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projected an air of such hostility that she was surprised he had done her no physical harm while they had been alone in that monstrosity he called an arena.
    Fear clutched her heart. She knew only one man in this time and place, and clearly she could expect no assistance from him.

Chapter Two
    A s the officers drove away, Quincy couldn’t drag his gaze from Ceara’s tear-streaked face, pressed imploringly against the window glass, her eyes filled with urgent appeal. He considered himself to be a good judge of character, and he knew damned well the woman had to be emotionally ill, but something in her expression tugged at his conscience and made him feel like a rotten skunk for having her arrested.
    Determined to get on with his day, he shook off the feeling. The world was filled with unbalanced people. Some took drugs. Others were just born messed up in the head and needed treatment to keep them on an even keel. Quincy wished none of them ill, including his intruder, but with his brother’s wife at death’s door, he already had plenty to deal with, and now, thanks to Ceara O’Ceallaigh, if that was even her real name, he had an extra mountain of work ahead of him.
    He reentered the arena shouting for his forewoman. “Pauline! Get down here! We’ve got a mess on our hands!”
    “I’m right here, boss. No need to shout.” Pauline, a short, stocky woman of fifty-six, stood near Beethoven’s stall. In the dim illumination her salt-and-pepper hair, cut short like a man’s, shone like polished silver. A perplexed expression rode the handsome features of her square face and was reflected in her gray-blue eyes. “What the frack happened down here? It sounded like every cop car in the county raced in with sirens blaring.”
    Quincy nearly smiled. Pauline was a great fan of Battlestar Galactica and had watched the series so many times that frack had become her favorite curse word. “We had a B and E,” he informed her. “Some gal dressed up in Renaissance clothing. Somehow she got in without setting off the alarm.”
    Pauline muttered the word frack with more vehemence. “How’d that happen?”
    “Good question,” Quincy replied, “but for now, my greater concern is the safety of my horses.” A few years ago, several of his sister Sam’s horses had been poisoned by her ex, who’d been trying to cash in on equine mortality insurance policies. As a result, everyone in the family, including Quincy, had followed Sam’s lead and beefed up security on their ranches to prevent any harm to other equines. “After Sam’s experience, it’s never far from my mind that it could happen again.”
    The color drained from Pauline’s face, which was, as always, devoid of cosmetics. “You think she laced their grain with something? Why? ” She shook her head. “I don’t get why anybody would do such a thing to innocent animals.”
    Quincy shared that sentiment, but he didn’t intend to overlook the possibility. “We need to empty and wash out every feed bag, toss all opened grain sacks, and discard all loose hay. I doubt she would have tampered with bound bales.”
    Pauline didn’t need to be told twice. She started at the first stall at one end of the arena, pitchfork in hand, and Quincy began his mission at the other end. He’d barely started working when he was bombarded by his dogs, Bubba and Billy Bob, who had been bunking upstairs with Pauline during Loni’s illness to spare them the stress of being bounced back and forth between his home and Pauline’s apartment during his absences.
    “Hey, guys!” Quincy set aside the pitchfork and crouched to curl an arm around each squirming, red-and-white fur ball. Pauline gave them superb care, but the dogs still couldn’t quite grasp why they could no longer be with Quincy all the time. Brothers from the same litter, they’d turned ten on March 7, but neither of them had started to act his age yet. Australian shepherds tended to outlive many other breeds, but Quincy