Puss 'N Cahoots

computer is secure. Nothing.”
    “Even the CIA and Pentagon stuff?” He felt an odd flutter at the thought.
    “A genius hack could get into anything they have. We really have painted ourselves into a corner. You and I will be the last generation to know privacy.”
    It frightened Charly that she had so much power: physical power, financial power, and mental power.
    “I hope you’re wrong.” He meant that.
    “I wish I were.” She dropped the subject, as it was deeply depressing the more she thought about it. “Thought I’d leave Kalarama at the end of the show. I’ll pay them extra for the time and trouble, all the media stuff, but I’ll tell the truth. I’m going back to you. I just won’t say why I left.”
    “Joan isn’t going to take extra money.”
    “Then I’ll give it to her favorite charity in Kalarama’s name. I’ve put them through a fair amount, and they have Jorge’s murder to deal with, as well.” She shuddered. “That sight will haunt me forever.”
    “Ward didn’t kill him.”
    “How can you be so sure?” She responded to the conviction in his voice.
    “He’s not the type.”
    “That’s what neighbors say about serial killers when they’re discovered.”
    “Ward isn’t some psychopath who can fool the neighbors. He wouldn’t kill Jorge. If nothing else, the stakes aren’t high enough. He agrees to hide Queen Esther. He’s part of a harmless ruse. No one’s hurt. No one loses money, except ostensibly me. Yes, Joan and Larry juggle a media circus, but, hey, it throws a great big klieg light on Kalarama, and that’s good for them and good for Saddlebreds. They run a good barn. They’re at the top of the food chain. No, Ward couldn’t.”
    “I suppose.” Her voice trailed off. “But it’s unsettling.”
    “It’s some kind of personal vendetta. Doesn’t have anything to do with our world.” Charly believed this, especially after breakfast with the boys.
    Four grackles landed on the luxurious grass, walking with their bird waddle. A large bird feeder lured them, but they had landed a few feet away just in case anything juicy appeared in the emerald grass.
    After a long silence, Renata asked, “How much?”
    “For what?”
    “Captain Hook and the yearling filly. Really how much. Your bottom line.”
    He turned to her, put his coffee cup on the rattan coffee table. “Free. If you marry me, they will be your wedding present.”
    “Charly, don’t tease me.” She rolled her eyes upward.
    He rose from the chair, then knelt before her. “Marry me. Do me the honor of being my wife. I am dead serious.”

T hankful for a quiet morning, Fair was reading
Equine Disease Quarterly,
published by the Department of Veterinary Science at the University of Kentucky. The research carried out at the Maxwell H. Gluck Equine Research Center at the university benefited horsemen the world over. Since he specialized in equine reproduction, his office filled up with reports, technical papers, as well as more general publications aimed at horsemen. However, he particularly enjoyed
Equine Disease Quarterly
for its concise reportage of projects.
    At just the time that Charly went down on bended knee, Fair removed his reading glasses, his first concession at forty-one to encroaching middle age. The concession irritated him.
    Harry returned from the ladies’ room. “Ready.”
    “I am, too.”
    They’d driven into Lexington for breakfast at the country club, which had been arranged by Alicia Palmer. She knew everybody and everybody knew her, thanks to her Olympian career in film. When she’d called the night before, they caught up about everything on the farm—hers and theirs, since BoomBoom, Susan Tucker, and Alicia were taking turns managing it until their return.
    Once in the truck, the animals happy to see them, Fair drove out toward Iron Works Pike.
    Since many of the three hundred plus Thoroughbred farms fell into a half circle from the little town of Paris in Bourbon County to the town of Versailles in Woodford County, they thought they’d start out by going to Paris, northeast of Lexington, and work their way back toward Versailles, which was due west.
    Harry marked the farms she wanted to see, starting with Claiborne. Not that she knew anyone there, but she wanted to peek at the back pastures.
    Each farm displayed a distinct personality. Some, such as Calumet Farms, were covered in glory for decades, only to fall from grace. Others, like Dixiana, once a great