouse and plaid jumper. Private school. Figured. The kid had two big Thoroughbreds sitting in the barn. He hoped she wouldn’t be a brat. The last thing he needed was some snotty-nosed bitch-in-training trying to order him around his own place. That wouldn’t last long. He handed the picture back.

Thanks. Ready, Claude?

The bandy-legged Yorkshire native glanced around the farmyard one more time. Aye. Let’s have done with it.

They climbed into their vehicles—Nick behind the wheel of the truck and Claude behind the wheel of his beat up little sedan. Nick was surprised when he didn’t have to put the seat back much, but he dismissed it. Maybe the hunt’s kennel man was tall.

It took next to no time to unload everything. Nick offered his hand. You need anything, Claude, let me know. I still think I ended up the winner in this deal, being able to walk right into a furnished farmhouse and a fully-equipped farm.

Claude shook his head. "No, lad, I’m the one’s been lucky. Barely even had it on the market before you showed up. And with you buying everything on