If Wishes Were Horses
Carolyn McSparren
FAMILY MANIf wishes were horsesThe child's wish: A pony of her own. For her twelfth birthday–just as her father had promised years ago.The father's wish: A safe and happy life for his daughter. That's all Mike Whitten's ever wanted. And that means keeping her away from Liz Matthews and her "germ-filled" camp for young horselovers. It also means breaking his promise–a promise made in haste–at a time when Mike would have done anything to bring a smile to his child's face.The woman's wish: That Mike would stop treating his daugther as though she were made of glass. And–if Liz Matthews could sneak in a second wish–that he would start looking at Liz as more than just his daughter's riding teacher."A wonderful romance. Strong. Emotional. Superb. A real page-turner."–Patricia Potter, bestselling author of Starcatcher"Carolyn McSparren is a terrific, talented newcomer who has a gift for finding the emotional compass of a story."Debra Dixon, award-winning author of Bad to the Bone and Doc Holliday
“Don’t move! You may have broken your neck.” (#ubbd850fc-3dba-59cb-a735-2a3e08db0a3a)Letter to Reader (#u06d2fea2-afb3-5ce1-9b91-fd4bfb5a6490)Title Page (#u86fbc00f-fdc4-5965-a8f8-c3a6e001f687)Dedication (#ub83e1076-9663-512b-aeb7-e063019cde46)CHAPTER ONE (#ue55c885c-9a47-5502-a457-458a3d1dbe75)CHAPTER TWO (#u44445107-b4aa-58bf-8c7a-62188ae0d09f)CHAPTER THREE (#u0a7f4582-2e7a-5169-8515-bf562fd2bf38)CHAPTER FOUR (#ub87e982d-33dd-5aeb-9645-b3b8df7f48c2)CHAPTER FIVE (#u1d96125d-b321-5299-b9e9-79bba1e265db)CHAPTER SIX (#ua868cea6-79a8-595a-8905-8dae855763d3)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Don’t move! You may have broken your neck.”
Liz Matthews turned her head on a neck that was obviously still in working order, and looked at Mike Whitten. “I’m fine,” she gasped. “Knocked my breath out.” She put both hands on her diaphragm and pushed. “Better.” She raised up on her elbows. “Nothing’s broken.”
Mike put one arm behind her waist and the other behind her knees and scooped her up. He began to walk as quickly as he could toward the stable.
“Hey!”
“Where are you hurt?” he asked, afraid for a moment he might have done her more harm than good.
“I’m not hurt, I’m mad as hell. I’m mad at the horse, mad at myself, and if you do not put me down this instant, I am going to be really mad at you.”
“Fine.” He dropped her legs. She limped toward the spot where the horse was standing. She obviously intended to get back in the saddle.
Mike watched her. She hurt considerably more than she was willing to let on. Maybe she’d cracked a rib. He ought to drag her to a doctor, just to be sure. She’d never go. Hard-headed, opinionated damned female. He caught his breath. The kind of woman his daughter was growing up to be.
Great, he thought, now I’ve got two of them to worry about....
Dear Reader,
Like many of you, I have experienced some of the struggles the hero and heroine of If Wishes Were Horses endure on their road to happiness.
Soon after my husband and I married, my teenage stepdaughter. came to live with us. I was clueless. Even birth parents waffle between being too strict—our children’s viewpoint—to not strict enough—our own gut feelings. While I knew that taking my own risks was scary, I found that letting this child I had grown to love risk heart or mind or body was downright terrifying. In the end I learned to close my eyes, cross my fingers, pray, and let her go for it. I didn’t stop worrying. I just got better at concealing my fears.
I also firmly believe that riding horses can slide kids through adolescence with fewer problems. Without her horse, my daughter would probably have landed me in a straitjacket before she hit fifteen. Thanks to horses, I managed to cling to the sane side of loony until she was happily married.
Last, but definitely not least, I absolutely believe in lifelong love. It seems as though I’ve been married to the same man since before the American Revolution. But falling in love with a man who comes complete with children can be daunting, especially if we have absolutely no experience with kids. We have to handle special problems, and if lucky, we discover special rewards. I hope you’ll agree that for Mike and Liz, love is worth the risk.
Carolyn McSparren
If Wishes Were Horses
Carolyn McSparren
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Ann Lee, who taught me to train horses and turned my
daughter into a centaur, and for her daughter Liz, an extraordinary
rider. For my own daughter Megan, and Karen, the stepdaughter I
helped raise. For the people at St. Jude Children’s Research
Hospital, who fight death every day and seem to win more often
than they lose, and finally, for my wonderful editor, who manages
to stay cool even when I don’t.
CHAPTER ONE
MIKE WHITTEN’S FIRST glimpse of the lush pastures and sprawling stable complex filled him with dread. He’d never been truly comfortable outside of cities, and even this close to town, these rolling pastures definitely qualified as country. He stifled an impulse to do a one-eighty and head his Volvo straight back to Memphis.
He’d never get away with it. Not with his eleven-year-old daughter Pat straining against her seat belt beside him. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her so eager.
He stopped the car at the open front door of the stable, and Pat unfastened her seat belt and leaped out before he could turn off the ignition. She was in such a hurry she slipped on the gravel and nearly fell. Mike’s heart lurched. He leaned across the seat as though he could reach her, steady her. “Hey, Pitti-Pat, watch it,” he said.
This blasted place was already conspiring to damage his kid.
“Daddy,” she said disdainfully. “I’m too old for pet names. I’m Pat, just Pat, remember? Now come on!”
He sighed, followed her and looked around this place where he did not want to be. The board fences were stained dark brown and were in good repair. The pastures had been mowed or perhaps eaten down by the horses, several of whom quietly chomped their way across the paddocks. The parking lot was edged with neatly trimmed shrubs, and beds of bright flowers—he had no idea what kind—surrounded the front door.
Something buzzed close to his ear. He slapped at it. A damned bumblebee! To his knowledge, Pat wasn’t allergic to bees, but there was always a first time.
He called to his daughter, who scampered ahead of him into the shadowy recesses of the stable. He quickened his stride to catch up with her as she reached a broad transverse aisle.
Four dogs raced down the aisle toward them. An obese black Labrador retriever, a basset and a pair of small brown-and-white blurs that outran the others and launched themselves straight at Pat’s face.
“Pat,” he shouted, and moved forward to defend her.
“Aren’t they adorable?” Pat cooed to the small dogs wriggling in her arms. “They’re Jack Russell terriers. I’ve seen pictures of them in horse magazines.”
They were licking Pat’s face. Mike caught his breath at the thought of all those germs.
Meanwhile, the Labrador and the basset waddled over to Mike. He sidestepped them, his eyes still on his child. “Put them down, baby. They might bite.”
“Oh, Daddy, get a grip,” Pat said. The terriers stayed where they were.
Mike felt something soft brush against his ankle and looked down to see a fat black-and-white tabby doing figure eights around his legs. God, the place was a zoo. He thought he’d only have horses to contend with. The only animal he did not see was a human being.
He surveyed his surroundings once more, and was surprised at how clean the place seemed. The blacktopped aisle was immaculate, and the barn smelled not of manure, as he’d expected, but of fresh hay. Despite that, he was sure the place was a disease factory. Pat’s doctors said her immune system was normal, but could anybody’s system stand the constant assault from the germs that likely populated the stables? He’d never even let her have a gerbil for fear of allergies.
The barn was built in a rough cross. They’d entered the short arm, and beyond was another set of open doors that he reckoned gave onto the riding arena he’d glimpsed from the road. Suddenly Pat crowed with delight and rushed past him with both terriers still hugged tight against her chest.
Outside in the arena, a woman in jeans, a T-shirt and some sort of tight brown leather leggings cantered into his field of vision on a horse big enough to pull a beer wagon. The pair sailed over a jump yanked off the Great Wall of China. Horse and rider landed with a thud and cantered off.
Mike closed his eyes. No way! He didn’t want his precious, fragile child anywhere around this place. Every time he thought of Pitti-Pat on a horse all he could see was Rhett Butler cradling Bonnie Blue’s broken body. Not his kid, by God!
He’d simply have to find a way to head her off, and that—as he knew from experience—was a hell of a lot harder than stopping a runaway train. How had he let her con him into this?
“Daddy! Aren’t they wonderful?” Pat called from the fence. The rider and the horse cantered past to jump a tall stack of painted poles.
“May I help you?” a voice said at his shoulder. He turned to find a tall, slim woman with cropped dark hair that bore a single streak of silver along the right temple. She also wore jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, and carried a pitchfork as though it were a rifle. She was in her mid-forties at least, but she had a beautiful smile and the taut body and unlined skin of a woman twenty years younger.
“I’m Michael Whitten,” he said. “From Edenvale School. I have an appointment.”
She set the pitchfork against the nearest wall, wiped her hands down the front of her jeans and extended her hand. “Oh, the chairman of the board of trustees. I’m so sorry. I should have realized who you were when I saw the blue suit and tie. But you’re early.”
Mike smiled grimly. He was always early for business meetings with possible adversaries. Threw them off balance, and sometimes he caught them in things they’d rather he had not seen. He said, “Sorry. Got away sooner than I thought I could. Didn’t have time to change.” He shook her hand. Her fingers felt callused. Her handshake was firm.
“I’m afraid you’re bound to take home some dust on that suit,” the woman said. “I’m Victoria Jamerson. I’m half owner and I manage this place. That’s our trainer and co-owner, my niece Liz Matthews, out there working Trust Fund.” She slipped past him and shouted to the woman on the horse, “Liz, Mr. Whit-ten’s here.”
“Bother,” the rider said softly, but loud enough so that Mike heard her clearly.
