Chapter 1

Officer Kate Beckett had never appreciated having to deal with drunken idiots, especially those with more money and arrogance than modesty or sense. Even so, tonight's call to go investigate a report of a theft of police horses, presumably by a drunken idiot (couldn't they train the horses to kick them – gently – or bite them – also gently – and keep them there till they could be arrested?), didn't impress her at all. Mostly, that was because she'd spent half the previous night bailing out her drunken father, which had also fed into her abhorrence of dealing with drunks. She was therefore tired, annoyed, and in no mood to give even the slightest benefit of the doubt to whichever spoilt, arrogant brat this call concerned. She'd fuss and pet the horses, though. She liked horses, and had done a lot of trail riding. Horses were never disappointing, unlike people.

She stomped through Central Park to the area to which she'd been directed. Dispatch had told her that only one horse had been purloined, but in the deepening twilight, just for a moment she was sure that she'd seen two; one chestnut, one pure black.

Oh. Oh, oh, oh! The rider – she presumed it was the rider – was naked. And…oh, Lord – that was notorious playboy and celebrity author Richard Castle. She liked the books. Right now, she was rapidly deciding she wouldn't like him.

"Put some clothes on!" she snapped.

"I don't have any," he oozed. "Like what you see?"

"Would you like to see an indecency charge?"

Richard Castle blinked. "I don't have any clothes. I – I left them" – he seemed to realise that there wasn't going to be a good ending to that sentence. "Uh…"

"Put this on. Then you're coming with me. You are under arrest, Mr Castle. Turn around." She handcuffed him efficiently as soon as her jacket was tied around his waist, and then took the placid chestnut horse by the reins. It still had a saddle.

She could ride it. She could ride the horse and march Richard Castle along on his bare feet. It was so, so tempting. She could smell the alcohol around him. She really wanted to do that.

"Get on the horse," she snapped. He stared at her. "Get on the horse. That way you won't injure your feet." Mr Castle kept staring. "What?"

"I can't mount the horse in handcuffs," he pointed out.

Beckett growled. "Turn around." She unlocked his wrist. "Get on the horse." He did. She thought for a bare instant, then locked his wrists around the reins. "Your next stop is a cell."

Of course, Richard Castle's next stop hadn't been a cell. He'd talked his way out of the arrest. Fortunately, the officer who'd arrested him hadn't noticed that there had been a second horse. That would have been just a tiny tad difficult for him to explain.

Some years later…

"Where would you like it?" Castle said, without looking up from his champagne glass.

"Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD. We need to ask you a few questions about a murder that took place earlier tonight."

She remembered him. It would have been hard not to, since (one) it wasn't every day that someone stole a police horse and rode it naked (though she was still half-convinced there had been a second horse); (two) Richard Castle graced (or disgraced) Page Six every week; and (three) she still loved the books. Against which, he'd been a drunken arrogant lout the last time they'd met; he'd weaselled his way out of a well-deserved misdemeanour charge by misusing his fame and fortune; and now he'd clearly expected her to be another pathetic groupie wanting him to sign her chest. No. Just – no.

Castle, shoved into Interrogation with absolutely no concession to his wealth, fame, or charm, couldn't help thinking that he'd met this detective before, though, try as he would, he couldn't pin down the errant memory. Of course, that might have been because he was also trying not to allow his tongue to hang out and drool on the floor, because this Detective Kate Beckett was stunning.

Shame she was also actively hostile.

Some hours later, Castle had been released. Some hours after that, so late in the night that it was actually morning, he had a full outline and two chapters. And as he pressed Save, he remembered where and when he'd met Detective Beckett before. Well, wasn't that just peachy? She liked horses. He remembered her fussing over the horse he'd, er, accompanied, years ago. She hadn't liked him much then either. He hadn't appreciated her dislike, though she'd been pretty stunning then too, and therefore hadn't made any effort to find her. Plenty of other stunning women had been only too happy to be with him, so why make more effort than he had to?

Now, however, he was bored with women who chased him, and who were more interested in the PR and kudos they'd get from being on his arm than, say, conversation; women who only wanted his (deserved) Casanova reputation and a (very) good night, or two, or more – more wasn't on offer. One predatory, unfaithful ex was one too many for Castle. (Gina…had simply been the wrong woman at the wrong time.)

