Cheyenne was silent when I told her that. All along, she’d been dead set on the fact that Bill Coates was doing all of this to us. And while I wasn’t insinuating that he didn’t set the initial fire that burned down her barn and killed the stallion, I knew—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that Bill Coates was not who I was looking at.
“I know that Bill Coates—”
“Cheyenne, I’m not saying he didn’t t
orch your barn,” I said. “I’m just saying he didn’t torch mine.”
“What in the world is happening, Colt?” she asked.
I took her into my arms while the horses slowly grew more agitated. Those that were still in the barn were sweating from the heat and smoke from the fire, and the ones in the pasture were running in, looking for food. I held her close to my chest and tried to calm her trembling body, the only thing I knew how to do. I had wanted to surprise her with some sleep but realized what she really needed right now was something to keep her rooted.
Keep her sane.
Keep her mind from running away from her.
She needed her routine, and she needed these horses.
“We need to check out the horses that didn’t go out, and they all need food,” I said.
“I can get them checked out. And they’ll probably need to be washed anyway, so we’ll get them fed and then take them out and hose them down.”
“You alright?” I asked. I pressed a light kiss on the top of her head, and for a split second, she nuzzled into my body. But the moment was lost when one of the hungry horses barged in and interrupted.
Laughing, she said, “Yeah, I’ll be alright. I’ll get the horses fed and looked over. You inspect the damage of that fire.”
“It wasn’t a massive—”
“Inspect it,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said with a grin.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cheyenne
Colt and I were on pins and needles the rest of the day. After inspecting the damage and helping me with the horses, he’d gone inside to call the sheriff who said he wouldn’t be able to come out until the following morning.
We were out at the barn doing the morning chores when the sheriff finally arrived. I had never seen Colt move as fast—or with as much intent—as he did when he saw that vehicle pull in. He knew exactly what needed to happen, but I was concerned about what the sheriff was about to tell him.
I’d seen this process here enough to know that Colt wouldn’t enjoy what the sheriff had to say. Essentially, without a face, a description, or any sort of evidence, we were screwed.
And whoever was doing all this was very good at covering their tracks.
The sheriff walked through the barn, and I was trying to keep the horses as quiet as I could. They were all still on edge from yesterday, but I was hesitant to let them out into the pasture. If they kicked up before they ran out, they could barrel through the fencing, and that would be just another thing we had to take care of while one of us tracked down the runaway horses.
“Your horses look alright,” the sheriff commented.
“I was able to unlock the stalls as I came in and get them out, though three just tucked themselves deeper in their stalls.”
“Called the vet yet?” he asked.
“No need. No wheezing, no issues with their running,” Colt said.
He got back to the area where the fire started and took a few pictures. He started digging around a bit, trying to find what had started it, and he came upon what he thought was a charred matchstick. He plucked out a glove and picked it up, but then he asked Colt the looming question.
“You said the person looked at you before they took off. So, you got a good look at their face?”
“The sun was at their back. I didn’t get a good look at all. They were tall and slender, but that’s all I got,” Colt said.