She turned to stare at him from under a tight cap that might once have been black velvet, but had taken on a greenish cast. She brought the horse down to a walk and relaxed into the saddle. Mike could see the glint of sweat on the animal’s flanks—hardly surprising on a July afternoon. The woman’s blue T-shirt was soaked, as well, and her muscular arms glistened.
Mike caught himself staring at the curve of the shirt over her breasts and turned back to Victoria Jamerson. “And this is my daughter, Pat. Come here, Pitty—uh, Pat, and meet Mrs. Jamerson.”
“In a minute, Daddy,” Pat said, unable to tear her eyes off the horse and rider. She set down the terriers, climbed onto the bottom rail of the three-board fence and hung over the top.
“Bad case of equine adoration,” Victoria Jamerson said easily. “There’s something about horses that just seems to call out to little girls.” She shrugged and smiled. “Happened to me, happened to Liz, and I already see the symptoms in your Pat. I’m afraid it’s an incurable disease.”
Mike felt his stomach roil. Mrs. Jamerson had no idea how her words affected him.
“I’m afraid you’ve only uncovered the tip of the iceberg,” Mrs. Jamerson continued pleasantly. “Before you know it, you’ll be the proud owner of a large pony. You’ll spend your weekends cheering Pat in weather that you wouldn’t put your dog out in. Comes with the territory.”
At the words Proud owner and large pony, Pat’s head whipped around. Her eyes glowed with an inner fire that Mike had seen only when she was burning with fever—the day that he made her that fateful promise.
“My daddy’s already promised to buy me a pony for my twelfth birthday,” Pat said. “I’ll be twelve in a month.”
“Then we’d better get cracking,” Mrs. Jamerson said and moved to lean beside Pat on the fence. “Large ponies that are suitable for beginning riders aren’t very thick on the ground.”
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Mike said quickly. “Pat’s never even been on a horse. She may hate it.”
Both Pat and Mrs. Jamerson turned to stare at him with a “get-real” look that froze his heart.
In the center of the ring, the woman swung her long leg over the horse’s back and dropped lightly to the ground. She patted the big horse’s neck, slid the reins over his head and began to walk beside him toward them.
Mike saw the resemblance between the two women immediately. Both were tall, slim and had high cheekbones and broad foreheads that would probably keep them beautiful into their eighties. Mrs. Jamerson’s eyes were gray, however, while Liz Matthews gazed at him from eyes the color of a jade Buddha.
Liz Matthews. Different last name. He knew Mrs. Jamerson was a widow. So Liz Matthews could be married. He checked the rider’s left hand. No ring. Oddly, he felt pleased.
He liked the look of her, although she didn’t seem overjoyed to see him. Probably didn’t appreciate having her riding session interrupted. She walked with a long-legged, rangy stride emphasized by the tight dark leather encasing her legs. Her jeans sat low on her hips; but her T-shirt was wet enough to cling to her narrow waist and muscular rib cage. She reached up to pull her shabby riding hat off to reveal an unkempt mass of dark blond curls.
As she came closer, he saw that she was probably in her mid-thirties. There were tiny lines at the corners of her eyes, and a spray of freckles across a nose that had probably been broken at least once. Without that slightly crooked nose, Mike realized, she was simply a good-looking woman. With it, she was sexy as hell.
Since, as chairman of the board of trustees at Edenvale, he would make the recommendation either to employ her and her riding stable, or to look for someone else to start an after-school riding program at Edenvale, he’d expected her to welcome him effusively, maybe even do a little fawning. Apparently she didn’t fawn.
She didn’t offer to shake hands either, but walked straight into the stable, calling as she went, “Albert, can you cool down Trust Fund for me, please?”
“Uh-huh,” came a bass voice from the shadowy reaches of the stable. A moment later a huge man opened one of the stall doors and ambled down to take the horse. “Hey, old fool,” he said amiably, and walked the horse past them into the green area that surrounded the ring.
“Come on in the office where it’s cool, Mr. Whitten,” Mrs. Jamerson said as Liz came back to join them.
“Can I stay here, Daddy? Please, can I, please?” Pat whined.
“That’s probably not a good idea, kiddo.”
He caught a glimpse of Liz Matthews’s raised eyebrows at Pat’s tone.
“She’ll be fine with Albert, Mr. Whitten,” Liz said and turned to Pat. “Stay away from the stalls. Some of these guys kick and a couple of them will bite a plug out of you if you get too close.”
“Sure,” Pat said and skipped off after the big man and the horse.
Great, Mike thought. One end kicks, the other bites. “Pitti—uh, Pat, I’m sure this gentleman has work to do. He can’t take the time to watch you. Better stay with me.”
Pat turned and glowered at him.
Albert had also turned, and gave him a broad grin that didn’t quite hide the query in his eyes. “She’ll be just fine, Mr. Whitten.” He glanced down at the child. “Gonna put you to work, though, you stick with me. You can help me water the horses.”
For the first time in her life, Pat seemed delighted by the word work. “I’ll be just fine, Daddy.” She shot him a look that dared him to stop her. Seeing Albert nod, he gave in and hoped he wouldn’t regret his decision.
Somehow he’d find a way to keep Pat out of this summer riding camp, and before fall he’d make damned sure that he had enough ammunition to prove that Edenvale School did not need an after-school riding program.
If his Pitti-Pat wanted to learn to ride a horse, break bones, breathe dust, ingest dog and cat germs, chance disease and danger, she’d have to wait until she was grown and out of his control, and even then he’d go down fighting to keep her safe.
He’d come within a hairbreadth of losing Pat twice. The first time, being kept alive in an incubator, she’d managed to cling to life, but her mother, the only woman Mike had ever loved, had died bringing her into the world. That terrible loss had brought home to Mike, in a way that nothing else ever could, how fragile life was. One moment the child in his wife’s womb was to be the crowning jewel in their charmed lives. The next he was alone and despairing, terrified of losing this tiny creature who was his only link to his wife.
The second time had come when he’d finally begun to relax a little, to think that he and Pat were safe.
Well, he’d finally learned. No way would he risk a third time. Not in his lifetime or hers. If she was angry with him, well, that came with parenting. He could face her anger; he couldn’t face life without her.
He couldn’t guard against every danger, but he tried to keep the risks to the minimum. If that meant going back on his promise to buy her a pony, he’d have to find a way to explain his reasoning to her. He’d only made that promise out of desperation when he’d seen her so small in that hospital bed, when he’d been afraid she’d never live to celebrate her twelfth birthday, let alone be able to ride a pony.
He’d do anything to keep her safe—even betray her trust in him, and that would be a very hard thing to do.
As he followed the two women toward the front of the stable, he felt a pang of nostalgia. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and remembered the two summers he’d spent at camp outside of Portland when he was younger than Pat.
He knew his parents simply wanted him out of the house, but still he treasured those memories—swimming in the lake, canoeing, campfires—a few months of paradise for a city boy whose every moment during the school year was carefully programmed to get him into the best schools, the best clubs, the most advantageous career when he grew up. Those two summers were the only time in his life he’d ever stepped off the fast track.
He wished with all his heart he dared allow Pat the same luxury, but her illness had left him more deeply scarred emotionally than it had her. To Pat, it was a horrible time, but it was over. Mike couldn’t manage to get past his ever-present sense of impending doom.
Five minutes later Mrs. Jamerson, Liz Matthews and Mike settled in the air-conditioned clients’ lounge with sodas at their elbows.
“Why should we pick your stable to run the after-school program at Edenvale?” Mike asked. He heard the edge in his voice and assumed the women would hear it too. Mike considered himself an equalopportunity intimidator. Anything to get a better deal for Edenvale. Just doing his job.
Mrs. Jamerson glanced quickly at her niece. “Frankly, Mr. Whitten,” she said, “there are bigger and fancier stables than ValleyCrest Farm in this area, but there’s not a single one with a better atmosphere for the kids or a better trainer.”
Mike turned to Liz. “What are your credentials?”
“Better than most,” Liz said. “I have a B.A. in Equine Studies, and a British Horsemanship certificate. I grew up in pony club. I’ve been riding and training horses most of my life. I’ve ridden everything from short stirrup to grand prix, and I’ve started riders who’ve gone on to Indoors every year.”
“What’s all that mean to us common folk?” Mike said.
“It means I’m damned good.”
“So if you’re so good and so successful, why do you want to start this riding program with Edenvale?”
Mrs. Jamerson stepped in. “Good doesn’t always equate with success, Mr. Whitten. Although Liz has done most of the training and all the riding for the last ten years, my husband, Frank, had the international reputation. While he was alive we always had a waiting list for lessons and stalls. Since he died, eighteen months ago, some of our clients have moved to stables with more famous trainers. We have to rebuild, recoup. In the meantime, we need a steady cash flow. The riding program at Edenvale would give it to us.”
“And what do we get out of it?”
“We’ll make your kids into horsemen—or should I say horsepersons,” Liz said. “Not a bunch of snobs who don’t know anything about horses except which end to get up on. And who never get any fun out of the horses they ride.”
“Are you calling Edenvale’s students snobs?”
“Not at all, but there are a great many kids who turn into real brats when they start showing horses. We won’t let that happen.”
“How do you plan to prevent it?”
“Kids ought to have fun messing with their horses,” Liz said, “hanging out around the barn, learning to clean tack and clean stalls, going on trail rides, just becoming, oh, hell—horsemen. I’ve seen parents put enormous pressure on kids to win—maybe live out the fantasies they never achieved when they were young. Riding is supposed to be fun. We try to keep it that way.”
“On horses like that Trust Fund?” Mike waved a hand at the wall that separated them from the stalls.
Liz laughed. “Of course not. He’s a grand prix jumper. He’s a handful even for me.”