In short, he wanted more. A woman who wasn't afraid to think, to argue, to challenge him; to be a partner, not arm-candy. Someone who didn't need him, but wanted him. Someone who could take or leave him.

Someone, he hoped, who'd love him, not his riches or fame.

And she'd been sitting across the interrogation table from him, completely unimpressed with him – just as she had been several years earlier. This time, however…he'd felt the zing. The question was, had she?

It took him a few days – and the conclusion of the case – to formulate a plan. Step one, shadow Kate Beckett in her work.

Step two…play on her love of horses. Anyone who'd fussed over the police horse as she had undoubtedly visited a stable, or even rode. He began to research, using his extensive network of guys he knew – and a few guys that nobody else knew. By the end of the day, he'd secured his access to the precinct – which went down almost as well as an outbreak of measles in an orphanage – and, far more importantly, had discovered that Kate Beckett was now a frequent visitor to a riding centre a little way outside Manhattan. He could most certainly work with that.

At the end of an infinitely frustrating week, a few months after Castle had arrived in the bullpen, and some time after they'd achieved armed neutrality over his complete fuck-up over the summer, Beckett arrived at the stables with relief, where she could relax (insofar as she ever relaxed) with the comforting companionship of the horses and a long ride. She sauntered into the line of stalls, and greeted each equine with delight. Coming to the end of the line, she noticed a new arrival.

"Who's this?" she asked a stable hand.

"Oh, he's new. Just arrived yesterday," the lad said. "Oi came wit' him." Beckett thought that she hadn't recognised the stable hand. Still, she was far more interested in the new horse.

"What's his name?"

"Doineann." It sounded more like Tuhnan, in the lad's thick Irish accent.

"He's gorgeous," she said, holding her hand out to him with a fistful of grain. The horse lipped it delicately from her palm, and she stroked his nose. He snuffled at her, demanding more petting, which she happily gave.

"Do ye want t' ride him?"

What a dumb question. Of course she did. "Yep." She brought him out of the stall and tacked him up, admiring the glossy ebony coat and pure black mane and tail; noting in passing that (unusually) he was a full stallion. Bright eyes regarded her warmly. She patted his neck. "Let's do this," she said to him, mounted easily, and took up the reins.

She barely needed to guide Doineann to the ring. The lightest touch produced the perfect response: a tiny pressure of one leg or the other was answered instantly. She'd never been so attuned to her mount. She rode him around the edge of the ring, then grinned. "Okay, Doineann, let's have some fun. Wanna jump?" He whinnied, and tossed his head. "Guess so."

He was as brilliant a jumper as he'd been for everything else. When they finished, Beckett slipped off his back and hugged him. "You're amazing," she complimented. Doineann whuffed at her. "Come on. After that, you deserve a proper grooming."

Doineann behaved impeccably while Beckett groomed him, lifting each hoof as requested so that Beckett could check for any tiny irritants in the frog, then standing stock still as she curried all the way down to his fetlocks and pasterns. When his coat was perfect, she stood back.

"He looks grand," the stable lad said. Beckett jumped. "Will ye be wanting him next time?"

"Definitely. He's a lovely horse."

"When'll ye be back?"

Normally, Beckett wouldn't ride more than once a week, but Doineann was such a lovely animal that she didn't feel she could wait that long to see him again. "Monday," she decided. "Seven p.m.?"

"Sure, and t'at'll be grand. I'll have him ready for ye."

"I'll tack him up," Beckett said quickly. Truthfully, she wanted to spend as much time as possible with the horse. She thought for a moment. "Could I take him out for a long ride – a whole day or even overnight – next weekend? The horse whuffled in her ear, happily. "See, he wants to."

"Ach, I'll have t' ask, but sure an' I don't t'ink it'll be a problem for ye."

Beckett smiled beautifully. "Thanks. Let me know." She swung off, soothed in mind, body and spirit, and already looking forward to Monday evening.

"Is she gone?"

"Aye, puca." The stable hand shrank; arms and legs becoming disproportionately long, head growing.

"I think that went well, spriggan."

"Sure, an' ye're treadin' a dangerous trail. What'll ye do if she changes her mind about ridin' ye?"

