Paradise County Read Free Page A

he felt around in his coat pocket for a peppermint. Silver Wonder loved peppermint.
    Unwrapping it, he held it out to the petite gray. She took the candy between velvet lips, drew it into her mouth, then chomped contentedly. The scent of peppermint filled the air as he made a quick circuit around the stalls. Built in a rectangle, the barn housed approximately forty horses in two rows with stalls facing each other on each side, an office area at the front, and an open area at the rear. The utilitarian layout provided what amounted to a small track around an indoor core of stalls and tack rooms so that the horses could be cooled out indoors when necessary.
    It was obvious from the demeanor of the horses that there was no problem here.
    “All right, go back to sleep.” Ending up back where he had started, Joe patted Silver Wonder’s neck affectionately, resisted her nudging hints for another peppermint, and left the barn.
    Probably Josh being up was the only thing out of the ordinary on this starlit night. This was Simpsonville, Kentucky, after all. Population 907. The heart of the horse country that was Shelby County. Paradise County, the locals called it for the beauty of the landscape and the tranquility of the lifestyle. Crime was so rare here as to be almost nonexistent.
    Yet Joe had felt strongly that something was wrong. And, he realized, he still did.
    He would check on the Whistledown horses, then walk once around his dad’s house before turning in again.
    It was a simple matter to scale the fence. Actually, he did it an average of a dozen times a day. A boot on the lowest board, a leg flung over, and it was done. He climbed the hill to the accompaniment of his own crunching footsteps and the more distant sounds of nocturnal creatures going about their business. On the horizon, silhouetted against a stand of tall oaks, Whistledown, Haywood’s white antebellum mansion, glowed softly in the yellow shimmer of its outside security lights. With Mr. Haywood and a party of friends in residence for the Keeneland races, the usually empty house was lit up like a Christmas tree. Diffused light glowed through the curtains at a dozen windows. Four cars were parked in the long driveway that most of the year held none.
    Must be something to be so rich that a place like Whistledown was used for only about six weeks a year, mainly during the spring and fall Keeneland races, Joe mused. Horses were nothing more than an expensive hobby to Charles Haywood, and Whistledown Farm was only one of about a dozen properties he owned. Of course, Joe was sure the guy had problems, everybody had problems, but with money like that how bad could they be?
    He’d like to try a few of the problems that came with being richer than hell, instead of constantly worrying about covering expenses. The most important things in his life—his kids and his horses—both required a lot of outlay without any guarantee of a return.
    Unlike his own admittedly shabby barn, Whistledown’s was shiny with new white paint, two stories tall, and embellished with the twin scarlet cupolas that were the farm’s trademark. Reaching the door, Joe unlatched it, rolled it open, and stepped inside.
    Moments later he went stomping furiously down the length of the barn, the smell of whiskey drawing him like a beacon, cursing and ready, willing, and able to put the fear of God into his dad.
    His patience was at an end. Six weeks ago, after Joe had hauled him out of Shelby County High School’s kickoff basketball game, where Cary had seriously embarrassed Eli, who was a starting forward, and his other grandkids by bellowing the school fight song from the middle of the basketball court at halftime, Cary had sworn never to touch another drop of booze as long as he lived.
    Yeah, right, Joe thought. He had heard that song before, more times than he cared to count. They all had. But this was the last straw. His dad knew— knew —that he wasn’t allowed near the horses if he’d