Her eyes crinkled, her mouth split into a broad grin, the freckles on her crooked nose stood out and Mike’s blood pressure rose twenty degrees. He was stunned. Women like this did not usually appeal to him. Even dirty, there was something disturbingly sexy about this one. Whoa. He’d have to watch himself. He didn’t need any further female complications in his life.
“We’ve got large ponies and small horses that have been teaching kids to ride for years.”
“That you intend to sell the Edenvale children?” He knew he sounded truculent. He had to get control of himself and the situation quickly.
Mrs. Jamerson stepped in again. “Of course we’d love to sell every one of those children a horse or a pony to keep here in training—but we won’t cheat anyone, and we’re truly interested in bringing along the next generation of riders. Both Liz and I started in small riding programs at barns like this. Look where we wound up.”
Hell of a selling point. Liz and Mrs. Jamerson were dirty and sweaty, fighting money troubles, and undoubtedly worked seven days a week. Just what every parent wanted for his child, a lifetime of drudgery in thrall to a bunch of animals who bit and kicked.
Then he looked into their eyes and saw a pair of supremely content human beings. He shot his starched cuffs and felt the constriction of his power tie. Maybe what he felt was envy.
“Do you give better care, better prices than the other stables?”
“The best care and competitive prices,” Liz said. “Plus, we’ve got over a hundred acres here. Most training stables have a few paddocks and no place for the kids to trail ride.”
Mike leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. “All right. As we discussed earlier, Edenvale is willing to give you a trial run. An eight-week camp for half a dozen or so kids from Edenvate—Monday through Friday, 9:00 a.m. until 3:00 p.m. They bring their own lunches. You provide drinks. Starting Monday week. I want a prospectus on my desk by Friday morning of this week detailing precisely what you plan to accomplish during that time.”
“That’s crazy!” Liz yelped. “That’s two days from now.”
“Come now, Miss Matthews, you keep saying you want to make horsepersons of these kids. You must have some idea of how to accomplish that.”
“How much?” Mrs. Jamerson asked softly.
Mike turned to her and smiled. He knew he looked like a crocodile that had just spotted a particularly succulent possum. He’d spent a great deal of time perfecting that smile. Let the negotiations begin.
The door to the lounge flew open. “Daddy, Daddy! I’ve found him! Come and see him. He’s beautiful!” Pat flew across the room, grabbed her father’s arm and began to pull him to his feet. All four dogs tumbled into the room after her.
“Who’s beautiful? What are we talking about here?” Mike asked.
“My pony! My very own pony! I’ve even got a name for him. Come and see him, Daddy. Right now!” She flew out the door again.
Mike gaped after her.
“Terminal,” Mrs. Jamerson said softly. “I did warn you.” Smiling, she said, “We’ll give you our price on Friday.”
Mike turned to Liz. “What pony?” He realized he’d been smartly outmaneuvered, but at the moment he was too worried about Pat’s reaction to care.
“God only knows,” Liz said. “Hadn’t you better go see?”
CHAPTER TWO
“OH, DEAR,” Mrs. Jamerson whispered.
“Uh-oh,” Liz said. “She would pick that pony.”
Mike glanced at the women and then at his daughter, who danced first on one foot then on the other in the stable aisle, pointing at one of the stalls halfway down.
“Come see, Daddy,” Pat said. “Come see my very own pony.”
Mike walked slowly to her, Liz and Jamerson following. In the stall stood a sleek gray pony. Even to Mike’s untutored eye it was beautiful. Its coat glowed, its mane looked as though it had been beaten out of a single strip of silver.
“I’m going to name him Traveller, just like Robert E. Lee’s horse, and he’s meant for me. I know he is. I just know it.”
“Not a good idea,” Liz said quietly. “He’s going to be a great pony eventually, but at the moment he’s green as grass. Knows zilch.”
Pat stopped dancing and her face took on that closed, mulish expression that Mike had learned to dread. In the hospital it meant that the doctors and nurses had a fight on their hands to get her to take her medication. He’d never blamed her. No kid likes throwing up a dozen times a day or going bald. There had been times when he’d chickened out, left the medical staff to handle her because he couldn’t bear to watch her suffer another minute. They hadn’t wanted him there most of the time anyway. Neither had Pat. Sometimes he thought she felt guilty about her illness, as though it were something she had inflicted upon him.
Her nausea passed, and her hair grew back, but unfortunately by that time she’d perfected her technique to get precisely what she wanted from him.
The look Pat gave to Liz Matthews would have curdled milk. “He is too my pony,” Pat said. “I love him. We’ll learn together.” Then she took the next step in her prescribed ritual. Her eyes filled with tears, her lip began to quiver, her shoulders tightened. She grew visibly smaller right in front of Mike’s eyes, as though she had taken one of Alice in Wonderland’s shrinking potions. Mike closed his eyes and saw her on that bed again. He couldn’t fight her and she knew it. “Daddy, you promised. If you love me, you’ll buy him.”
Liz snorted. Mike saw Pat glance at her coldly from beneath wet lashes.
“Listen, kiddo,” Liz said matter-of-factly. “After he’s had some training and you’ve learned to ride, maybe you’ll be ready for a pony like this. But an inexperienced rider on an inexperienced horse is a recipe for disaster.”
“No, it’s not, it’s not.” Pat stamped her foot. “Daddy, buy him for me. Please,” she wheedled. “If we give these people enough money they have to sell him to us.”
Mike heard Liz Matthews’s quick intake of breath at the same instant he felt all his plans to get Pat away from this place disintegrate under the force of her hazel eyes—her mother’s hazel eyes—bright and earnest and intelligent and about as movable as Mount Kilimanjaro.
He actually looked forward to handling infuriated business rivals. He knew half the investment community called him a ruthless bastard. So how come he couldn’t handle one eleven-year-old girl?
“I think Traveller is a lovely name for him,” Mrs. Jamerson said. “Much better than Iggy Pop, which is the name he has now.” At the sound of his name, the pony raised his head and looked inquiringly at Mrs. Jamerson. She reached over and stroked his nose. “But you said your father promised you a pony for your twelfth birthday, and that’s not for a while, right?”
Suspiciously, Pat nodded.
“So, there’s plenty of time to find out whether you even like to ride, and meanwhile you can come over and pet him anytime you like. Who knows, you may fall madly in love with another pony.”
“I won’t.”
“Possibly not And he is a truly lovely pony. He’s a registered Connemara—that’s a rugged little breed from Ireland. You have good taste. Still, Liz is right. He doesn’t know much about his job yet. So we’ll take it slow and see what develops, all right?”
Pat took a deep breath, glanced from Mrs. Jamerson to Liz and back again. “Okay,” she said. and Mike heard her whisper, “But he’s mine.”
Mike’s relief that a full-blown tantrum had been avoided was tempered by the realization that now there was no way he could keep Pat out of the riding program. His only hope was that Liz and Mrs. Jamerson would be able to show Pat how little she knew. Surely she’d realize that she had a long way to go before buying even an experienced pony became an option. By then maybe she’d have discovered video games or tennis or shopping malls.
“Fine,” Mike said, wanting to get Pat out of there before this fragile truce disintegrated. He turned to Liz. “You’ll have that complete syllabus to me by Friday morning? I want it on my desk early.”
“We’ll do our best,” Mrs. Jamerson said when Liz didn’t answer immediately.
Mike turned on his heel and walked back to his car. Pat followed silently. He knew damned well she’d start her campaign for that blasted pony the minute they were on their way. This was one time he’d have to put his foot down.
He felt an unreasoning resentment toward both Liz and Mrs. Jamerson. They were only trying to make a living, he knew, but they were complicating his life. Not their fault that they’d played into Pat’s obsession or his worries as a parent. Still, he fervently wished they’d chosen some other day school to solicit for their stables.
As he drove away he watched Liz, standing beside one of the paddocks with all her weight on one hip. Damn! He certainly planned to come here for as many of Pat’s lessons as he could. He’d arrange his schedule to get into the office late so that he could drive Pat every morning. That meant he’d be spending too much time hanging around Liz Matthews. Why couldn’t she be as old and as wrinkled as her riding boot? And did her legs have to be that long? And that face. He tore his eyes away from his rearview mirror and concentrated on his driving.
He could find Liz Matthews sexier than Scheherezade for all the good it would do either of them. They were on completely different wavelengths. He glanced over at his daughter, who was completely preoccupied—no doubt planning her campaign for the gray pony.
At least Mrs. Jamerson seemed to understand children. He had a suspicion that Miss Matthews adhered to the drill-sergeant school of instruction. Pat didn’t like to be corrected.
He smiled grimly. Liz might turn out to be the best ally he could have. A couple of days of her bullying in the July heat might well convince Pat to take up knitting.
“I’LL STARVE FIRST,” Liz sputtered as she watched Mike and Pat drive away.
“The animals can’t starve,” her aunt said. “If a summer riding program for Edenvale is what it takes to pay the feed bill, we have to do it.”
Liz threw up her hands. “That is a dreadful child, and her father isn’t much better.” She snorted. “He may be a big muckety-muck in business, but he’s not doing that kid any favors by letting her get away with that kind of behavior in public.”
“Well, we’d better keep her safe,” Mrs. Jamerson said. “It’s clear that Daddy will crucify anybody who hurts his little darling. We only carry half a million dollars in liability insurance.”
“And you expect me to spend five mornings a week in ninety-five-degree heat with six or eight like her?” Liz said. “I cannot do it. I’ll sell my body first.”
Mrs. Jamerson looked her up and down. “It’s a nice body, but it is thirty-seven years old and extremely dirty. I doubt anybody would pay five dollars for it.”
“Oh, thank you so much for that vote of confidence.”
“You could always marry a rich husband.” She cocked her head in the direction of Mike’s retreating Volvo.
“Pul-lease. I’ll take the five dollars first,” Liz said with a grin.
