John watched as the miles ticked by with mild indifference. Dense city gave way to suburbia, which thinned into outskirts, and finally to small, rural towns. He was never much of a country boy, preferring the constant buzz of the city to the quiet of open land. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate a little peace now and then. He was just more comfortable in a place where he could disappear amid the masses if the need arose.

Even with the radio on, the car was becoming uncomfortably quiet. John felt the tendrils of isolation trying to creep in, and slammed a mental door on them as quickly as he could. As far as he was concerned, there would never be a good time to sort through the wreckage of his conscience, but it was during idle moments like this that his mind tried to go in that direction. Thanks to his unforeseen stay at Riker's Island and the memories dredged up by Carter's interrogation, the instances of forced self reflection seemed to be coming more frequently than he liked.

There's no sense in scrutinizing the past… he thought, glancing out the window as he passed a herd of cattle grazing lazily by the road. He knew all people had regrets, but due to the choices he'd made during his time with the CIA, he felt he carried more than most. The past is done and the future is uncertain. All you can do is live for the moment and wait for life's only certainty: death.

John frowned. His mental pep talk had seemed almost poetic until that last part. Mortality was something he confronted regularly in his line of work, but it was his own mind he often found to be more dangerous than the adversaries he encountered. Harold had saved him from himself once; he doubted there was a path to salvation that would allow him to be saved twice.

He passed a sign marking the turn for Steeping Pace Acres and abruptly came back to the present. He could ponder his life's choices and redemption on his own time; right now he had a job to do.

Slowing his car, John signaled and turned onto a gravelly road that led into the woods. Switching off the radio, he reached up and toggled the earwig that connected him to Harold. His head instantly filled with a high-pitched, vibrating hum. "Bad time, Finch?" he asked, speaking loudly to be heard over the noise.

At once, the sound began to fade, winding down like a turbine before stopping completely. "Not at all, Mr. Reese," Harold's voice assured him through the earwig. "I'm in the midst of cleaning up the mess Bear has made pulling the felt from his tennis balls. He's already gone through the four he had, plus the one he managed to find when we went out for a walk. The thing was disgusting, but he absolutely refused to drop it."

John smirked. The sound he'd heard had been the ancient vacuum cleaner Harold kept at the library. "It's just a phase he's going through. It'll pass."

"I certainly hope so. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to remove nylon fibers from the exhaust fans of my computers? Not to mention I'll be picking green fuzz off my trousers for the next week…" Harold sighed. "But, you didn't call to hear me complain. Did you need something, Mr. Reese?"

"I'm almost at the farm. Do you have anymore infor…" John's question tapered off as his car crested a steep hill and the valley below came into view. Sliding the vehicle into park, he opened his door and stepped out, his preconceived notions of the farm completely shattered.

Perfect as a postcard, Stepping Pace Acres sprawled across an expansive property – a hidden oasis mere hours from the concrete jungle that was Manhattan. Assorted buildings spotted the estate, all sharply painted white with black roofs. Six-rail fences ran further than his eyes could see, bordering and dividing the land in to smaller segments. Horses of all colors dotted the green fields, their snorts and occasional whinny being carried to him by the light breeze.

"Mr. Reese? John? Are you all right?" Harold's voice held some concern as he tried to reach his suddenly silent partner.

"I'm fine. I just saw the place. I came expecting to see a Hampton, not the Ritz."

"Mrs. Barton spares no expense for her client's horses."

"Clearly." Still in a mild state of awe, John climbed back into his car and proceeded toward the main gate. "Did you find out anything new about the target?"

"Nothing hardly worth mentioning. I'm still waiting to hear back from Detective Carter about the sealed court case."

"Every little bit helps, Finch." He heard Harold moving about on the other end of the connection and than the tapping of computer keys.

"Well, I found out she's married; her maiden name is Walsh. She's the middle child of David and Kaitlyn Walsh, who are both deceased. Her mother died unexpectedly in late 2000 when she was struck while riding her horse along the road. It was deemed a hit and run, and the driver responsible was never found. Her father passed away in 2003 from complications of liver failure."

"That's the same year as the case you have Carter researching," John replied, pulling into to small parking lot and backing into the first available space. "What about her husband?"

"Jeremy Barton. He's a Major in the United States Air Force and is currently deployed as a pilot over in Afghanistan. It's his second tour of duty in four years. The two appear to have an amiable relationship and have been together for nearly a decade. They have no children, but as career motivated as these two seem, it's not surprising."

John stepped out of the car and adjusted the gun he had tucked against the small of his back. He still felt out of place in faded jeans and a polo shirt, but his preferred suits weren't made for the barnyard. "And her siblings?"

