Page 1 of Married With Lies

PROLOGUE

SADIE

Like everyone else, I lie to myself now and then.

Most of these lies are small and harmless, like repeating, “I am NOT afraid of horses,” over and over via a comforting inner monologue.

After all, horses are wonderful, majestic creatures. They weigh around a thousand pounds. Their heads can be as large as truck tires. They could theoretically stomp my skull into a bloody pulp before my stumpy legs even have time to flinch.

Not that I’ve ever given a horse any reason to stomp on my head. Murderous horses aren’t a thing, not even in fiction. This would have come up somewhere in the thousands of books I’ve read if it were truly something to stress about.

If I’d been born a country girl there’s no doubt I’d feel a lot more comfortable around horses but I have to work at this life. Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing it right.

Anyone who meets me now might laugh to hear that I was raised in a posh Long Island mansion where I never even did my own laundry.

There were no horses or animals of any kind on my father’s estate. He would even force the gardener to set traps for the wild grey squirrels because they ate the tulip bulbs. Many of my childhood hours were spent finding the squirrel traps and disabling them.

But today is far too lovely to waste it by brooding over my father and other unpleasant things. It’s nearly spring.

The ground is still bare and at this hour of the morning my breath puffs out in white clouds.

Yet a hint of something indefinable sits in the air. A honeyed promise of the coming season that I can taste on the walk from the house to the barn.

At the sound of my heavy footsteps, the horses stir in their stalls. All the animals at the sanctuary are rescues, all with their own stories. Many of them are sad stories.

“Good morning everyone,” I say as if I’ve just walked into an office full of cranky coworkers. “How are we today?”

An angry snort to my right demands attention. The chestnut head of an ornery stallion hangs out of the nearest stall, one black eye regarding me with open suspicion.

“Hello to you too, Wylie.” Slowly and against my better judgment, I extend a hand. I sure hope I don’t lose a finger. I’d hate to see my most irrational terror confirmed.

Wylie lets me keep my fingers. He turns his face to the side and kicks the stall door. I can’t blame him for being unfriendly. He’s had a tough life. He might think that I don’t know what I’m doing. He’d be right. The horses are a new addition to the ranch.

The sound of rhythmic crunching echoes from multiple directions. Clearly, someone has already been here and filled the oat pails.

I’m not surprised.

Sometimes the volunteers arrive before sunrise. They are welcome at the ranch any time of the day or night. Without the help of the volunteers, we wouldn’t be able to accomplish half as much.

With the horses fed and the stalls clean and Wylie eyeballing me with caution, there’s not much I can do right now in the barn. Meanwhile, next door there’s an outbreak of joyous barking. The dogs are awake.

I’ve named the stout building The Doghouse because there is no limit to my cleverness. My heart bleeds for all creatures, especially the neglected and unwanted ones. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have favorites. My favorites are dogs.

As I walk in, they are squirming and ecstatic, each one eager for a greeting, a scratch behind the ears and a treat from the deep pocket of my thick cardigan.

All the ranch buildings, including The Doghouse, have received significant facelifts in recent months. The temperature in here is warm, nearly toasty, thanks to additional insulation and an expensive new heating system. Instead of rustic caged pens, our newly remodeled dog runs could compete with any pricy pet resort.

Even as I scan the upgrades with deep satisfaction I’m confronted with an uneasy fact. There’s a financial source for all these improvements.

Right now I’d rather not dwell on that source.

“Morning, Miz Wingate,” chirps a voice from the far side of the room.

At the end of a long row of dog runs, Jasper Reyes holds a gigantic push broom and wears a sheepish grin.

Good kid. Exceedingly polite. Insists on calling me Miz Wingate, even though the title makes me feel like I ought to be reminding a classroom full of kids to do their algebra homework.

“You’re here early,” I say while scratching the ears of a sweet one-eyed German Shepherd named Betsy.

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