“That’s your choice. But you’d better make believers out of Edenvale School and their little darlings, my dear niece, or we’ll both be clerking at some discount mall before Christmas.”
“If Trusty and I win the grand prix on Labor Day, we can add five thousand bucks prize money to the till. And maybe entice some of our old clients back. Besides, we haven’t lost all our adult clients.”
“Yet.”
“Think positive. A couple of shows where Valley-Crest brings in championships and we’ll be beating off new customers with a stick.”
“We need a full barn and a full slate of lessons now, darling Liz. You’ve looked at the figures.”
“I know, I know. But isn’t there a better way than teaching half a dozen Pat Whittens to ride?”
“Come on, Liz, you’re good with children.”
Liz gaped at her. “What lifetime are we talking about here?”
“We could sell Mr. Whitten that gray pony for his Pat,” Mrs. Jamerson said.
“No way! Edenvale has never been that sort of sleazy trader. We even kept Uncle Frank honest.” She caught the look in her aunt’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Aunt Vic. I know he was your husband, but he cut deals fine sometimes—or he would have if you and I hadn’t been there to remind him where business stopped and horse-trading started.”
Vic laughed. “He could have gotten away with a whole heap more, and the clients would still have loved him. I sometimes wonder how any of us put up with him when he was in one of his moods.”
“He trained great horses and riders.” Liz shook her head. “They adored him.”
Vic sighed. “I wish I had Frank’s charm. We could use a few hundred-thousand-dollar sales right about now.”
“Charm? Charm? He made Marine boot camp look like a first-class cruise to the Bahamas.”
“We won. We made money. We had a full barn. We had happy customers and top-notch horses. That’s results.”
“Results. Right.” Liz turned away, her chest heaving. She’d finally learned to pity Uncle Frank about the time she turned twenty. Before that. he’d terrified her. He couldn’t show affection, he couldn’t praise the people he cared about, not even Vic. Certainly not his gawky niece.
Yet for all his grumpy bullying, Uncle Frank had taken her in after her mother’s sudden fatal heart attack and her father’s grief made living at home impossible for her. Frank had tried to love her, an eleven-year-old de facto orphan, in the only way he knew. He drove her to ride better, higher, stronger. And when she cried he seemed baffled. Memories of those sessions still made her hyperventilate. What would confrontation with Mike Whitten do to her breathing? She didn’t doubt for a minute that he could bully with the best if he thought it would work for him.
The worst part was that despite his size and that lantern jaw, something about Whitten turned her on. He radiated confidence. He was in great shape. Probably played handball three times a week and had a personal trainer so he could impress the ladies on the tennis court at the racquet club. He wore no wedding ring, and Angie Womack had told her there was no Mrs. Whitten.
She wondered why such an obvious catch was running around without a wife in tow. Little Miss Pat probably fed arsenic to possible queen consorts the minute Daddy showed any interest in them. The girl didn’t seem eager to share.
The kid certainly had her father wrapped around her little finger. Pat held the key to the Edenvale contract, and if Vic said they had to get it to stay solvent, then Liz would do everything in her power to make that happen, even if she had to turn that kid into a centaur.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like kids. She rode against kids every day in the hunter ring. But ValleyCrest had always catered to adult riders.
As Uncle Frank’s exercise girl from the time she was old enough to sit a horse, Liz had been too busy after school to make friends her own age. She’d moved into the adult world when she was barely into her teens. She’d had crushes on the few teenaged boys who rode, but she’d been tall and so bony, and they’d always gravitated towards the cute little debutantes.
So here she was at thirty-seven with nobody in her life except her aunt and the animals, and that was the way it was likely to remain. At least it was peaceful. The dogs and cats never yelled at her.
She watched her aunt bending over the feed sacks, Vic’s youthful body lithe and strong. Liz often caught the longing in her aunt’s eyes when her niece swung into the saddle. Please God, Liz prayed. Let me never lose my nerve the way she did, never cringe at the thought of cantering down on a big fence. She knew it could happen to anyone, even someone as talented and fearless as Aunt Vic had been.
Vic was a great manager, a great teacher, but Liz knew how deeply it must hurt never to sit in a saddle.
All those years that Uncle Frank had tried to bully and cajole her out of her fear, Vic never fought back. Liz finally told him if he said one more word on that subject, she’d leave. Since by that time Frank Jamerson weighed over three hundred pounds, and had no one but Liz to ride his horses, he’d tried hard to watch his mouth from that moment on.
He never knew that after their fight Liz had walked out of the room and thrown up. Only Aunt Vic and Albert knew that angry words wounded Liz much more deeply than broken bones and concussions.
Now Liz was faced with Mike Whitten and his whiny kid, and probably a bunch of other equally bratty kids with bullying mothers and fathers.
She walked up the front steps to her cottage, opened the door to the screen porch, made her way across into the cluttered living room and felt her sweat freeze in the air-conditioning as suddenly as though someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on her.
“What a jerk!” A raucous voice spoke from the shadowy corner.
“Am not.” Liz said.
Jacko, her small gray parrot, hung upside down from the perch in his large wicker cage and regarded her over his shoulder with beady eyes.
“What a jerk?” he wheedled.
Liz laughed. “I wish you’d learn to say something else, anything else. How about ‘I want my dinner.’” She reached for the parrot seed on the window ledge behind the African violets.
“What a jerk!” The parrot bounced up and down in ecstasy.
“Keep that up and I’ll bake you into parrot potpie.”
“What a jerk.” The parrot sighed and stuck his beak into the seeds.
“You’re probably right.” Liz sank into the shabby sofa. It definitely needed new springs and new upholstery. She closed her eyes. Unbidden, Mike Whitten’s face loomed up behind her eyelids. She blinked. “Oh, hell,” she said. “That’s just what I need.” She pointed to the parrot. “And you, not one word. You got that?”
“What a jerk,” the parrot replied. This time he sounded as though he meant it.
CHAPTER THREE
THE VAN FROM Edenvale School arrived fifteen minutes late on a cloudless Monday morning. By nine-fifteen the temperature already hovered around eighty-five, but a steady breeze kept the humidity down.
Liz had been up doing her chores since six. When she heard the van, she turned off the water hose and set it down, walked to the front door of the stable and watched as three girls and two boys tumbled out of the van.
No Pat Whitten. Liz gave a sigh that was half relief, half disappointment. She wouldn’t be burdened with the kid, but she also wouldn’t see Mike Whitten. Why on earth she should want to was beyond her. The man was one step short of an ogre. That little Friday trip to his office to present him the syllabus for the camp had more than proved that.
After making such a big deal about the blasted syllabus, Whitten kept them waiting fifteen minutes, then barely glanced at the sheaf of papers Vic handed him. He hadn’t been rude exactly. Just cool. No, dammit. Downright cold. She’d been certain he’d turn them down.
But he hadn’t. He’d called late Friday afternoon to accept their terms without a quibble. Vic had set down the phone carefully, then turned a relieved face to Liz. “At least we can pay the feed bill,” she said.
“Yeah, but can we stand what we have to do to get the money?” Liz answered.
Today would definitely answer that question. Liz lounged against the open door to the stable. The kids formed a ragged line in front of her and eyed her warily. Only then did she introduce herself.
A moment later Aunt Vic and Albert came out of the stable. Liz introduced them to the children and made her first stab at learning the campers’ names.
They stared at Albert’s bulk with awe. The broad grin on his dark face made him look like a ravening wolf. Liz knew he was the gentlest, kindest man alive, but he’d try not to let the kids see that. Not right off, at any rate. He always said he liked to get the good out of folks while they were still scared of him. Unfortunately for Albert, most people caught on very quickly that he was about as scary as an oversize stuffed bear.
“Okay, let’s get started,” Liz said. “Lunch boxes in the fridge. I’ll show you around and give you the ground rules first. Then we can start to sort out who gets which horse.”
As she turned away, Mike Whitten’s Volvo pulled into the driveway. Oh, damn and blast, Liz thought. That’s all I need.
Pat opened the car door and stepped out. The other kids wore ratty jeans and T-shirts. She wore new jodhpurs and shiny brown paddock boots. She carried an equally new black velvet hard hat under her arm.
Two steps from the car Pat clearly realized what the other kids had on, and stopped dead. Liz felt sorry for her. She remembered how important it had been at that age not to be different, not to stand out from her peers.
One of the boys snickered. Pat kept her eyes straight front, but her face flamed.
“Morning, Pat,” Liz said casually. “You’re late.”
Mike Whitten climbed out of the car and answered for his daughter. “I had to take a transatlantic call.” No apology, merely a statement of priorities.
“It might be easier for Pat to be on time if she rode in the van with the others,” Liz said, trying to keep the edge out of her voice.
“Unnecessary,” he snapped. “In future we won’t be late.”
“Whatever. Come on, kiddo, join the group. We’re about to take the nickel tour.” She turned to the rest of the group. “Are you with me?”
“When do we get to ride?” the same boy who had snickered at Pat asked. He was a compact towhead who looked younger than the girls.
“You start out on the lunge line.”
“What’s that?” a redheaded girl asked.
“That’s when somebody holds one end of a long rope in the middle of a circle and the horse goes around the outside of the circle attached to the other end of the rope with you on top of it,” a cheerful brunette girl answered. “On top of the horse, that is, not the rope.” She giggled.
“That’s right, uh...?”
“Janey.” The girl smiled smugly. “I know how to ride already. I have a pony at my gram’s in Missouri.”
“Fine. Then you can go first and show the others how it’s done.”
“Oh, no,” Janey groaned. “Not first.”
“First. Okay. Aunt Vic will show you around.”
“What do we call her?” Janey asked. “We can’t call her Aunt Vic.”
