SPOILER ALERT!!: This is the final chapter of Unbridled. You can read the entire hay-covered series in the UNBRIDLED Channel on our home page.

Hillary placed the phone in its cradle and turned to face Maxim. “Get out of my house,” she said after speaking to Ritka. Apparently Maxim had been having DNA tests. Apparently Maxim had been up to no good with an Icelandic groom. So much “no good” that the rather foul-mouthed Ritka was pregnant.

“You bastard,” she said as he peeked out from behind his Practical Horseman magazine.

“Who was on the phone?”

“It was the mother of your future children, Maxim. Triplets, she said. I hope to hell you enjoy changing diapers because it doesn’t sound like Ritka is into nannies.”

“Triplets?” Maxim’s face drained of color. “Three at one time? Is that even possible without in–vitro?

“It is. And, apparently, it’s possible to conceive triplets when you’re losing your hair!”

He reached up and tugged his bangs over his forehead. “Now that’s not fair, Hillary! You know I’m sensitive about that…”

“And she keeps cats, Maxim. Nineteen of them, she says. You should enjoy Scratchy the most—apparently he adores snowy white breeches.”

“But I’m allergic! And nineteen cats in one house isn’t even legal.” He wiped his brow. “Is it? It surely isn’t ethical.”

She walked across the room, tugged the magazine out of his hand and stuffed it into a plastic bag. “No, it’s not. And what’s also not ethical is you wasting one more minute of my life.” She tossed the bag—stuffed with a few days worth of socks and underwear—onto his lap and handed him the keys to the Dodge Ram pick-up. “You have sixty seconds to vacate before I dial 911 and scream assault.”

“Hill, baby. Don’t do this. We can work this out. We’ve always worked everything out.”

“OUT!”

Maxim stood up, clutched the plastic bag to his chest, and started toward the door. “Seven years of marriage and I’m just cast out like a bum?”

“Sounds about right. Goodbye, Maxim. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”



Walking into the barn, Hillary felt lighter. About a hundred and eighty-five pounds lighter, to be exact. Why did it feel so good, being cheated upon? Discovering her husband was about to father three infants and nearly twenty felines?

Confirmation. That’s what it was. Confirmation that everything she’d ever suspected Maxim of, everything he’d denied, everything he’d blamed on Hillary’s overactive imagination, was absolutely true. Her husband was a no-good, two-timing bastard who couldn’t keep his pants on two horseshows running.

And now she was rid of him.

There was no remorse.

No sense of loss.

No wondering about what was to come of her.

Just a glorious sense of peace she hadn’t felt in years. She turned the corner and gasped. There, standing in the cross ties in the center aisle was her baby, with Gelden and Pammie on either side, was her reason for living. Her Tesla.

Hillary broke into a run.



Hours later, with Tesla safely tucked into her stall, Hillary sat, still dazed and confused, in the tack room with Pammie, Gelden, and the red-headed police officer, Nigel, who’d been sent to file the report on Tesla’s return.

“So you say your husband stole your mare?” Nigel asked, pulling a piece of straw from his sock. He’d never been in a barn before, that much was clear from the look of shock on his face when he learned horse’s had shavings for bedding, not a huge, fluffy, fleece-wrapped pillow from L.L.Bean with the animal’s name embroidered on the side. But, in spite of how his nose was running and the rash that was stinging his forearms, Nigel had spent the last sixty minutes helping Hillary comb over every inch of the mare’s body to be certain she was unharmed.

“Soon to be ex,” said Hillary with a sigh. “As soon as is humanly possible.”

“I assume you’ll want to prosecute this ex of yours?” asked Nigel, pulling out a hankie and blowing his nose. “For all he’s put you through.”

Hillary smiled. “You know, with triplets on the way, I think maybe Maxim might be better punished by staying out of jail. By changing diapers, and triple midnight feedings, and baby vomit on his show breeches.” She laughed. “I can’t think of a single thing that would suit Maxim less.”

Nigel laughed, closed his notebook. “Then I guess, as they say, this case is closed.” He looked at Hillary, his ruddy cheeks shiny in the dim light of the barn window. Beside him, Pammie and her stable manager moved closer together and Hillary watched as Gelden took Pammie’s hand in his and winked.

So they’re an item, thought Hillary. The perfect couple, really. She worshipped him the way he deserved to be worshipped. Right down to the way she polished his aviator glasses on the hem of her t-shirt and slid them back onto his nose.

Sweet.

Nigel stuffed his notebook into his breastpocket. “I think my work here is done.” Glancing at Hillary, he said, “Walk me to my cruiser?”

“Of course.” She followed him out into the yard and watched him climb into his car. When he was safely buckled, she said, “So is every case this exciting?”

“No,” he said, blushing furiously. He wiped raspberry cruller crumbs from his pant legs. “Nor are many victims this enchanting.”

Hillary caught her breath, surprised to hear herself giggling like a schoolgirl. She hadn’t felt this way in years.

“Is there any chance I might see you again? Under, perhaps, less dramatic circumstances?”

She felt her cheeks burn. “I’d like that.” Hillary looked up.

In the distance, across the far field, was Bounder, trailing along behind five succulent young whippets, all of whom were in rather speedy retreat. Each and every time Bounder drew near enough to nose one of them from behind, she’d tuck her tail and sprint ahead of her sisters. Finally, just before the group of them reached the Highgate Manor fence line, an enormous male greyhound—teeth bared and his claws drawn—burst out of the underbrush and headed straight for Bounder, heading the poor bedraggled wolfhound into the forest.

Then, as if to be sure Bounder got the message that this greyhound’s girls were not to be trifled with, the monstrous and bony lurcher settled himself on the property line, ran his tongue along his sharpened canines and settled in, like a father with a shotgun, waiting for Bounder to dare to return.