"Carolyn Banks has a sense of style and wit."—The New York Times

"Crisply flip dialogue is [Banks's] métier."—Los Angeles Times

"This is the first novel by Ms. Banks that this reviewer had the immense pleasure of reading and reviewing and hopes it will not be the last...The type of book that has a timeless quality to it, along with having a general audience rating that someone in their early teens and beyond could read and savor. Between the whodunit and the tickling humor, there is not one dull moment in this book. This reviewer highly recommends this wonderful tale of a horse-loving woman and the unbelievable situations she finds herself in time and time again."--Love Romances and More

"9 Gargoyles!...Author Carolyn Banks gives readers a treat for the holidays that's even sweeter than a sugar cube. Featuring her trademark wit and a mystery with the perfect amount of death and danger, these pages fly faster than a thoroughbred at the races...While the mystery is definitely engaging to the mind, the author taps into an emotional element as well. Robin is an extremely likable woman, the kind you would love to have as a next-door neighbor. Although she can unravel mysteries with the skill of Sherlock Holmes, her bumbling-stumbling way of uncovering the truth gives her a delightful vulnerability. She's a few pounds overweight, can't cook, but has a fierce loyalty to her husband and friends. Carolyn Banks has an uncontested winner with this character..."--Joyce Handzo, In The Library Reviews

“Will you look at that?” Lola said, amazed. “I think this boy’s been hobbled.”

Hobbled is an old-fashioned way of confining a horse by tying his front legs together. It’s cheaper than fences and it does keep them from galloping off. It was probably done by cowboys out on the open range, but other than that, you don’t see it, not here.

Except I had seen it before, at a farm about sixty miles away. I had seen a horse do exactly what this guy, Noel, was doing. It had been a horse who was the very same color, too: brown.

It wasn’t anything I wanted to think about, but I couldn’t stop the images from rolling once they had begun.

The horse, legs bent just this way, grazing.

And a few hours later, the horse flat on the ground, dead.

What was his name, that horse?

Wickie.

Wickie. Short for Wickingham.

One of Louanne Perry’s horses.

It was the reason Noel had looked familiar when I’d first seen him yesterday. Because he was Wickie, the dead horse Wickie resurrected. Oh, God.

“What’s the matter with you?” Lola said. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

I smiled wanly.