"They're both thriving entrepreneurs, each establishing their own business shortly after their father passed away. Alexis, the younger sister, has an accounting firm out of Schodack, and Mark, the older brother, has a construction company nearby. Except for a handful of renovations done by her brother, it would appear they have nothing invested in the farm."

"Sounds like the only thing threatening this family is their success," John muttered as he slipped into his motorcycle jacket.

"And we've seen what that can do to people," Harold replied. "Mrs. Barton appears to be a likely victim in this case, but we don't know for certain. Hopefully she'll be more forthcoming with you than my research has been thus far."

"I'll see what I can find. Keep me updated."

"I will. And just remember what I said about being careful."

The former agent struggled not to roll his eyes. "Yes, Finch."

"Happy trails, Mr. Reese."

The connection was severed before he could reply. At least one of them was enjoying themselves.

John glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven thirty. He had hoped to have a look around and get a feel for the location before meeting with the target, but there wasn't enough time. Following the sound of voices and hoof beats, he headed through the main gate and into the mysterious world of horses.


John didn't have to wander the grounds long before finding a pocket of activity. There was a lesson underway in one of the farm's large arenas, where a small group of riders were navigating their mounts around a well-worn track. They were making the task look effortless; he could barely see any communication going on between the horse and rider. A woman – the instructor, he presumed – was seated on an upturned bucket and watching from the far corner of the ring. After taking a closer look, he realized it was his target – Maggie Barton.

"Take Dwizzle back on the circle at a trot. If he gets heavy on his forehand again, sit down in the saddle and drive him forward with your legs. You want to engage his hindquarters and then support him with your inside leg and outside rein."

To John, the instructor's directions were a foreign language. Leaning against the fence, he watched as a lanky brown horse left the track and began making a large circle in the center of the ring. Its stride began choppy and short, but it gradually smoothed out and lengthened until the animal appeared to be floating across the ground.

Maggie clapped her hands. "Excellent! Now that you knows what it feels like, ask for him to carry himself that way more often."

The lesson continued on for several minutes before John was finally spotted. Maggie waved and excused herself from the group. "You must be Mr. Cross," she greeted as she walked across the arena.

John Cross, the alias Harold had given him to use for the mission, worked as a private security consultant specializing in high-risk venues. He was a workaholic, and had a stress level very close to heart attack.

"I am, and it's John, please."

"All right, John. I'm Maggie." Petite in stature, she slid effortlessly through the lower rails of the fence. "Welcome to Stepping Pace Acres."

"You've got a great set up here. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this."

Maggie grinned. "It's been in my family for generations. Except for a few expansion projects and basic cosmetic work, the property really hasn't chanced much in all that time."

"It's incredible."

"I'll show you around when we get back from our ride. I'd do it now, but our horses are waiting for us. Would you like to meet your trail partner for the day?"

John gestured for Maggie to lead the way and fell into step behind her. As they walked, he continued to look around, soaking in as much of the layout as he could. Small buildings filled with hay and tools; corrals with horses dozing lazily in the sun; a large shed with a green and yellow tractor inside. All typical things you'd expect to find on a working farm, and all good places to hide trouble.

Time to start asking questions… "You said this place has been in your family for a while?" he asked, stepping around a small group of clucking chickens.

"For over a century," Maggie replied. "My great grandfather built the main barn back in 1889. He primarily bred and trained Morgans in those days. It was my grandfather that brought the first Tennessee Walking Horse up from the South in the 1950's. My father fell in love with them as a boy, and devoted his life to furthering and preserving the breed in the region. We train all breeds and disciplines here now, but the Walking Horse is still my favorite."

"So you learned the trade from him?"

She shrugged. "Both my parents were horse people, but he was probably the most influential. My mother was more into the showy side of Walking Horses. She and my brother and sister would take off for a different venue every weekend. They liked the attention, ribbons, and money that came with winning. My father was more of a purist. He enjoyed horses for their free spirit and would take to the trails for hours at a time. He'd train the show horses too, but he refused to use inhumane methods like weighted platform shoes and soring."

"Soring?"

"It's the practice of putting a caustic substance on a horse's heels. To escape the pain, they lift their feet rapidly, forcing an exaggerated gait. My father caught my sister doing it to one of her horses once and grounded her for months."

John was appalled. "That's terrible."

"Thankfully it's been outlawed in most places, but the shoes, tail setting, and bits that cause pain are still allowed. It's awful what some people will do to these animals to try and one-up the competition."

They came to a stop in front of an ornate cast iron gate. "Do your siblings still ride?"

"No. They started to lose interest after our mother's accident. I think they just stuck around the last couple of years because dad was sick. When he finally passed, they both went their separate ways. I don't see them very often anymore. After they found out that dad left me the farm, things really got…" Maggie's voice trailed off and she offered him a sheepish smile. "Listen to me. I shouldn't be bothering you with all this stuff."

