Free The Winter Widow by Charlene Weir Page B

explained what had happened.
    â€œThose stall doors were unlatched, deliberately unlatched, by someone who didn’t want to be seen.” She rubbed a hand across her cheek. “I think he was hiding in the adjacent stall.”
    â€œWhy unlatch doors?”
    â€œIt got me out of the barn, didn’t it? And created enough commotion for an army to sneak away unnoticed.”
    â€œWhy didn’t he want to be seen?”
    â€œI do believe you have finally asked the important question. Find out if anyone admits to being in there.”
    â€œGiving orders?”
    She took a breath and let it out. “Comes of natural leadership abilities.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” He touched a finger to his forehead. “With your permission, right now I’d like to see that the bull is caught and nobody else is hurt. Then I’ll do that very thing.”
    She watched him walk away and hoped he was going to wash his bloody hands, then tromped back into the barn. It was warmer inside but not much, and the acrid odor of cattle stung her nostrils. Whoever had been here was gone, she told herself, but her shoulders still tensed and she looked around warily. The light was dim. There were shadowy corners everywhere. The loft above, stacked with bales of hay, was a perfectly good hiding place.
    The same two cows placidly munched hay, bovine jaws relentlessly grinding. The last box stall, the one she hadn’t gotten a chance to look into, still had both halves of the dutch door closed. With a shaky hand, she opened the top and peered in, then drew a breath. It was empty.
    She eyed the stall where Fafner had been. Even though he was no longer there, she felt the menace of his presence and had to force herself to go inside. The soiled straw made her nose wrinkle. The space seemed much larger with the bull gone. She paced back and forth examining the floor, looking for a rock or a dart, a wire, something that might have been used to enrage the animal.
    She found nothing and went into the stall on the left. Straw was spread on the floor, but at least it was clean. Nothing here either.
    She went to the stall on the right of Fafner’s. A pitchfork lay in the corner. Used to goad the bull, she thought, kneeling and tapping a finger against the point of a tine. Again she paced back and forth, kicking at the straw. She found a clump of mud, still damp, that had fallen from somebody’s boot.
    Picking it up, she leaned against the rough wall and gazed at it. Somebody had hidden in this stall and jabbed the bull with the pitchfork. Why couldn’t he or she afford to be seen? She pictured the injured man, ashen-faced, with blood soaking into the white towel. Whoever she was dealing with didn’t care who got hurt.
    Hearing footsteps, she raised her head.
    Someone ambled into the barn, carrying a pitchfork. He wore blue jeans, an unbuttoned checked jacket, a bright green shirt. He walked with a free, easy stride.
    He was a kid, about sixteen, she thought, with a pale, pinched face. A clump of tawny hair beneath a billed cap, slightly askew with ear flaps dangling, hung in his eyes.
    â€œHello,” she said, walking toward him.
    He froze, then turned with taut wariness to face her, his soft brown eyes wild and suspicious like those of a deer hearing a twig snap, ears strained to assess the danger, muscles bunched in readiness. She stopped four feet away, afraid he would whirl and bound out the door.
    â€œI’m Susan Wren.”
    â€œSeen you,” he mumbled. “Name’s Nat.” He tossed his head, throwing the hair from his eyes.
    Speak softly, she told herself, and make no sudden movements. “Do you work for Mr. Guthman?”
    He nodded. “Should have been here. Came as soon as I heard.”
    â€œAbout the bull?” Backing to a partition, she raised herself to sit on it, put a hand palm-down on either side and let her legs dangle.
    â€œWouldn’t have happened if