Page 65

“I was asking whether you want to, Cass.”

I give Mila a small smile. “I do.”

We follow Mila across a narrow yard bordered by the stable, an equipment shed, and a long workshop with its doors open to the morning. Inside, a man works at a bench beneath hanging tools. Birdie slows beside the workshop, drawn by the smell of cut wood drifting through its open doors.

Mila notices. “That’s the estate workshop. Leo has a habit of keeping furniture everyone else thinks should be replaced.”

“I like him already,” Birdie says.

The stable smells of hay and clean bedding. Light enters through high windows, falling across polished stall doors and a concrete aisle worn pale down the center. A horse lifts his head as we pass, and another nudges a hanging ball with his nose.

“Are all of these yours?” I ask Mila.

“Most belong to the estate. We have two retired horses who live here because nobody could persuade Leo they were finished being useful. A few others work with guests who know how to ride.” She opens a feed-room door and sets her gloves inside. “We ride the horses to inspect areas vehicles can’t reach without tearing up the ground, especially after rain. The upper paths are narrow, and a rider can get through when a utility cart can’t.”

I look toward the hills beyond the stable. The land climbs farther than I realized from the guesthouse, disappearing behind cedar trees and rows of vines.

“Does Andrei ride?”

“When he has time,” Mila says. “Mostly, he comes to argue with Walter.”

Birdie grins. “Who’s Walter?”

“You’ll understand when you meet him.”

Walter waits in the last stall, a broad golden chestnut horse with a pale mane and a white blaze down his face. He stands with his head over the half-door while Mila approaches, watching us with dark eyes that remind me of the expression Murphy uses when he suspects food is being withheld.

“He’s beautiful,” I say, stopping a few feet away.

“He knows,” Mila replies. “You can come closer. Let him see your hand first.”

I hold my palm out and wait while Walter stretches his neck toward me. His muzzle brushes my fingers, soft and warm, before he sniffs my sleeve. I keep my other hand at my side, though I want to touch the white mark between his eyes.

“Mom could walk up to a frightened animal and have it eating out of her hand in five minutes,” I tell Mila. “I inherited her curiosity. The rest went to Connor.”

“You’re doing fine,” Mila says. “Give him a moment to decide whether you’re worth his attention.”

Walter sniffs my jacket pocket, and Mila smiles. “He’s looking for peppermints. He assumes everyone brings him one.”

I let Walter continue to sniff. “I’m Cassie Brewster. I run a bookstore, and I don’t have a peppermint.”

Walter searches my other pocket anyway.

“He’s decided you might be lying.” Mila moves closer and shows me where to stroke his forehead. “Try here.”

I run my fingers along the white blaze. Walter lowers his head until I can reach more easily, and the muscles beneath his coat relax. He leans toward me with such confidence that my own uncertainty begins to fade.

Birdie raises her phone, framing Walter and me in the stall doorway. “You need a photograph.”

I keep one hand on his forehead and try to look stern. “Don’t send it to anyone. I’m trying to maintain an intimidating reputation.”

Birdie laughs as she takes the picture. “You brought a cat to a vineyard.”

“That was Murphy’s decision,” I tell her, rubbing Walter’s forehead when he nudges my shoulder.

Walter presses his face closer, and Birdie captures another picture before I can move, then turns the screen toward me. I’m smiling. It surprises me.

“Andrei visits him every morning,” Mila says. “Before his meetings, before he speaks to anyone if he can manage it.”