Colts Crossing...Unsolved - Episode 1
- Brittany Brinegar
- 6 hours ago
- 9 min read
There Ain't Enough Burbon in Kentucky
Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 4
The first sign we weren’t welcome in Colt’s Crossing, Kentucky, was the horse. Not the elegant racehorse variety. Not the glossy magazine cover kind. The wild type with its ears pinned back and muscles twitching like it had opinions.
It stood behind a white plank fence at the edge of the property, watching as our vintage pink Bronco rattled up the gravel drive, towing the Clue Cruiser like we were arriving for a pageant instead of a federal investigation.
Goldilocks stuck her head out the back window and barked a friendly, optimistic tune. Completely unaware that in certain zip codes, a pink-striped Airstream was considered over the top.
I eased off the gas as the gravel road narrowed into something that felt less like a driveway and more like a suggestion.
Private. That was one word for it. Secluded was another.
How did a man who owed all this go and get himself kidnapped?
The wild horse ran alongside us for a stretch—long, powerful strides, eating up ground like it had somewhere better to be. For one thrilling second, I was convinced it was racing me.
“Patsy,” Mama said calmly from the passenger seat, not even looking up from whatever she was pretending to read. “Eyes on the road.”
“I am looking at the road,” I said, which was technically true if the road had suddenly sprouted hooves and a tail.
I swerved sharply, nearly driving the Bronco straight into a ditch, trying to keep the beautiful animal in sight.
“Oh, we are not doing this,” I muttered, instinctively pressing the gas just enough to keep pace.
The Bronco rumbled. The Airstream swayed. My life flashed before my eyes in the form of insurance paperwork.
“Patsy.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re drifting.”
“I’m adjusting.”
Mattie flipped a page. “You’re about to introduce us to that fence post in a very personal way.”
I course corrected—gracefully, if you asked me—just as the horse veered off.
An older man on horseback crested the rise behind Wild Thing, wiry white hair catching the sunlight, posture easy in the saddle like he’d been born there. He didn’t rush. Didn’t shout. Just guided the horse with the kind of quiet control that made it clear this wasn’t chaos. It was training.
The wild horse slowed.
Circled.
Listened.
“Well,” I said, easing my death grip on the wheel. “That’s humbling.”
Mama finally glanced up. “You lost a race to a horse that wasn’t even trying.”
“I prefer to think of it as a warm-up.”
She gave a small hum, which, in Mattie McDonald language, meant: I know you’re up to something, but I’m not concerned enough to use my many decades of CIA training to interrogate it out of you.
The woman could say a lot with a single hum and a whole lot of silence.
The road curved one final time, and the property opened up like a curtain pulled at a Broadway show.
Final Turn Thoroughbreds.
The name stretched across a polished wooden sign flanked by stone pillars. Old money carved in serif font.
Beyond it, the land rolled out in wide, green waves, perfectly manicured but still wild enough to feel like it might kick you out if you overstayed your welcome. White plank fences stitched the property into sections—paddocks, training lanes, and long stretches of open pasture dotted with sleek, expensive silhouettes that flicked tails and ignored us entirely.
The main barn stood front and center, all dark wood and gleaming brass fixtures, big enough to house a small army, or at least a very wealthy one. Secondary barns branched off to either side, connected by tidy gravel paths and lined with hitching posts that looked more decorative than functional, which told me everything I needed to know about the tax bracket.
Off to the right, a private training track looped the property in a wide oval, the dirt perfectly groomed, not a hoofprint out of place. It curled around the ranch like a promise and a warning.
And up on a slight rise sat the main house. White. Expansive. Columned in that quiet, Southern way that said, we’ve had money longer than you’ve had opinions.
“Subtle,” I murmured.
Mama glanced at the house, then the barns, then the track. “This isn’t just a ranch. It’s a dynasty.”
I guided the Bronco up the final stretch as we rolled to a stop near the front of the house, just off a circular drive lined with low hedges trimmed so precisely they definitely had a dedicated gardener.
I put the Bronco in park, relishing one of the very few opportunities to drive the behemoth. Even if I did nearly drive us into one or two ditches along the way.
Goldilocks launched herself toward the door, pounding into the back of my seat so hard she adjusted the lumber support.
“Absolutely not—”
Too late.
She launched into full enthusiasm mode, spotted a nearby horse, and immediately decided they were best friends separated at birth.
“Goldie, that is not a doodle your size, sweetheart.” I attached her leash to her harness and secured the loop around my wrist. “That is a professional athlete with a training regimen we can’t disrupt!”
She stared at the fence, tail wagging as if she’d just discovered Disneyland. Her big floppy paw tried to open the window. Lucky me, she only knew how to operate power windows, not the old crank kind of antique Bronco.
“Okay,” I said, stroking behind her ears. “We admire from a distance. A very respectful, non-kicked distance.”
Goldilocks huffed, deeply offended by this boundary.
The air smelled like warm bluegrass, leather, and money that had been in the family long enough to forget where it came from. Spring in Kentucky wasn’t polite. It leaned in close and brushed pollen across your sleeves. It tried to scare you off with a spooky breeze and the low thunder of hooves from somewhere just out of sight.
It was beautiful.
And it didn’t appreciate being interrupted.
Mama glanced at the sprawling stable complex ahead of us—gleaming barns, long paddocks, a training track curling around the property like a lazy threat.
“You sure about this?” she asked.
That was the thing.
I was sure about the case. I just wasn’t sure about Mama.
Because I used every trick I learned in my thirty-nine years as Mattie McDonald’s daughter to get her here without tipping her off. (Yes, I lie about my age. Move on.)
