Page 38 of Bourbon and Proof

Is that any way to speak to a lady?

DADDY FOXX

Get your ass up here now.

HADLEY

Are we talking about a mustache ride situation?

You should have led with that.

DADDY FOXX

Knock it off.

HADLEY

Wanna make me?

“Fuck,” I say under my breath as I look at the alert from the stables at Finch & King, taking my attention away from getting to push Ace’s buttons more. I swipe to the security feed and notice the paddocks are empty, which means either my farrier didn’t show up today or something’s wrong. It’s a gorgeous day and my girls love to run, especially on warm days.

“Hey,” Laney laughs when I jump to my feet. “Where are you going?”

“Lady Brittany Christina Pink isn’t in the south paddocks like she should be. Just want to be sure my farrier isn’t skipping his shifts.”

I lift my phone to my ear to call him, but on the second ring, it goes right to voicemail.

Faye shouts from behind me, “You need me to come with you?”

I wave her off as I swipe my shoes from the grass and hoist my bag over my shoulder. “I’m good!”

The stables aren’t too far. Finch & King butted right up against the farthest strip of Foxx Bourbon property a few miles down from my father’s estate and current prison.

I have a stable hand and farrier on rotating schedules to check in on my horses, feed, and muck the stalls when I can’t get there. One of them should be there today.

Most of my father’s stables were cleared out last year—boarded mares and foals were quickly moved to new locations after my father had been arrested. The stallion that had been standing stud was auctioned, and any others that were boarding were taken back to wherever they had called home, leaving just the horses I call mine. Less than ten minutes later, I’m driving along the dirt and gravel that leads right into the breeding stables. They’re the nicest, so that’s where my girls are staying until I can figure out my own version of housing for them.

I open the center console and snag the Christmas present Faye bought for me this year—a small, handheld pepper spray, since there have been plenty of media and trespassers over the past year. Gripping it tightly in my palm, I walk through the double sliding doors, the cool air set at a perfect temperature to keep my horses comfortable. My father loves horses, but only because of the fortune they made him. He loves what they provide. He loves them more than my mother, more than me. And he spent plenty of money making sure his investments had the best. Now knowing how he’d allowed horses under his care to be abused, the investments he made here weren’t for them, they were for him.

I stop short when I hear a man’s voice carrying out of the front of the building. “There’s nothing in the north building—and she’s not living at the townhouse address. We’ve been staking it out for well over a week now.”

Holy shit.

Another person speaks more loudly. “The bar is always busy. She’s never alone. It’s not an easy snatch and grab.”

My stomach drops as I listen. Their accents are ones I can’t place—they sure as hell aren’t from Kentucky. This isn’t going to end with me introducing myself and asking them to politely leave. I’m also not going to run away and see whether or not they’re going to take or hurt my horses.No fucking way.

I don’t waste any more time listening. I parked down by the farthest paddock gate, which can’t be seen from here, thank goodness. The sight and sound of my car would have tipped them off. I know these stables better than any other place—there are a total of ten stalls in each stable, and the three buildings were usually packed with young fillies. During any other year, it would be rowdy. The weekend prior to the Oaks and the Derby meant a packed house. Every other year, until now, because people no longer associated with Finch & King Racing. My two girls, however, aren’t in here. And I don’t see them outside.Shit. Shit.

I kick off my sandals, not wanting to make any noise, and move quietly down the main stretch of this building. The motion sensor doors connecting to the next building open quietly, and I hustle.

When I make it halfway through the next grouping of stalls, I’m greeted with Duchess Fergie Flossy Glamorous’s typical posturing and hoof hitting the stable floor, like a hand tapping in excitement or foot stomping now that her person is here. “Fergie, you beautiful girl, I need you to shush the snorting and ride as fast as Lady.”

At the sound of her name, my usually quiet thoroughbred lifts her head past an open stall, finally curious. Lady takes her bit quickly, and I decide I don’t want to take the time to saddle her. I’ve barebacked plenty of times over the years, so while mythighs and ass are going to pay for it, I need to get them out of here. It takes a peppermint and a good grip to get Lady to stop moving long enough to mount. The doors to the back are wide enough for both horses to get through side by side, and I take Fergie’s lead rope to attach it to Lady’s bit ring.

Even connected to Lady, Fergie is being stubborn and holding her ground in her stall. I move to her side and give her a shove. “Now’s not the time to be pissed off at me for not being here,” I whisper to her.

She snorts at me. I swear they know what I’m saying, but I don’t have time to say much else or negotiate any further with her, because the connecting motion sensor slider whooshes open, and I tense. The way the breeding stables are set up, the stalls are in the back. It won’t take long for whoever is out there to move through the space and find us.

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