Chapter 2 - The Wound Beneath the Sleeve
Rowan had spent years learning how to hide pain.
She had learned the skill in emergency rooms at 3:00 a.m., in cheap motel bathrooms with towels pressed against bleeding skin, and once in a crowded train station where she smiled at a stranger while counting the seconds between one wave of dizziness and the next.
Pain was manageable.
Suspicion was dangerous.
Declan Kavanagh was dangerous in a completely different way.
He did not yell.
He did not threaten.
He simply looked at her as if he had already decided that lying would not save her.
“Let go,” Rowan said.
Declan's eyes remained on the scar beneath her sleeve.
“No.”
“You don't get to order me around.”
“Then consider it a medical recommendation.”
“You are not a doctor.”
“No.”
He finally met her eyes.
“But I know exactly what a fresh bullet wound looks like.”
Something cold passed through Rowan.
She had expected arrogance.
Instead, she saw recognition.
Personal recognition.
The guards were still searching the perimeter.
The storm had covered most evidence, but Declan's security team moved with military precision.
“House,” Declan said.
“I can walk.”
“I know.”
He started toward the main building.
Rowan stayed where she was.
Declan stopped.
“Five seconds.”
She glared.
He waited.
At four, Rowan followed.
Bridey was already at the door.
One glance at the blood on Rowan's jacket and she swore.
“Kitchen.”
“I don't need—”
“Kitchen,” Bridey repeated.
This time, Rowan listened.
The housekeeper had an emergency kit hidden beneath the pantry sink.
Of course she did.
Declan shut the kitchen door behind them.
Bridey opened the kit and looked at Rowan.
“Shirt.”
Rowan froze.
Bridey sighed.
“Miss Sheehan, I have worked in this house for 28 years. There are 14 rooms that have seen worse blood than this. Take off the jacket.”
Rowan reluctantly obeyed.
The bullet had entered at an angle, carving a shallow path along her side.
No organ damage.
A lucky shot.
Or an unlucky one.
Declan stood near the window while Bridey cleaned the wound.
He watched without speaking.
That silence was worse than questioning.
When Bridey reached for a suture kit, Rowan shook her head.
“No stitches.”
“There may be a deeper tear.”
“Not enough.”
Bridey looked toward Declan.
He gave one slight nod.
She closed the kit.
“Seven days,” Bridey said. “No heavy work. No riding. No lifting feed sacks. No pretending you're invincible.”
“I never pretend that.”
Bridey raised an eyebrow.
Rowan almost smiled.
Almost.
Then Declan said, “You were shot before tonight.”
The room went still.
Bridey quietly left.
Rowan pulled her jacket back on.
“Old injury.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It is the only one you're getting.”
Declan leaned against the counter.
“Someone shot you, you came here, and then someone tried to shoot you again.”
“I think you're missing a detail.”
“What?”
“I work with horses.”
His expression did not change.
“You're expecting me to believe the gunmen were here for Midnight Reel?”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
Rowan looked at him.
“Your horse was injured under suspicious circumstances. Someone tried to force their way onto your property. The attack tonight was aimed at you or the horse. I don't know which.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“You were already injured.”
Rowan's fingers curled.
“The bullet tonight was the wrong angle.”
Declan frowned.
“What?”
“You were standing behind me.”
“I noticed.”
“If they wanted me, the second shot would have been centered on my chest.”
His eyes sharpened.
“If they wanted you?”
“They would have taken the shot before the first one.”
Rowan's voice dropped.
“This was theater.”
Declan went very still.
“Someone wanted us to know they could reach Ashgrove.”
Outside, tires crunched on gravel.
Declan turned toward the window.
“Stay here.”
Rowan almost laughed.
“No.”
His gaze snapped back.
“Rowan.”
“I have seen enough men tell women to stay safe while making terrible decisions themselves.”
He stared at her.
“You've done this before.”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
She did not answer.
Declan stepped closer.
“How many?”
Rowan swallowed.
“One.”
He waited.
She added, “That I survived.”
Something in his face shifted.
Not pity.
Never pity.
Anger.
Not at her.
For her.
That was somehow more unsettling.
The next morning, Ashgrove was surrounded by security.
Declan had doubled the guards.
Cars were checked.
Deliveries were searched.
Cameras were reviewed.
Rowan ignored all of it and returned to the east block.
Midnight Reel stood quietly in his box.
The horse looked at her.
Then deliberately turned his injured leg away.
“You and I are alike,” Rowan whispered.