Her sudden reluctance to talk sent up a red flag in John's mind. "I don't mind listening."

"That's kind of you, but I shouldn't carry on about such matters in front of paying guests. Your boss arranged this ride for you to have some fun and relax. He said you don't get out of the city much."

"Private sector security is in big demand right now," he replied, allowing her to direct the conversation onto him and his cover story for the time being. "Especially in a big city like Manhattan. Eighty hour work weeks aren't uncommon."

"That just means you're dedicated. If more people were like that, the world would probably be a better place." Maggie cycled the latch on the gate and pushed it open. "But for the duration of the ride, you don't have to think about private security and I don't have to think about family politics. How's that sound?"

John offered her a small smile, all too aware of the potential irony in her words. If she only knew… "It sounds great."

"Good. Let me introduce you to a couple of my friends."

She led him through the gate and into a small courtyard slotted between three outbuildings. Hitching posts stood every few feet and a waist high platform with stairs was tucked in one corner. Two horses were tied and patiently waiting by the far wall, their black coats gleaming almost as brightly as the silver accents on their tack.

"Is this Count?" John asked as they approached the larger of the two animals first.

"It is," Maggie replied with a smile. "Did you see him online?"

"Yes. He's more impressive in person, though." John offered the back of his hand for the horse to sniff before petting him on the neck. "Hey, big guy. You're quite the celebrity around here, aren't you?"

"He's my boy. I was there the day he was born and we've been together ever since. We showed extensively for about five years. He was such a natural; he never needed any of the artificial modifications I mentioned previously – not that I would have used them anyway. During warm up, he'd be almost lazy, but once he knew he was being watched, his head would come up and he'd strut his way around the ring. Never in my life have I seen a horse show off as much as he did."

John didn't consider himself a horse person – especially after his fated ride through the desert – but listening to Maggie talk and hearing the passion in her voice, he could understand how people fell in love with the large creatures. "It sounds like you both enjoyed showing. Why did you stop?"

"It's complicated," Maggie said with a shrug. "A big part of it has to do with winning nearly everything we entered. He'd made International Grand Champion by the time he was seven years old, and once you reach that level, there's no place to go but down.

"Plus my father needed help to keep things going when he became sick, and then when he passed away and I got the farm – there was just no time for the extraneous stuff like showing. I officially retired him from the show ring on his ninth birthday, and have been using him as a stud and trail horse ever since."

John was still stroking Count's neck when he felt a push from behind. He turned and came face to face with a long black muzzle and two very blue eyes. Startled, he took a step back and nearly collided with Count.

Maggie chuckled. "And this is "The Countess of Nevermore," or Raven for short. As you've discovered, she doesn't like to be ignored."

"She's beautiful."

"She's got her father's good looks," she said, nodding toward Count. "She was bred for a client, but they didn't like her blue eyes. I bought her back with the intention of training and reselling her, but she turned out to be such a good trail horse, I wound up keeping her instead. I think you'll enjoy riding her."

John rubbed the mare's soft nose, smiling when she licked his hand. Her blue eyes may have been an oddity, but they were gentle and intelligent.

"Are you ready to get mounted up?"

"Sure."

Untying Raven from the post, Maggie led her over to the platform in the corner. "It's easier to get on using the block. Climb up and I'll make sure she stands still for you."

Feeling a rare stab of anxiety, John ascended the few stairs to the platform and swung carefully into the saddle. Seated atop the large animal, he found it was possible to feel both powerful and vulnerable at the same time.

"You look good up there. You're the perfect height for her." She made a few adjustments to his stirrups and tightened this cinch before passing him Raven's soft rope reins. "I don't like to use bitted bridles on the trail, and these guys respond just as well to rope halters. To steer, move your hand in the direction you want to go. To speed up, give her a gentle squeeze with your legs. To slow down or stop, sit deep in the saddle and say 'whoa.' Any questions?"

"Nothing at the moment."

"If you do, just ask. You shouldn't have to do too much – Raven will take care of you. She's the horse I usually put my husband on, and the only thing he knows about horses is where to put the carrots."

Gripping the reins in his left hand and the saddle horn with his right, John waited while Maggie retrieved Count. Beneath him, Raven heaved a sigh and shifted her weight into a more comfortable position. Her calm demeanor helped ease some of his reservations about riding, but he was a long way from feeling confident.

"Shall we go?" Maggie asked, bringing Count up beside him.

"Please."

"Great. Follow us."

He didn't have to anything to get Raven to follow her father. As soon as the large stallion moved for the gate, she fell into step behind him. The mare's stride was naturally long and smooth; with no trace of the roughness he'd been dreading, John found it effortless to ride.

Maybe… he mused through a fleeting glimmer of optimism. Just maybe this won't turn out to be such a bad thing after all…