“Why not?” Vic said. “Everybody else does. You’ll get used to it.” As she started in the door, she turned to Pat, opened her arm in a gesture of inclusion and smiled at her, “Well, come on, child. Don’t just stand there.”
Pat took a deep breath and followed, keeping a good five feet between her and the rest of the group. She didn’t even glance at Mike.
Mike’s eyes followed her.
“I’m sure you have things to do, Mr. Whitten,” Liz said. No way did she want him hanging around.
“I’ll stay through her riding lesson,” Mike replied.
“That’s not necessary.”
The eyes he turned toward her were icy. “Yes, it is.”
Liz took a deep breath, but it didn’t do an ounce of good. This man hit every hot button she owned. “Mr. Whitten,” she said, trying to keep her voice level, “Edenvale signed a contract with ValleyCresL We’ll fulfill our part, but we can’t do it with you or anybody else breathing down our necks. For heaven’s sake, do you plan to go to college with her?”
“She won’t fall off college and break her neck.”
“She won’t fall off horses either if she’s listening to me and not watching you. There’s really no nice way to put this, Mr. Whitten. You can go alone or take your daughter with you, but you absolutely cannot lurk.”
“Pat is my child, not yours. And my responsibility.”
“Fine. Then take her home with you.” Liz turned to walk into the barn.
He followed, caught her arm and spun her to face him. “Listen, there are special circumstances. Pat’s not like the other kids.”
“In what way?”
He took a deep breath. “I can’t explain, but she isn’t.”
“Fragile bones? Fragile psyche?”
“She’s been ill. She’s fine now, but I...oh, hell.”
“Tell me. If there’s anything I should know...”
“I’ve said too much already. I promised her I wouldn’t tell you or anyone else.”
“The kids don’t know?”
Mike shook his head. “Not even her teachers at school know.”
“What can’t she do? Surely you can see I have to know her limitations.”
“The doctors say she’s perfectly well, completely healthy, but I’m her father. I worry.”
Liz looked into those cold eyes. Didn’t seem so cold when he spoke about his child. “She doesn’t have the stamina to keep up with the other children? Is that it?”
He snorted. “At the moment she has enough stamina to run me ragged. That could change if she got sick. This is not exactly a sterile environment.” He waved a hand at a pair of cats snoozing in a patch of sunlight.
“The rest of the world isn’t sterile either,” she said. “Mr. Whitten, I have several clients who are asthmatics and one who is actually allergic to horses. With medication they manage fine. Is Pat on medication?”
“No. Listen, I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. If Pat finds out I’ve talked to you she’ll kill me. Think of me as being here to worry about her so that you won’t have to.”
“What a truly comforting thought.”
Mike’s heavy jaw tightened. Those eyes of his had gone glacial again.
Liz continued before she lost her nerve. “I have to establish my authority with these kids if I’m going to get anywhere with them. That goes for Pat as well. Oh, hell, let the child have some space, why don’t you? You saw how the other kids treat her. Is that what you want for her? Total isolation?”
“Of course not.”
“Then please go to work, Mr. Whitten. And try not to worry. You can pick her up this afternoon.” He made a sound deep in his throat that sounded to Liz like a pit bull about to attack, then seemed to think better of it.
He turned on his heel. “Her nanny, Mrs. Hannaford, will pick her up. She’ll have identification with her.”
“Oh, really.”
“Surely you wouldn’t release a child to a stranger?”
“No, no, of course not. But the other kids ride in the van.”
He said over his shoulder, “My child will not ride in the van. She will be picked up.” He got into his car and slammed the door so hard that Liz jumped. He dug a six-foot gash in the gravel as he peeled out.
Liz’s heart was pounding. She could almost feel the acid attacking her stomach lining. She’d won this round, but she suspected the man didn’t retreat often. Liz took a deep breath and went back into the barn. She looked down and saw that she was running her fingers over her arm where Whitten had held her. He hadn’t grabbed her hard, but she still felt his fingers on her skin. He had strong hands. She grinned. No doubt they were a hell of a lot softer than hers and a darned sight better manicured.
THE MORNING WAS BUSY, but by ten the campers knew what was expected of them, what they could and could not do. They’d made a passable job of grooming and tacking up one of the beginner horses and the old campaigner pony. Vic and Liz were now ready to take the kids—two at a time—to either end of the arena to lunge.
“Just thirty minutes each?” The towheaded boy, whose name was Josh, sounded disgusted.
“Trust me,” Liz answered. “Thirty minutes on a lunge your first morning is plenty. Once everybody has had a turn, we’ll have lunch, rest in the cool for a while, and then if you’ve got the energy and there’s time, we’ll do the lunge-line routine for another thirty minutes. Depending on how well you do, we can assign your horses tomorrow.”
“I’m ready now!”
Liz shook her head. She looked up and caught Albert’s eye. He nodded. If young Josh wanted to keep busy, Albert would make certain he went home with his tail dragging.
Eddy, the other boy, was an entirely different matter. He was tall for his age and shy. Liz suspected he’d be a timorous rider who’d need a gentle hand and some extra nurturing. She fitted all the kids except Pat with hard hats owned by the barn. Pat had her shiny new one. It stood out like a sore thumb among the ratty hats parceled out to the campers.
Despite her objections, Janey was first in the saddle. Liz showed the kids the basics—then she smashed a broad-brimmed straw hat onto her mop of hair, picked up the lunge line and walked Janey and the pony to the ring with the other kids trailing.
Liz noticed that Pat dragged along sulkily. She had her father’s jaw, if not his eyes. Hers were hazel and were emphasized by her short, straight brown hair.
This was a different kid from the one who had bounded onto the arena fence the day Mike came out to see the place. Liz understood that the other children had elected her group freak. Having been the freak in her own sixth-grade class, Liz felt for Pat.
Liz had managed to break out of the mold. Pat could, too. She simply needed to make a couple of friends. But unless Pat stopped acting like Mrs. Astor’s Plush Goat, that would not happen.
Liz concentrated on Janey and the pony. Wishbone was a real packer who could teach kids in his sleep. She could tell immediately that Janey had done more than gallop bareback around her grandmother’s pasture. She’d had lessons from a good teacher. Liz was so impressed she clicked off the lunge line and let Janey trot and canter on her own.
Liz had a sudden idea. Janey would be perfect for the gray pony, Iggy Pop. He’d be a challenge for her, and she’d be good for him. Liz had not planned to use him for the campers, but having somebody like Janey work him would teach them both. Liz glanced at Vic, caught her eye, mouthed “Iggy” and received a nod of agreement.
Liz motioned to Pat.
“I want to go last,” the girl said.
“My stable, my choice,” Liz told her. “Come on, Wishbone is all warmed up for you.”
“I want Traveller.”
“No way. Come on. I’ll give you a leg up.”
“Fraidy-cat,” the girl with the red hair, whose name was Kimberly, whispered to Pat’s back as she passed. Liz saw Pat stiffen, but the girl said nothing. Liz decided to speak to Kimberly later.
Pat reached the pony, who turned his head to stare at her with chocolate eyes. She stepped back.
Kimberly was right, Pat really is afraid, Liz thought. I was. sure she’d be raring to go.
Liz held Pat’s stirrup. After two tries Pat got close enough to the pony to actually put her foot into the stirrup. As her bottom hit the saddle, Wishbone snorted. Pat froze. “What’s the matter with him?”
“He’s lazy. He’s just realized he’s going to have to work some more for his supper.”
“He’ll be mad.”
“Wishbone? He doesn’t know what mad is.”
“I don’t want him. I want Traveller.”
“You’re not ready for Trav...Iggy. Start with the basics. Ready?” Wishbone walked to the end of the line and began to circle Liz at a walk. Liz watched Pat with narrowed eyes. She could see Pat’s chest heaving. The girl held tight to the front of the saddle. Her lower lip trembled.
Suddenly she hauled back on the reins so hard that Wishbone nearly sat down on his tail. “Stop! No. My daddy says I get to ride whoever I want to ride.”
“If your daddy said that, which I doubt, he was wrong.”
Pat turned a furious face to Liz. Now she looked like her father, except her eyes smoldered while his froze. “I want my very own pony. You’re not the boss of me.” Without waiting she threw her leg over the saddle, dropped to the ground and ran as hard as she could straight into the stable.
“Told you she was scared,” Kimberly said smugly, moving forward to take Pat’s place. She looked over her shoulder, “Scaredy-cat, stuck-up scaredy-cat!”
“Cut that out,” Liz snapped. She glanced over at Vic, who stood frozen in the center of her circle with a horrified expression on her face. “Oh, da...drat!” Liz said. “Albert?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Where’d she go?”
“She’s in the barn. I’ll keep an eye on her.”
“Thanks, Albert.” Liz turned back to Kimberly. “Okay, your turn. And remember that anybody who is not scared at some time on a horse is just plain dumb. Got that?”
Chastened, Kim climbed aboard.
The rest of the morning went smoothly but with no sign of Pat. When they came into the barn for lunch, Liz raised her eyebrows at Albert. He jerked a thumb overhead. The hayloft. Oh, great. Momma Kat had a fresh litter up there, and if Pat tried to bother the kittens, Momma Kat would rip her to shreds.
“I’ll do lunch,” Vic whispered. “Go.”
Silently Liz climbed the hayloft ladder. Bales of hay were stacked like stairsteps across the big platform. The ceiling fan kept the shadowy air circulating.
Liz waited for her eyes to adjust as she searched for Pat. At first she saw nothing except hay, then movement at the far back caught her eye.
“Lunchtime,” Liz said matter-of-factly.
“Don’t want any lunch.”
“You brought it, you eat it.”
“Not with them.”
Liz walked toward her and was vastly surprised to find Momma Kat curled against Pat’s thigh and all five kittens asleep in her lap. Pat’s dusty face was streaked with sweat and tears. “Quite a coup,” Liz said, pointing to the kittens. “Momma Kat avoids people when she’s got kittens.”