"She won't." The horse grinned. "She's never had a ride like me. She loved me."

"T'is is niver going t' go well," the spriggan gloomed. "Ye're deceivin' her, an' she won't like t'at."

"I'm not lying."

"For ye can't lie, just like all of us. Ye're not tellin' t' trut', now, are ye?"

"She'd never believe it. Who would? This is America, not the Old Country."

"When it all goes wrong, just remember I told ye so, puca."

"Stop fretting. It'll all be fine." The horse stamped once. "Now, let me out. It's time I went home."

"Let yerself out."

"Spriggan…" the puca said threateningly. "I'm not taking the chance that someone sees a person in the horse stall. Let me out."

The spriggan did so. "See ye on Monday," he said. "Ye'd best be here by six-t'irty."

"No problem. See you then." The horse trotted out of the stall, disappeared around the corner, and Castle hurriedly dressed in a small nook. The only downside to being a puca was that the clothes didn't change form when he did. Otherwise, it was pretty perfect. He might not be able to read minds, or cast spells, but he could pick up tiny hints and clues of body language and expression, which mostly amounted to the same outcome. He had endless stamina and strength, and his, um, assets were as impressive as anyone could wish.

And, of course, in his horse form Beckett already adored him. He had to admit that he'd never had a rider like her – he'd understood the slightest twitch of her muscles or hands.

Now, how best to take advantage of the situation? One, continue to be useful on cases. Two, be the horse she couldn't resist. Three – now, that meant ditching the puca's instinct. Kidnapping was wrong, and anyway Beckett would shoot him. He didn't want to be shot, though it probably wouldn't kill him, since standard ammunition was lead-and-brass. He wasn't going to kidnap anyone. Those days were long gone. However, depending on the long ride on Saturday – oh, he'd better tell the spriggan to make sure that an overnight was possible because that would be perfect – he could, um, appear at wherever Beckett made her pit stops and/or overnight stay.

He smiled happily. She might snap and snark, but he'd spotted the small signs of attraction, even if she was pretending as hard as she could that she hated him.

Beckett betook herself home, massively soothed and, indeed, happy. She loved horses – over the five years of her father's alcohol abuse they'd been her refuge, and for the five years since he'd been dry she'd been in a position to indulge herself in riding as often as her work ethic permitted.

She'd never ridden such a wonderful horse. He'd been perfect. Strong, smooth, beautifully formed and groomed; perfectly responsive to even the lightest suggestion. She hadn't had to command or control; they'd been the closest she thought she'd ever come to one singular unit, totally in sync.

She spent a pleasant hour searching out a trail route for the following weekend, with a comfortable place to stay overnight, with well-reviewed stables. She wasn't about to allow anyone, or anything, to upset, hurt or damage her lovely new Doineann-horse. A new thought presented itself: if she worked out their route properly, they could gallop. She very rarely got to gallop: a smart canter was about the best that could be done.

By the time she went to bed, she'd worked out the whole route, including a stopover. She cuddled her happiness close, and dreamed of the big black stallion; herself on his back, riding free. Best of all, there would be no Rick-asshole-Castle to annoy her.

He's really sexy, a little worm pointed out. She knew that, but his sexiness was outweighed by his spoilt-childishness and sheer irritation factor. You'd happily jump him. Wouldn't. You'd enjoy it, leered the worm. I'd enjoy shooting him, Beckett flung back, and shot the worm for good measure. It wiggled away into the recesses of her brain, sulking. Beckett wiggled down into her lovely comfortable bed, and slept.

Three cups of strong coffee into Monday morning, Beckett's ears were offended by Castle arriving, carolling greetings with disgusting cheeriness. Mornings should not be polluted by cheer, Beckett felt. Mornings were only bearable with excessive quantities of caffeine and, unhealthily frequently, M and M's . Today had not been an M and M day – until now, when Castle had arrived to spoil the smooth serenity that her horse ride and peaceful, equine-soothed sleep had produced. She growled. It certainly wasn't a greeting.

"Good morning, good morning," he chirped happily.

Beckett growled again.

"That's not nice. It's a wonderful day. Sunny – it's a beautiful fall day! Even you have to like fall."