And yet.
There was something in her expression that said she might not be as unaware as I’d hoped.
I opened my mouth to ask—casually, carefully, like a woman who had absolutely not orchestrated this entire trip with the precision of a low-budget heist movie, when something moved in the distance.
At first, it was just a flicker between the barns. A dark shape cutting across the far side of the property, kicking up a trail of dust like it had somewhere very important to be.
I squinted. “Are we… being swarmed?”
Mama didn’t turn her head. Didn’t shift her posture. Just cut her eyes toward me with the kind of subtle precision that had probably dismantled entire governments in the seventies.
“I’d say so.”
The vehicle came into focus.
Black SUV. Government-issued attitude. Moving fast enough to be intentional, slow enough to be controlled. It didn’t follow the main drive. It cut across the property like it owned the place.
“Well,” I said, straightening slightly. “That feels unnecessary.”
The SUV didn’t slow as it cleared the last stretch of gravel. It rolled to a stop in front of us with a smooth, deliberate glide, like it had rehearsed the entrance.
Mama adjusted her sleeve but didn’t say a word. Somehow, that was worse than if she had hollered. Suddenly, I was thirteen again and had just been caught skipping class.
The engine cut.
Silence stretched for half a beat too long. The door opened with a flourish.
Strawberry-blonde hair caught the sunlight first.
Then freckles.
Then the expression.
Loretta.
She didn’t slam the door. She closed it gently, which was worse. Loretta never needed volume to win an argument.
She walked toward us in boots that meant business, a blazer fitted just enough to remind you she didn’t need sparkles to command a room.
“Uh-uh,” she called out before I even got my second foot on the gravel. “No ma’am.”
I paused mid-step, one hand still on the wheel of the Bronco. “Good morning to you, too, Sis.”
She stopped three feet away and looked up at me. She was a good four inches shorter and way meaner. “What are you doing here?”
“Solving a mystery.”
“This is a federal investigation.”
“It’s suspicious.”
She inhaled the fresh air.
Behind me, Goldilocks jumped down and trotted in a happy circle. She looked like a kid arriving at summer camp instead of a doggy in the middle of a jurisdictional dispute.
Mama lifted her sunglasses. “Something tells me you weren’t exactly expecting us.”
Loretta blinked. “Well, no, Mama. Clearly, I wasn’t.” She cocked her hip. “The FBI’s annual bring your mommy and big sister to work day is next month.”
Ah yes. There she was. Mama’s favorite—armed and ready with sarcasm and a federal badge.
“I figured you’d be happy to see us.” I grinned, ear to ear. “You spent hours complaining about how stuck the investigation was. No leads. No suspects. No hope.”
“I said all that in confidence, Patsy.” She pointed a finger at the ground. “You aren’t supposed to blab to your podcast.”
“I didn’t.” Yet. “I told Mama.”
Mattie examined the cuff of her jean jacket as if it required immediate attention.
“You did not inform our mother.” Loretta shook her head. “Please don’t tell me that. Because this is not a family field trip. It’s an active federal investigation.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s your answer to everything. You win every argument by pulling the government card.”
Loretta folded her arms. “This is just like when we were kids. I got a new Barbie, and Patsy gets jealous.”
“I was never jealous of your Barbies, Loretta. Not after you sent them to the Edward Scissorhands School of Cosmetology.”
Mattie popped between us. “We came all this way, Lor. We can, at the very least, provide a sounding board as you work through the case.”
“The stable owner is missing.” Loretta gathered her hair over her shoulder. “No signs of struggle. No confirmed timeline. We’re reviewing financial irregularities, business dealings, and anyone who might benefit from his disappearance. This is complicated.”
“So is a kidnapping,” I said. “Especially the kind with a ransom.”
Loretta’s head jerked around. “You don’t even know if it’s a kidnapping.”
“You don’t know that it isn’t.”
She smacked a hand against her jeans. “You always do this,” she said, her voice dropping to that Disappointed Older Sister register even though she was three years younger. “You parachute in without an invite and start throwing matches before you’ve checked for a gas leak.”
“And you arrive with a badge and a clipboard, acting like you invented the concept of common sense.” I stepped into her personal space. “Just because you have a lanyard doesn't mean you’re the only person who knows which way is up.”
“You don’t get to treat a crime scene like an open-mic night, Patsy.” Her jaw flexed. “You can’t butt into people’s lives just because you like being right.”
“I don’t like being right.”
She raised one freckled eyebrow.
“Okay,” I amended. “I don’t like being wrong. There's a nuance there you’re choosing to ignore.”
A ranch hand leading a thoroughbred slowed nearby.
We both lowered our voices at the same time. Competitive instinct.
“If you insist on staying…” Loretta clenched her teeth. “You follow my rules.”
“That’s adorable.” I tilted my head. “If you think…”
A gunshot cracked across the pasture so sharply it seemed to split the sky.
The sound echoed off the barns, sharp and violent, not at all the polite kind of noise you expect from a place that sells million-dollar horses and mint juleps.
Every head in the paddock snapped up.
Then chaos.
A chestnut thoroughbred burst through a side gate, reins snapping, eyes rolling white. It tore across the pasture like something had lit a match under it—hooves pounding, muscles stretched to breaking, heading straight for us.
“Move!” Loretta shoved me hard between the shoulder blades.
I stumbled forward, Goldilocks yanking against her leash like she’d just discovered the world’s largest playmate.
“Goldie, NO—this is not a meet-and-greet!”
The horse thundered closer, too fast, too big, too everything.
And just like that, Mama’s favorite and I were standing in the path of disaster… one very large, very fast problem with hooves.