“They’re beautiful,” Pat said, stroking a small gray kitten who was busily stropping its needle-sharp claws on Pat’s fine new jodhpurs.
“You can have one when they’re old enough, if your daddy says its okay.”
“He won’t let me. He won’t even let me have goldfish. They carry germs.”
“So do you.”
“Tell him that, why don’t you?”
“I did already.” Liz sat on the bale nearest to Pat but on her level.
“You’re kidding! What did he say?”
“Never mind. Tell me what happened out there this morning?”
Pat turned away. “I want to ride Traveller and not that stupid pony you put me on.”
“That wasn’t it. You froze.”
“Liar.”
“I know what I saw. Incidentally, don’t ever call me a liar again. It’s rude, untrue, and I don’t like it.”
“Who cares what you like? My daddy says—”
“We’re not talking about your daddy, we’re talking about you.” Liz realized her tone was harsher than she’d planned. And Vic said she had such a great way with kids.
Abruptly, Pat dumped the kittens, who protested loud enough to wake Momma Kat, and stood up.
So did Liz. “We don’t run from things in this barn, especially the things that frighten us and embarrass the hell out of us.”
“You can’t make me.”
“Sure I can, but I shouldn’t have to.”
Pat sank onto the floor, put her head down and began to sob.
Whitten would have this kid home and that contract nullified before dark at the rate she was going. She reached out and touched Pat’s shoulder as though it were a hot stove.
Pat flinched. “All right, I’m scared, I admit it. Now are you satisfied? You can just throw me out right now and I’ll never come back, never get to ride, never get my pony, never...” The sobs turned to wails.
Liz was stunned. She sat down. “Come here, Pat,” she said and opened her arms. Pat sniffled and knee-walked over to her. “Lesson number one. Everybody. gets scared.”
“I’m scared all the time.”
“Trust me, you do not give that impression.”
“I know!” Pat wailed. “My daddy thinks I’m tough, but I’m so scared something will happen to me and then he’ll just die and it’ll be my fault.”
Mike Whitten, I will have your hide!
“Bull. Nothing’s going to happen to you, and if it does, it won’t be your fault, and your daddy looks like a pretty tough character to me.”
“He’s not. he’s not. You don’t know what he’s been through.”
“Then tell me.”
“No!” Pat cried.
Liz opened her mouth, then remembered she wasn’t supposed to know anything about Pat’s illness. “Okay. Forget your daddy for the moment.” She gestured toward the floor and the office below. “Did you know Aunt Vic was an Olympic rider?”
Pat sniffled, suddenly interested. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Great teacher, great barn manager, best friend I have in the world.”
“Uh-huh.” Pat regarded her suspiciously.
“She hasn’t put her foot in a stirrup for twenty years.”
“Why not?”
“She was warming up her jumper at Madison Square Gardens, and some fool crashed into her.”
Pat’s eyes widened.
“Broke her collarbone, her pelvis and one leg. Nearly killed her.”
“And she got scared?”
“The other rider was one hundred percent responsible for the crash, but that didn’t help Vic. The horses came out without a scratch. She was hurt, but at least she lived.”
“He died?”
“Broke his neck.” Liz realized suddenly this might not be the absolutely perfect story to tell a kid who was terrified of walking around in a circle on a quiet pony at the end of a lunge line.
But Pat seemed absorbed. Liz plunged ahead. “Vic couldn’t ride for nearly eight months. The first time she tried to get back onto a horse, she completely freaked. Everybody knows about it, and they don’t laugh at her. She works around horses, lunges, feeds, does everything else, but she can’t get up and ride. You can.”
But...
“Make you a deal. Call your nanny and tell her to pick you up at four o’clock this afternoon instead of three—make up some excuse. Not unusual to run late the first day. After the other kids are gone, you and I will work through your fear.”
“On Traveller?”
“Absolutely not. No temper tantrums, and you do what I tell you when I tell you or the deal’s off. Take it or leave it.”
“But...”
“My way or the highway.”
Pat stared at her for a long moment, then she nodded. “Okay.”
“Good, now get your tail downstairs and eat lunch. I’m starved.”
“Nunh-uh, not with them.”
“Fine. Deal’s off.” Liz walked to the hayloft ladder.
“They’ll laugh at me.”
“Big deal. Give you a tip. However big a to-do they make over this morning, you make a bigger one. If they accuse you of being scared, tell them you were positively petrified. If they laugh, laugh louder. Confuse the hell out of them.”
“I don’t know.”
“Try it. It may work, and if it doesn’t, you’re no worse off than you are now. And call your nanny from the office after lunch.”
Albert stood at the foot of the ladder with the cordless phone. “It’s Whitten.”
“Drat.” Liz took the phone and adjusted her voice. “Yes, Mr. Whitten, what can I do for you?”
“How did Pat’s lesson go?”
Pat stepped off the last rung in time to hear Liz say her father’s name. She made a face.
. “Beautifully. She did fine. Got the makings of a good rider.” Liz grinned at Pat, who bugged out her eyes and pointed at her chest with an exaggerated “me?” sign.
“Excellent. I’ve decided to pick her up myself.”
“Damn.” Liz whispered. “That’s fine, Mr. Whitten, but we’re running a little late today—first day and all, shakedown. Could you come about four...”
Pat was shaking her head and holding up five fingers.
“Uh, better make that five. Give everyone a chance to cool down.”
Pat nodded and grinned.
Liz heard Mike’s heavy sigh. “Yes, all right. Five. On the dot. Put Pat on the line.”
Pat pantomimed “no.” Liz raised her eyebrows. “Of course, but please be quick. We have a schedule to meet. You’re cutting into her rest period.” That ought to get him.
Pat put both hands around her throat as though she were strangling herself and stuck out her tongue at the phone. Liz snickered and handed it to her anyway.
“Hey, Daddy. Yes, I did great.” She listened and looked up at Liz in panic. “No, you can’t see me ride today. Uh...the horses get fed at four-thirty.”
Liz put thumb and forefinger together in a circle in the “that’s perfect” sign.
Pat nodded and grinned. “Tomorrow?” She made a face. Liz shook her head violently.
“No, Daddy, That’s too soon. I want to be able to show off what I know. Give me time to learn something, okay?” Pat listened for another moment, said goodbye and handed the phone back to Liz. “He wants to speak to you again.”
“Miss Matthews, I apologize for my rude behavior this morning,” Whitten said. He didn’t sound one bit apologetic. Maybe he expected Liz to apologize in turn.
“Think nothing of it. Goodbye.” Liz clicked the phone off and met Pat’s high five in midair. “Go get your lunch. And laugh like he...heck.”
The moment Pat’s back was turned, Liz stuck out her tongue at the phone and handed it back to Albert.
“What you up to?” he asked.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Doesn’t do to get between a daddy and his little girl. He finds out, he’s gonna whip your tail.”
“Him and what army?”
As she turned away she realized that Albert, as always, was right. She not only had to keep Whitten from finding out about her private session with Pat, she had to keep the other kids from finding out as well. And Pat Whitten did not seem like the most reliable ally. How did she get herself into these things?
As she turned the corner and saw Pat sitting on the sofa between Janey and Kimberly and laughing like a demented hyena, she grinned. Because she reminds me of me.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE VAN PICKED UP the campers at three that afternoon. At three-twenty Pat mounted Wishbone while Liz held his bridle. At three-thirty Pat allowed herself to be played out on the lunge line.
At a quarter to four Pat decided she could walk around all by hersetf—no lunge tine.
At ten minutes to four Liz sat down on a jump in the center of the ring while Pat walked around the perimeter all by herself. By four-fifteen she decided she was ready to trot. Pat didn’t bother communicating this to Liz. She simply kicked Wishbone hard in his sides. Surprised, he woke up, grunted and obligingly trotted forward.
Pat dropped the reins, dug both hands into the pony’s mane and yelped. Liz ran to her and grabbed Wishbone after five strides.
“Our deal is that you do what I tell you, young lady, and not what you think you’d like to try,” Liz said.
Pat threw her leg over the pony’s side. “I want to get down now.”
“No way. Quit now and you’ll never get back on.”
“But my daddy says...”
“Your daddy is not here. Get down now and don’t bother to come back tomorrow.”
Pat sniffled, picked up her reins and walked forward. She gulped when Liz let go and stepped away, but she stuck it out for another five minutes.
“Okay. Now you can dismount. It’s hot and the pony’s tired.” Liz instructed Pat in the proper way to dismount—a way that did not involve throwing the reins up in the air and yelling like a coyote. “Walk him in and give him a bath. Albert will show you how.”
Pat took the pony’s reins and began to move toward the stable door.
“Oh, and Pat?”
Pat looked over her shoulder.
“You did good.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Pat’s face glowed.
As Liz walked into the stable behind Pat she heard the telephone ring and raced to pick it up. “ValleyCrest,” she breathed.
“Hey, Liz,” a familiar female voice said, “This is Angie.” She sounded subdued. “Are you still speaking to me?”
“You mean, since you left ValleyCrest and went over to the competition? I guess so. What’s up?”
Silence, then a deep breath. “I need a favor. A really big favor. This afternoon.”
Liz waited.
“I don’t know whether anybody told you, but I decided to breed my mare Boop.”
“I heard.”
“Thing is, she’s due to foal any minute now and I have absolutely got to go to Europe for a few days on business. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m terrified she’ll foal while I’m gone. Kevin refuses to be responsible. Says he delivers human babies, not horse babies.”
“So, doesn’t Mark have a stall available?”
Another deep breath. “I don’t trust him to handle the birth, either.” Angie went on in a rush. “He’s never foaled a mare in his life, and he couldn’t be less interested. He’s furious that I even bred her.”