Another growl. That's unkind, the worm said. He's only being friendly. That look in his eye doesn't want to be friends, Beckett contradicted. That look wants a one-night-stand. Don't think so, the worm argued, but on receipt of a worm-frying Beckett glare to the inside of her own head, skulked off again.

"Fall is wonderful," Castle continued. "Pregnant with all sorts of glorious possibilities, burgeoning celebrations: Thanksgiving and Christmas on the horizon" –

"Fraught with messy murders and killings," Beckett quelled his enthusiasm. "Murder is not a subject for joy."

Castle pouted. "Catching murderers is," he humphed. "That's at least worth some satisfaction." Suddenly, he smirked. "Don't you like being satisfied? I'm here to help you to be satisfied."

Beckett's expression would have curdled lava. "I am here to solve murders," she enunciated with glacial precision. "The only people who get satisfaction from murders are psychopaths."

"Or mystery writers," Castle pointed out. "Mystery writers are paid much better." He paused. "At least, I am. And I get to follow you around. Win-win."

"I don't consider it a win."

Castle decided to drop his line of flirtation. "What do you do when you're not solving murders?" He bit back to get satisfaction.

"Oh, Beckett rides – horses, I mean," Ryan said, trotting up just in time to let cats out of bags, and received the Beckett lava-curdling glare. "What? Everyone in the bullpen knows that."

"You can ride?" Castle asked, knowing perfectly well that Beckett could ride. "I can ride. We could ride together."

"Unlike you," Beckett snipped, "I prefer to ride with clothes on."

Castle dramatically clasped his hands to his chest. "You wound me," he declaimed.

"You were arrested for riding a police horse naked."

"He was?" Ryan gasped.

"Really, bro?" Esposito added, slouching up.

"I did. I was young" –

"And dumb. And drunk." Sadly, Beckett's tone didn't remove the slight air of admiration emanating from Ryan and Espo.

"Beckett arrested me for it," Castle said. "Every time I've met her she's arrested me." He leered. "There are so many much more fun uses for handcuffs."

There sure are, oozed the worm, which rapidly oozed away. Beckett had no intention of discussing any type of handcuffs, or their uses, with Castle. She turned a cold shoulder to all three men. Unfortunately, Castle wasn't deterred.

"So you can ride?" he asked again.

"What business of that is yours?"

"Like I said, I can ride too. I'd love to ride – with you," he hastily added, and then ruined it by carrying on. "Though I'd love it even more if you'd be riding…" He ducked away as she went for his ear, and smirked as she missed.

"I won't be riding with you. I see more than enough of you here."

Ryan winked at Castle, and Espo made a tiny gesture, adding an evil grin when Beckett wasn't looking.

"Mean," Castle complained. "See if I make you coffee today."

"I'm perfectly capable of making my own coffee," Beckett snarked. "Mine tastes better, anyway." It didn't, but she wasn't letting on.

Castle ambled off to the break room, and started the machine brewing. Shortly, as he'd expected, the boys appeared. He passed their coffees over, and made his own.

"She rides every week," Ryan disclosed. "Some place outside Manhattan."

"Mm?" Castle encouraged.

"The Piebald Ranch and Riding Stables," Espo said.

"How'd you know that?" Ryan's eyebrows rose.

"Took a call for her once."

Castle manufactured an expression of suitable gratitude, and certainly didn't mention that he not only knew that, but had taken advantage of the stables. The boys really didn't need to know any of that. Nor, of course, did Beckett…for now.

He smiled happily, drank his coffee, and wandered back out to the bullpen, to annoy Beckett with crazy theories until it was time to go home – allowing ample time to beat Beckett to the stables.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Twelve chapters, of which the final two will be mildly M-rated. Posting (assuming my internet is working) will be Sun/Tue/Thu, at 7pm UK time or thereabouts.

Cover art by Lord Of Kavaka

For those of you who haven't read my original novels featuring Detective Casey Clement and her team, they are available on Amazon (Kindle, paperback, Kindle Unlimited) under SR Garrae. For those of you wondering where book 7 is, I have had one hell of a year with family medical issues (not in a good way) and writing has had to give way to real life. I am fine, but there has been a lot of helping others.