Chapter 3 - The Horse Who Died Twice
"How much money are we talking about?"
Mara's question hung heavily in the barn.
Dr. Brooks hesitated.
"I don't have access to the insurance company's complete records. But the policy value listed in this veterinary file was forty-eight thousand dollars."
Mara stared at Slate.
"Forty-eight thousand?"
Caleb nodded grimly.
"That would explain why Weatherby didn't want questions."
"But he sold him at a public auction."
"Without registration papers. To buyers who thought he was a broken-down farm horse."
Dr. Brooks closed her medical case.
"We need to be careful. A record showing that a horse was reported dead doesn't prove who filed the claim or who received the payment."
"Then how do we find out?" Mara asked.
"Start with the insurer and the original owner."
Caleb looked toward the farmhouse.
"Ruth Bellamy."
Mara remembered the name from church fundraisers and county fairs.
Ruth had been a beloved figure in the farming community before her riding program disappeared.
"Is she still alive?"
"Yes," Caleb answered. "She's living at Cedar Haven, outside Millbrook."
"Then we should talk to her."
"First, we take care of Slate."
For the next several days, Mara followed Dr. Brooks's instructions precisely.
She cleaned the stall, changed dressings as directed, and kept Slate comfortable.
Caleb returned to provide protective hoof care.
The work was exhausting.
Each morning, Mara rose before sunrise to check the horse before beginning her orchard chores.
Every evening, she sat beside his stall, talking quietly while he ate.
Sometimes she told him about Thomas.
How he had laughed when the tractor refused to start.
How he had insisted that every apple tree had its own personality.
How he used to say that a farm wasn't measured by the acres it owned but by the lives it could support.
"I miss him," Mara whispered one evening.
Slate gently pushed his enormous nose against her shoulder.
She closed her eyes.
For the first time in months, the farmhouse didn't feel quite so empty.
On Monday, Caleb returned with an envelope.
Inside were copies of old photographs from the county agricultural fair.
One showed Slate pulling a polished green wagon decorated with autumn flowers.
Another showed an elderly woman standing beside him, smiling proudly.
"That's Ruth," Caleb said.
Mara examined the photograph.
Slate looked magnificent.
His coat shone silver beneath the sunlight.
A red ribbon hung from his harness.
"He's beautiful."
"He still is."
Caleb spread another document across the kitchen table.
It was an old boarding invoice.
The service provider was listed as Weatherby Equine Services.
Mara read the name twice.
"So Graham was boarding Slate?"
"That's what this suggests."
"Not necessarily owning him?"
"Exactly."
They found a second document in an archived county newsletter describing Open Gate's temporary relocation after a storm damaged its facilities.
The article said Ruth had placed several horses with outside caretakers.
Graham Weatherby was one of them.
Mara leaned back.
"Then how did he become Slate's owner?"
Caleb folded his arms.
"That's what we need to ask Ruth."
The following afternoon, Mara drove to Cedar Haven.
She was nervous when she entered the modest assisted-living facility.
Ruth Bellamy was seventy-nine, with fine white hair, pale blue eyes, and hands that still looked capable of holding a horse's reins.
She sat beside a window overlooking a courtyard garden.
A caregiver introduced Mara.
"I understand you have questions about a horse."
Mara sat across from her.
"His name is Slate."
Ruth's expression changed instantly.
"Slate?"
"An enormous gray Percheron."
The older woman's hands began to tremble.
"Don't say that name unless you mean it."
Mara reached into her purse.
She removed the photograph Caleb had given her.
Then she showed Ruth a recent picture of Slate standing inside her barn.
Ruth pressed one hand against her mouth.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Finally, tears slid down her cheeks.
"Oh, my beautiful boy."
Mara leaned forward.
"You recognize him?"
"I would recognize him anywhere."
Ruth touched the photograph.
"That little scar beside his knee. He got it when he slipped near the old mill. I stayed with him all night."
Mara felt her throat tighten.
"He's alive, Ruth."
Ruth closed her eyes.
"I knew it."
The words startled Mara.
"You knew?"
"I told them the horse in that fire wasn't Slate."
Mara went still.
"What horse?"
Ruth opened her eyes.
"After the fire, Graham told me Slate was dead. He brought photographs of what he claimed were his remains."
Her voice weakened.
"But the markings were wrong."
"Did you tell anyone?"
"Of course. They said I was confused after my surgery."
Ruth looked toward the doorway.
"Then Graham brought papers for me to sign."
"What kind of papers?"
"I thought they concerned temporary boarding expenses."
Mara felt a cold sensation spreading through her chest.
"Ruth, did you ever sell Slate?"
"No."
"Did you give Graham permission to collect insurance money for him?"
"Never."
Ruth gripped Mara's hand.
"And there was something else."
"What?"
"Those papers weren't only about my horses."
The elderly woman's voice dropped almost to a whisper.
"They were about the meadow beside your orchard."
Mara stared at her.
"Why would Graham want that?"
Ruth's eyes filled with fear.
"Because the spring beneath that meadow supplies the water that keeps your husband's apple trees alive."
May you like
Then she said the words that turned Mara's blood cold.
"Mrs. Winslow, I think Graham Weatherby has been trying to steal your farm for three years."