“So he won’t take her?”
“Oh, he’ll take her, all right, but I have no intention of leaving her with him unless I can’t con you.” The voice became a wheedle. “Please, Liz, please. I know I was a total monster to abandon you and Vic the way I did for Mark’s barn. I’ve learned my lesson.”
Liz felt a wave of elation. Angie Womack was an excellent rider who kept two very expensive hunters on board and training year round. Her OB-Gyn husband provided her with unlimited funds. If she came back to ValleyCrest, others might follow. The Womacks were good people. Besides, no way could Liz let that mare foal under Mark Hardwick’s tender mercies. “Sure,” Liz said. “Bring her on. I’ll have a double stall waiting for her.”
“Oh, thank you thank you thank you!” Angie said.
Liz smiled and went to tell Vic and Albert that they were back in the baby business.
Angie’s big two-horse trailer pulled into the yard ten minutes later and Angie jumped out. She wore baggy jeans and an Olympic T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out. Her hair was almost as short as Albert’s and nearly as curly. She was burned brown by the summer sun, and she was grinning from ear to ear. She ran to Liz and Vic and hugged them both. “Yell at me, I deserve it.”
“Let’s get that mare bedded down first,” Vic said and smiled at Angie. “Then we’ll yell at you. You did bring the foal predictor kit? I’m not sitting up with this lady every night until you get back.”
“I’ve got it in the car.” She smiled over Liz’s shoulder at Pat, who stood in the doorway. “Hey. I’m Angie.”
Pat nodded, obviously fascinated.
Two minutes later a broad chestnut mare backed out of the trailer.
“Wow!” Pat said and ran to pet the mare.
“Be careful, she’s pretty grumpy. She wants that baby out of there,” Angie said as she led the mare into the barn with complete familiarity. Vic winked at Liz.
“Can I help?” Pat asked as she trailed along. “Daddy won’t be here for another thirty minutes—if he’s on time. Half the time he’s not.”
“Come on,” Angie said amiably.
“You do that, kiddo,” Liz said. “I’ve got to get on Trust Fund before feeding time.”
She was still riding when Mike Whitten arrived and found Pat sitting on a tack trunk helping Albert wash down stirrup leathers.
“You’re too early,” Pat wailed.
Mike checked his watch. “Actually, I’m five minutes late. Are you supposed to be that dirty?”
“Oh, Daddy. I’ve been riding and grooming, and come see the mare who’s about to have a baby.” She pulled her father down the aisle. Outside in the arena he glimpsed Liz cantering by on that same big horse.
“Daddy, I’ve got to finish helping Albert,” Pat said. “You go on outside and wait for me.”
“Pat...”
“Daddy! It’s my first day!”
He gave in, but instead of going to his car he walked out to stand beside the arena and watch Liz.
She hadn’t even acknowledged Mike’s presence, not that he expected her to. She turned the horse down the center toward a pair of big jumps. Mike felt his heart in his mouth. Trust Fund sailed over the first and cantered down to the second.
The horse stopped dead one stride from the fence and dropped both his head and his shoulder. Mike didn’t expect that. Apparently neither did Liz. She did a somersault in midair and came down on the far side of the jump flat on her back with a whump that raised a cloud of dust. She didn’t move.
Mike vaulted the fence, raced to where she lay and knelt in the dirt beside her. The horse shied away.
Liz was on her back, her eyes open and staring, her mouth wide. She didn’t seem to be breathing. As his knees hit the dirt she sucked in a huge breath that sounded like a death rattle.
“Don’t move,” Mike snapped. “You may have broken your neck.”
Liz turned her head on a neck that was obviously still in working order. “I’m fine,” she gasped. “Knocked my breath out.” She put both hands against her diaphragm and pushed. “Better.” She raised onto her elbows. “Nothing broken.”
Mike put one arm behind her waist and the other behind her knees and scooped her up. She was no lightweight, but at that point he figured he had enough adrenaline pumping to move Brooklyn Bridge. He began to walk as quickly as he could toward the stable.
“Hey!”
“Where are you hurt?” he asked, afraid for a moment he might have done her more harm than good.
“I’m not hurt, I’m mad as hell. I’m mad at Trusty, mad at myself, and if you do not put me down his instant I am going to be really mad at you.”
“Fine.” He dropped her legs.
The instant she touched down she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him. “Oh, heck. Just let me stand here a minute until I get my breath back.”
Mike suspected that small request cost her dearly.
It cost him as well. She stood in the circle of his arm, her breast and hip against his side, her breath against his cheek. He closed his eyes and relished the feel of warm woman against him. Too long since he’d felt it.
After a moment she let go of his neck, but he kept his arm around her waist in case she should feel rocky again. And because he liked having her in his arms.
She disengaged herself carefully and took a couple of steps toward the horse, who stood at the far side of the ring eyeing her sheepishly. “Trusty, you old fool, come here.”
The horse meandered over. Mike caught his reins.
“Thanks,” Liz said. “Give me a leg up.”
“You’re not getting back up there!”
“Of course I am.” She sounded surprised. “If I let him get away with that nonsense, he’ll do it again.”
“You need to be checked over by a doctor before you ride again.”
“The hell I do. Now, are you going to give me a leg up or what?”
She bent her knee. Mike tossed her into the saddle so hard that she nearly tumbled over the other side.
“Wow!” she said. “You try tossing Pat that hard and she’ll come down in the back pasture.” She moved away and said over her shoulder, “Better get out of the way while Trusty and I have our little prayer meeting.” She trotted off.
He watched her bottom rise and sink in the saddle and discovered he was having visions that he should not have about his child’s riding teacher. He dusted himself off and walked to the edge of the arena. This time he used the gate. He turned to see Liz heading for that pair of huge fences again. He crossed his fingers and held his breath.
Trusty sailed over both jumps perfectly. Liz pulled him down to a walk immediately and came over toward Mike. “That’s enough. What you saw earlier, Mr. Whitten, was an example of ‘quitting dirty.”’
Mike opened the gate.
“Most of the time horses telegraph that they don’t intend to jump. Trusty occasionally stops with his toenails in the fence. This is the first time he’s gotten me off, but I’ve held on to his ears a couple of times.” She grinned and patted the big horse’s neck. “Quitting dirty is a very bad habit.” She smacked Trusty lightly on his thick neck. “Remember that.”
Albert came out of the barn and stood with his hands on his hips. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “You look like you’ve rolled in the dirt.”
“I did.”
Albert took the reins and glanced at Mike. “So does he. And he’s not dressed for it.”
Liz swung off and leaned against Trusty’s shoulder for a moment.
“You okay?” Albert asked.
“My bruises are having bruises as we speak, but yeah, I’m fine. Just rang my chimes a little bit.”
Albert shook his head and led the horse off. Liz put both hands in the small of her back and stretched, then took two steps toward the stable.
“Ow!” she yelped, and grabbed the back of her left thigh. “Ow, ow, ow, ow!”
Mike reached for her. She snaked her arm back around his neck and held on.
“Charley horse.” Liz grimaced in pain. “Ow, ow, ow,” she repeated.
She hobbled to the mounting block with Mike’s help. Pity she had to be in pain before she’d let him near her.
Mike lowered her so that she sat on the block, and he knelt in front of her. “Stretch your heel down.”
“No way!”
He grabbed the heel of her boot and pulled down hard. She yelped again, but she kept it down when he took his hands away. He reached around her thigh and began to knead. He could feel the knotted muscle. After a moment it began to loosen. He heard her sigh.
He, on the other hand, felt other portions of his body tighten and hoped nobody would notice. He was entirely too susceptible to this woman. His attraction to her had been powerful and immediate. That had only happened to him once before—the first time he laid eyes on Sandi. Sandi, at least, had liked him—loved him, in fact. Liz Matthews made no bones about her dislike.
“You’re good at this,” Liz said and leaned back with a sigh.
“Tennis and handball are notorious for tying up your muscles. You either learn to unkink them fast or walk with a cane.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m sorry I snarled at you. I hate having anybody see me fall. Makes me feel like a fool.”
“No problem.”
She began to giggle. “You’re as dirty as I am.”
He shrugged and stood in front of her. “Dry cleaners clean.”
“Yeah.” She pulled herself up. At that moment, Pat came around the corner followed by Vic and Angie. “You fall?” Vic asked with studied casualness.
“Trusty quit dirty on me. I’m okay.” She cocked her thumb at Pat. “I think your daddy’s ready to go. And Pat, better wear jeans tomorrow.” She limped toward the lounge.
Mike watched her. She hurt considerably more than she was willing to let on. Maybe she’d cracked a rib. He ought to drag her to a doctor just to be sure. She’d never go. Hardheaded, opinionated damned female. He caught his breath. Great, he thought, now I’ve got two of them to worry about. Where in hell had that thought come from.
“WHO WAS THAT masked man?” Angie asked as she flopped down in one of the shabby leather club chairs in the clients’ lounge. The sound of Mike’s Volvo on the gravel driveway was just fading.
Liz lay stretched on the equally shabby leather couch.
Angie continued, “There’s something realty—grrrr—sexy about him.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Liz lied. “You’re a married woman. You shouldn’t be growling at other men.”
“Shoot, I growl at everybody.”
“Unfortunately, so does he.” Liz sat up slowly. She was really beginning to stiffen up. “He’s Mike Whitten, the chairman of the board of trustees at Edenvale School. The guy we have to convince to give us their after-school riding program this fall.”
“That’s Mike Whitten?” Angie began to laugh. “God help you. Kevin knows him from the racquet club. Says he’s rumored to drink a quart of antifreeze every morning just to keep his blood circulating.”
“I can believe it.” Liz began to knead her shoulders. “He’s Mr. Iceberg to everyone except that kid of his.”