Declan's voice came from behind her.
“I was afraid you'd say that.”
She glanced back.
He wore a dark coat and looked exhausted.
“Were you awake all night?”
“Yes.”
“Because of the attack?”
“Yes.”
“Because of me?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Rowan turned back to Midnight Reel.
“That is a dangerous habit.”
“Which one?”
“Caring about people who are inconvenient.”
Declan moved closer.
“I've had worse habits.”
For a brief moment, neither spoke.
Then Cormac entered the stable.
He looked at Declan.
Then Rowan.
Then the floor.
“Mr. Kavanagh.”
“What?”
“There was someone at the rear gate last night.”
Declan's voice sharpened.
“Who?”
“I couldn't see his face.”
“What did he want?”
Cormac hesitated.
“He asked about Rowan.”
Rowan's stomach tightened.
Declan turned toward her.
“Did he give a name?”
“No.”
“Did he describe him?”
Cormac swallowed.
“He said something.”
“What?”
“He said, ‘Tell the horsewoman the debt still stands.’”
The air changed.
Rowan went cold.
Cormac left before either of them could stop him.
Declan looked at Rowan.
“What debt?”
She stared at Midnight Reel.
“None.”
“Don't lie.”
“I am not lying.”
“Then tell me why your face changed.”
Rowan looked at the horse.
The truth was something she had buried beneath miles of roads and years of silence.
She had come to Ashgrove for one reason.
Midnight Reel was not simply a horse.
He was the last living witness to a night that had destroyed her family.
Three years earlier, Rowan's older brother, Finn Sheehan, had worked as a private transporter for racing owners.
One night, he had disappeared.
Two days later, Rowan had found him in an abandoned warehouse.
Alive.
Barely.
He had told her only one thing.
“Don't trust the Kavanagh stable.”
She had refused to believe him.
Then someone had shot her.
Finn died in the ambulance.
Rowan disappeared.
And for three years, she had chased fragments of the story.
The final fragment had been Midnight Reel.
The horse had been transported the night Finn died.
Rowan had traced the animal through six owners.
Every lead ended at Ashgrove.
She had come here under a professional name, telling herself she wanted to rehabilitate a difficult horse.
That was only half true.
She wanted to find out who had killed her brother.
She did not tell Declan.
Not yet.
That afternoon, Rowan examined Midnight Reel more carefully.
His wound was not consistent with an ordinary stable accident.
There was scar tissue beneath the muscle.
A tiny puncture.
Not from a fence.
Not from another horse.
A veterinary needle.
She found residue in the hair.
Sedative.
Someone had drugged him before the original injury.
Why?
She was still studying the area when Declan entered.
“You found something.”
She looked up.
“How do you know?”
“Because you stopped blinking.”
Rowan frowned.
“What?”
“You blink less when you're scared.”
“I am not scared.”
“You were.”
She looked back at the horse.
“Someone sedated Midnight Reel before he was injured.”
Declan's expression went hard.
“Cormac said the horse collapsed during training.”
“He lied.”
Declan stepped closer.
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
His phone rang.
He answered.
“Tell me.”
A voice spoke on the other end.
Declan listened.
His jaw tightened.
“Where?”
He hung up.
“Someone found a dead man at the lower gate.”
Rowan's heart stopped.
“Who?”
“One of the attackers.”
“Dead?”
“He was killed after the shooting.”
She looked at him.
“By whom?”
Declan's eyes met hers.
“We don't know.”
The answer came before either could speak again.
A metallic click.
Both turned.
A gunman stood on the catwalk above them.
Declan pulled Rowan backward.
The shot struck the stall door.
Midnight Reel exploded backward.
Chaos filled the stable.
Declan drew his own weapon.
“Down!”
Rowan dropped.
Two guards stormed in.
The gunman ran.
Declan chased him.
Rowan remained on the floor for three seconds.
Then she saw a folded paper beneath the stall door.
Her name was written across it.
ROWAN SHEEHAN.
Her hands shook as she opened it.
One sentence.
YOU CAME HERE LOOKING FOR THE MAN WHO KILLED YOUR BROTHER.
Beneath it was another line.
HE IS CLOSER THAN YOU THINK.
Rowan looked toward the door.
Declan had not seen the note.
Not yet.
She folded it.
Put it in her pocket.
And made a decision she knew would change everything.
She would find out the truth.
May you like
Even if that truth destroyed Ashgrove.
Even if it destroyed Declan.
