Horse of a Different Killer by Laura Morrigan

beside him.
    â€œI was wondering how many horses y’all have.”
    â€œTwo right now. Scout and Lucy.”
    â€œAnd they’re long-term boarders?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œIt’s just I noticed there are eight stalls.”
    â€œWe get a lot of short-term boarders. People going to the equestrian center or driving up from Wellington will stop in for a few nights.”
    â€œSo it’s not unusual for a horse to stay for just one or two nights?”
    He shook his head. “I guess you could say we’re kind of like a campground. See?” He pointed to an adjacent pasture and I saw a row of square posts about thirty feet apart jutting out of the tall grass.
    â€œWater and electricity?”
    Hunter nodded. “People can park their camper-trailers and still be close to their horses.”
    It was a neat idea. “The horses get to stretch their legs and their owners can relax, because you deal with the logistics.”
    â€œRight.”
    I wondered if any campers had been staying the same time as Heart. A question that would have to wait until morning. I thanked Hunter and headed to Bluebell. As I was driving through the main gate, I noticed a section of new fencing running along the perimeter to my left. I thought of Nelly, Cappy’s lost companion, and stopped to study the spot.
    The area beyond the fence was densely wooded—a good place for a goat to hide or get lost. I drove on slowly, looking for any sign of Nelly. When a dirt road veered off into the woods in the general direction of the repaired fence, I turned. Bumping along steadily, Bluebell’s struts squeaked and bounced as we went.
    I squinted into the woods and muttered, “Where are you, Nelly?”
    The underbrush along the road was too thick to see much. Often, a burst of goldenrod exploded from the ditch, its bright yellow flower plumes blocking the view completely. The little goat could have been five feet into the woods on either side and I would never see her.
    At least she’d have plenty to eat.
    Unlike horses and cows who are grazers, goats are more closely related to deer and, therefore, browse for their food. Stripping tender foliage and shoots from shrubs and trees was their specialty.
    They did, however, tend to be sensitive when it came to their water supply. I hoped Nelly wasn’t drinking out of the murky ditch; she might end up being a very sick goat.
    After a few minutes I came to a bigger, paved road and turned onto it. Within twenty minutes, I was as lost as Nelly.
    Crap.
    I tried my GPS app but had no signal.
    Double crap.
    Grousing, I continued along, finally coming to a dead end at a trailhead leading into Jennings State Forest. The dirt road itself was closed to motor vehicles—or so claimed the sign dangling from a chain stretched between two sturdy-looking posts.
    Having never visited Jennings, I was not familiar with the area. But, as I backed up and started a three-point turn, I noticed two people who probably were.
    About thirty feet back and off to one side of the trail was a small, dusty turnaround. A couple had pulled into it, parked, and were hauling backpacks from the trunk of their car.
    They were nice enough to give me a very simple map of the park along with directions to the closest main road. Somehow, I had made it to the other side of Jennings and was facing the wrong way.
    When I mentioned my lack of cell reception, the man informed me that one of the cell towers in the park was being used as a nesting site by a pair of bald eagles. A recent storm had damaged the tower, but because of the nest, no repairs could be done.
    I thanked them and made a mental note to nix the bad attitude about lack of cell service.
    Bald eagle babies trumped modern conveniences any day.
    I was surprised to discover the trail was actually very close to a residential neighborhood. It seemed strange, but I supposed state parks acquired land after homes were built, which meant