Free The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) by Lauren Gilley Page A

sense letting this place” – broad gesture to the land around them – “get turned into retirement condos, is there? The MC’s all about tradition. About history. We don’t like seeing old things plowed over to make way for new.”
                  Richards’ face was set at a stern, bulldog clench, but he was listening intently.
                  “And truthfully,” Walsh continued, “I don’t want to see that happen. Personally. I’m a hermit, Mr. Richards. I like peace and quiet. I like animals. I like your farm. And I want to buy it. For myself.”
     
    ~*~
     
    Though equine-inspired, Amy’s outfit wasn’t suitable for the dusty inside of a barn. Designer jeans, glossy brown riding boots, airy gauze top printed with brown-on-brown horseshoe design. Diamonds sparkled at her ears and throat, and her dark hair was swept up in decorative leather combs.
                  She occupied the ratty swivel chair as a queen would a throne, manicured hands curved on the arms, legs crossed at the knee. She did a lazy spin, eyes roving over the photographs, ribbons, trophies that decorated the wall. Some were Emmie’s. Most were her own.
                  This farm had been her father’s gift to her. Her four siblings had been sent to college. She hadn’t wanted to go, had instead wanted to marry the young man who’d knocked her up with Brett. Davis had made her a deal: don’t marry the young man, and he’d build her a farm. She’d accepted the deal.
                  And now, almost thirty years later, she was leaving the farm for a new husband, new life, new farm in Kentucky. And there was nothing Emmie could do about it.
                  “How’s the farm coming?” Emmie asked, proud that she didn’t sound too bitter.             
                  Amy nodded. “Fence is all done. We’re planting trees this week. A whole bunch of silver maples going down the drive.”
                  “That’ll be pretty.”
                  “Yeah.” Amy stopped spinning and pinned Emmie with a glance. “How’re you doing?”
                  “I’m…”
                  She always said “fine” in these instances. But today, the word got stuck against the roof of her mouth. All her horse-related life, she’d worked to be easy, compliant, uncomplaining. She wanted to be a help and never a hindrance. She’d seen her quiet acquiescence to everyone else’s wishes as a way to gain some career karma. That her dedication and unfailing good spirits would give her a leg-up professionally.
                  It had gotten her nowhere.
                  “I’m not great,” she said, and Amy looked surprised. “I’m…” She glanced up and saw a faded photo of herself at age eleven, grinning hugely as Amy held her old lesson pony’s bridle. She’d won her class that day at the pony club show. “I’m depressed,” she admitted. “I’m exhausted, and I hate what’s happening.”
                  She offered her boss a sparse smile. “But what can I do, huh?”
                  Amy studied her a moment, head cocked. “I think you’re burnt out, is what I think. When the builders close on this place in a few weeks” –
                  Emmie’s breath caught in her throat.
                  – “you can take some time off. Go on vacay or something. You need a break. This place is killing you.”
                  What was killing her was the loss of her childhood home-away-from-home. She swallowed down that retort and said, “The builders? I didn’t think anything was decided yet. There’s another buyer–”
                  “Brett told Dad he ought to take the developers’ offer, and I think he’s right. They’ll pay the most, everything will happen quickly, and we can get this place