Dangerous Alliance. Lindsay McKennaЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter One

      “Ms. Tyler, you can’t go in there!”

      Libby brushed by Colonel Edwards’s secretary and made a beeline for the provost marshal’s office, her heart pounding.

      “I need just a minute of his time,” she pleaded, sidestepping the older woman’s hand with a limberness and calculated ease born of years of equestrian training.

      Colonel Edwards looked up with disapproval from behind his oak desk. Dark horn-rimmed glasses emphasized his thick eyebrows, peppered with the same graying hair that showed at his temples.

      Libby forced a slight smile that she hoped looked apologetic as she came to a halt inches from his immaculately kept desk. In the corner behind him the American flag stood next to the red Marine Corps flag, and his walls were covered with photos, certificates and a set of crossed sabers.

      “Colonel, I’m Libby Tyler, one of the riding instructors at the base stables.” She glanced apprehensively back at the grim-faced secretary following her through the open door. “Please…I know I don’t have an appointment, but this can’t wait, and I’m convinced it’s in your interest to hear what I have to say.”

      Edwards put aside his gold pen, nodded to his secretary and then gave Libby a curious look. “Very well, Ms. Tyler. Ardella, it’s all right. Just close the door, please.”

      The shaken secretary gave her a disgruntled glance, her face sour with disapproval at Libby’s boldness. Libby managed a placating smile.

      “I’m sorry for the intrusion,” she offered sweetly to the departing secretary. Libby had learned much about military politics and protocol since she’d married marine captain Brad Tyler six years ago—and certainly it was not a good idea to ruffle the feathers of the secretary of the head honcho.

      The secretary appeared mollified as she quietly closed the door. Libby returned her attention to Colonel Edwards, an important honcho indeed as provost marshal of Camp Reed, one of the largest Marine Corps bases in the United States. “Colonel, I’m dreadfully sorry for barging in here—”

      “No, you aren’t, Ms. Tyler, or you wouldn’t have done it.” He looked at her, one black-and-gray eyebrow raised skeptically, and Libby felt suddenly awkward, dressed as she was in English riding breeches and a short-sleeved white blouse. “Now, I’m a very busy man as I’m sure you know. And my secretary had an impeccable record of stopping anyone who wanted to get in here without an appointment—until just now.” He sat back in his chair and appraised her. “You’re a military dependent, correct?”

      Libby moved from one foot to another, smarting under Edwards’s straightforward, insightful remarks. Well, what did she expect? The provost marshal’s office handled legal problems and controlled the military police, one arm of their law-enforcement jurisdiction.

      “Yes, sir, I am,” she agreed. Although it wasn’t quite the truth, it wasn’t a lie, either. When Brad was alive, she had been dependent. Now she was employed as a civilian on the sprawling base that took up a sizable chunk of valuable southern-California real estate.

      “Hmm.”

      That meant, “You knew better than to barge in here,” Libby realized. Not only that, but she had skipped the golden chain-of-command rule that the military lived and died by. “Colonel, if I didn’t think this was important—and if my boss, Stuart Garwood, had been willing to listen to me—I wouldn’t be standing here.”

      “Stuart Garwood is a fine man, Ms. Tyler.” He scowled at her. “And horse business is hardly provost marshal business.”

      Inwardly, Libby flinched. “Yes, sir, Mr. Garwood is a wonderful boss. I’ve worked for him the past three years.” She shifted nervously from one booted foot to the other. “But there’s a problem. At least, I perceive a problem.”

      “And it requires provost marshal attention?”

      Libby saw the doubt on Edwards’s heavily lined face, reminiscent of a terrain map Brad had once showed her. “I believe it does.”

      “And Mr. Garwood. What does he think?”

      Libby tried very hard to stand still. She knew her energy and restlessness often translated as nervousness and made people, particularly stoic military types, look at her as if she were some kind of hyperactive child. Lacing her fingers together, she said in the most serious voice she could muster, “Colonel, someone is riding five stable-owned horses at night. And not just one joyride. I’ve noticed it four months in a row now. I’ve spoken to Mr. Garwood about it each time, but he just shrugs it off. These horses are owned by the Marine Corps and are being ridden very hard for a long time. Then they’re left in the paddock without being brushed down or cared for. That’s not right.”

      Edwards’s eyebrows moved up like two fuzzy caterpillars, and he growled, “Ms. Tyler, I really don’t think your charges hold any water. This is a stable matter, one I think Mr. Garwood is consummately capable of handling. I’m sure if he thought it was a genuine problem, he’d have contacted our office.”

      “But, Colonel—”

      “This is not a law-enforcement matter, Ms. Tyler. Good day.”

      Libby watched the officer pick up his pen. Frustration thrummed through her. “Colonel, I’m trying to be reasonable about this! Those five horses have nearly been ridden to death. For two days after each experience, they just stand or lie in the corrals, they’re so exhausted.” Her voice turned strident. “You must investigate!”

      “Ms. Tyler, go back to Mr. Garwood. He’ll deal with this the way he