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me where I’m staying,” Bianca said through tight lips before climbing the stairs.
    “Third room to your right, top of the stairs.”
    Bianca turned to see Trishon climbing into a red BMW. The woman said nothing else and just reversed the car in an arc before accelerating forward in a flurry of dust.
    Disgusted with them both, Bianca entered the house. She had barely closed the front door behind her, however, before she froze where she stood. “Sweet Jesus. What… in… the… hell ?” she whispered in shock.
    Gone was the French country décor that Bianca remembered to be replaced by a design style she could only name “gaudy chic”—leopard print rugs and throws, crimson slashes of material that made the room look like it was bleeding. Leather. Beads. Glass. Metal.
    Bianca just rolled her eyes heavenward. Had her father lost his ever-loving mind? Had she for returning to this chaos?
    She climbed the stairs, her suitcase in her hand, mindful of the changes Trishon made to what was once a beautiful, classy home. The woman had accomplished changing it to a remake of The Best Little Whorehouse in South Carolina. But she was not here to judge, no matter how bad she thought Trishon’ taste was. In twoweeks she’d be back in her more… sedate … Atlanta home, living her own life.
    Trishon had assigned Bianca to her mother’s old sewing room, but any traces of that were gone. It was replaced by every possible shade of purple satin—or was it polyester? Everything from lilac to violet. It looked like the room threw up purple.
    She didn’t even bother unpacking. She decided to take a look around the ranch because her father wasn’t home to give her access to his books. Without even changing out of the vintage jeans, tank, and sneakers she wore, Bianca jogged back downstairs and left the house.
    The barn—which was the centerpiece of the business—was a good mile down from the main house. Bianca decided to walk it and headed in that direction. She was anxious to see the horses and meet the ranch hands.
    Growing up, King Equine Services had been one of the leading horse ranches for the boarding and breeding of horses in the low country. They used to have a waiting list for people looking to purchase a horse bred and trained by Hank King. He was known for his method of humane and effective training approaches for horses. He seemed to have an affinity for horses, probably through heredity—his own father started the ranch—and through trial and error.
    That love of horses and other animals had been passed on to Bianca; thus, her career as a equine vet. She, too, seemed to be blessed with an innate ability with animals. Being a vet gave her the opportunity to make a good deal of money and lots of respect in her field, but she was also surrounded by the horses she loved so much. To her the animals far outweighed the money.
    So, it bothered her to think that legacy of quality work and care might be lost. How bad were things? Was it salvageable?
    The summer sun was blazing down on her without any shelter from its rays. As she turned down the worn path leading to the area behind the old bunkhouse, Bianca’s steps faltered at her first sight of the gable-styled barn—or what was left of it. The structure had not survived what obviously was a fire. What was left was charred, broken, and decrepit. Useless.
    Questions flew to mind. The who, what, when, and why of it all.
    As she stood in the center of that great field, the tips of the grass dried and yellowing from the heat, Bianca looked around. Not a soul was in sight: the horse pens were empty, no one using the handling chutes to safely contain a horse while trimming feet or treating injuries, no hands walking the horses that should’ve been boarded, the obstacle courses were desolate.
    Uh-oh.
    Things were bad. Worst than she thought. If her father didn’t get his behind home ASAP she would hunt him down and drag his butt home to explain to her to just what the hell