“Well, I think he’s gorgeous in a craggy sort of way. Anyway, enough about the intimidating Mr. Whitten. Am I back in your good graces?”
“Partially.”
Vic came in, dug a diet soda out of the refrigerator and took the club chair across from Angie. She looked her niece over carefully. “You really okay?”
“Sure. And feeling foolish.”
Angie sighed, leaned forward and dropped her brown hands between her knees. “Liz isn’t the only one feeling foolish.”
“Why did you leave us?” Vic asked.
Angie hunched her shoulders and took a deep breath. “After Frank died, I stopped winning. I knew it wasn’t your fault, but I thought if I went over to Mark I could start winning again. And I did, too, for a little while.”
“What went wrong?”
“God, everything. He started badgering me to sell both my horses and let him find me some better ones—meaning more expensive. He was furious when I refused, and even more furious when I decided to breed Boop against his wishes.”
“Why did you?” Liz asked.
Angie blushed. “It’s being around Kevin and all those babies. I wanted a baby—something to love, even if it was a foal. And I’ll move Charlie here too if you’ve got room for another jumper.”
“Absolutely,” Vic said.
“Okay,” Angie said. “I’ll leave you a letter of authorization to pick up Charlie tomorrow and bring him here.”
“And the problem of not winning that Mark was supposed to solve for you...?”
Angie shrugged. “I can’t ride Boop until her baby is six months old and weaned. Then it’ll take another three months to get her in condition to jump again. That puts us into next spring, so I won’t be riding any hunters unless I can pick up a few rides for some of your clients, or maybe even for Liz, if she’s got too many horses to ride.”
“We’ll be glad to have you,” Vic said.
“So you don’t care about winning any longer?” Liz asked. “Don’t believe that for a second.”
Angie sat up straight and held her hands out. “Hey, you two are far and away the best trainers I know. I intend to win with you. ValleyCrest is developing clout again with the pair of you. The people that matter are noticing you.” She raised her eyebrows. “You’re even starting to scare a few people like Mark. Goody, goody.”
LATER, after Liz and Vic shared a salad and a chicken sandwich, Liz bedded all her animals for the night, including Jacko the parrot, and climbed into her old clawfooted tub to soak her bruises in a herbal bath. As she sank into the blissfully hot water, she wondered what Mike Whitten was having for dinner with his Pitti-Pat. Healthy junk. She smiled. He had no idea she and Pat were conspiring against him.
She felt a tingle in the pit of her stomach as she remembered the feel of his muscular arm around her, his long fingers on her thigh. Much to her disgust she agreed with Angie. He did exude a kind of wild sexiness.
Liz hadn’t been interested in any man in a very long time. Not only were the pickings slim, but she told herself she didn’t have time for another relationship that would wind up going nowhere. Men did not like to share her attention with the horses. They resented the fact that the horses came first. Always had, always would. And so would the dogs, the cats and the parrots. Animals didn’t break your heart. Men invariably did.
But maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to feel Mike’s arm around her again. Would it be worth falling off a very tall horse to get him to touch her?
“Nah,” she said aloud and closed her eyes. “Although I could always fall off a shorter horse.”
CHAPTER FIVE
DURING DINNER, Pat gave Mike a replay of every moment of her first day at camp.
Mike thought she seemed happier than he had ever seen her. Her face was flushed...
He reached across the table and laid the back of his hand against her forehead.
“Oh, Daddy,” Pat snapped. “I don’t have any fever.”
“You’ve got a lot of color in your cheeks.”
“The sun does that.” Pat snorted. “Get a grip. I feel great!” She told him for the third time how she’d trotted that pony all by herself. A couple of times she nearly slipped and told him the truth—about how she stayed behind so that Liz could help her work through her fear. She managed to catch herself in time.
She was used to giving her father a heavily edited version of her activities. She knew he’d have a cat fit if he ever caught on to some of the things she did when he wasn’t around, and Mrs. H. had promised not to snitch on her. It wasn’t lying exactly. She didn’t want Mike to worry—well, not any more than he did, at any rate.
Maybe when he saw how much fun she was having he’d loosen up a little. She checked to see how he was taking all this. He had a goofy grin on his face. She got up to kiss his cheek.
And she kept up the chatter. Mike found he was listening with a tinge of jealousy. Pat was the only person left in his life who loved him. God knew he loved her. And now she seemed to be developing a crush on Liz Matthews. All his colleagues had warned him that sooner or later Pat would grow up and begin to move away from him.
Strange. He’d never rebelled against his parents. He’d felt no more for them than they had for him. They saw him as a certificate of deposit—tend it properly and the dividends would be worth the expense.
Well, he’d paid off handsomely by presenting them with a large trust fund that would make their years of retirement from the faculty at Berkeley more than comfortable. And then he’d walked out of their lives.
That was almost twenty years ago. He doubted they noticed that he no longer called or came to see them. His father would still be writing stuffy papers about the state of the economy for academic journals, and his mother would be so engrossed in her mathematical formulae that she’d forget dinner.
When they’d sent him to prep school at age twelve, he’d never had a moment’s homesickness. Probably because he’d never felt at home with them. Even as a small boy, he’d often wondered whether he should introduce himself to his parents at breakfast. They never seemed to know quite who he was or what he was doing in their cloistered lives.
Wiping her hands on a linen towel, Mrs. Hannaford came in from the kitchen. “Enough. Time for bed, young lady.”
“No. It’s too early.” Pat’s statement was flat. “Did I tell you...”
“Tomorrow comes early.”
“I’m too keyed up to sleep. I’ll just lie there and toss and turn until daylight.”
“So look at the ceiling and think about tomorrow,” Mike said. “Mrs. H. is right. Take your bath and go to bed. Now.”
“Daddy, I’ve had one bath this evening. I do not intend to take another, thank you very much.”
“Point taken. So brush your teeth and things.”
Pat stalked off toward her bedroom with her head high. She could usually get around her father except when it came to her health. Bedtimes were not negotiable. At the door she paused and turned to say dramatically, “I can hardly wait to get to college and away from here. I plan to drink, smoke pot and date the entire football team.”
“You do and I’ll lock you up in a dungeon until you’re ninety,” Mike answered.
“I’m already locked in a dungeon.” She slammed the door behind her.
“Just like you.” Mrs. Hannaford’s voice was gruff with affection.
“I drink very little, I don’t smoke pot or anything else, and I have never ever dated anybody’s football team.”
“You might consider dating the girls’ volleyball team.”
Mike laughed. “They’re about six years older than Pat. Besides, at my age all that sex would kill me.”
Mrs. Hannaford gave him a cool appraisal. “I doubt that. You going out tonight?”
“No, I’m going to bed. Rachelle is at some real-estate dinner thing.”
“Oh, really.”
At the housekeeper’s tone, Mike raised his head from the back of his chair. “I don’t know why you dislike Rachelle. She’s beautiful, has a great career of her own so she’s not after me for my money—her alimony has left her a wealthy woman—and she and Pat are even civil to each other most of the time. In one year Pat will be thirteen. She needs a mother to—oh, teach her how to shave her legs.”
“I have already taught her that.”
“You have?” Surprised, Mike pulled himself out of the chair and walked over to Mrs. Hannaford.
“Mrs. Hannaford, I don’t know what we’d do without you. Promise me that even if I do marry again, you’ll always be with us.”
She turned away and casually flicked her linen towel at an imaginary dust mote on the polished glass dining-room table. “A new wife will want to do things her way.”
“Not negotiable. You’re family.”
“And who says I’d want to stay under those circumstances? I could always get another job.” She began to polish harder, making tight little whorls on the glass.
Mike felt a jolt. Melba Hannaford had only been with them for a little over two years, but from the beginning he’d never thought of her as an employee. She’d seen too much of their lives, been too much a part of the bad times. He cleared his throat and moved to the window. His hands worked at his sides. When he spoke, his voice sounded colder than it had before. “No doubt you could. You are extremely competent.”
“That nonsense won’t work with me,” she said. “I know you too well. But sooner or later Pat is not going to need either of us, you know.”
“That won’t happen for years.” He felt much more relief than he would admit. “And I don’t plan to marry anyone until I am absolutely positive that it will be the right thing for all of us.”
“I would never presume to tell you who to many,” she said. “But you should not remain celibate for the rest of your life.”
“Who says I’m celibate? And how would you know?” He smiled as he turned and saw the color rise in her cheeks.
“I did not say chaste, Mr. Whitten. Look up celibate in the dictionary. It merely means unmarried, whatever you young people think. All I’m saying is that once Pat goes off to college and starts making a life for herself, you are going to find yourself very much alone.”
He walked over to the cabinet in the corner and pulled a bottle of light beer out of the small refrigerator. He leaned against the closed door, popped the top and took a deep swig. “The wrong woman would be a hell of a lot worse for Pat than celibacy.”
“So find the right one. For both of you.” Mrs. Hannaford sat on the black leather chair and propped her feet in their shining white tennis shoes on the glass-topped coffee table. “Oh, that feels good.”
Mike sat across from her and propped his Top-Siders on the other side. “You don’t think Rachelle is the right one?”
“You’re the one who’s got to live with her if you marry her.”
“True enough.” He took another long swig of his beer, then dropped his head back and closed his eyes. Pat’s exuberance wore him out.
“Hmmph.” Mrs. Hannaford pulled herself to her feet and stalked off to the kitchen.
“One more thing,” Mrs. Hannaford spoke from the kitchen doorway. “What on earth did you do to that blue suit you were wearing?”
Mike laughed. “You do not want to know.”
“Indeed.” Mrs. Hannaford slammed the door behind her.
All his women seemed to be slamming doors on him tonight.
Mike was alone with his thoughts. He tried to conjure up Rachelle’s elegant face. Instead, he found himself staring at a vision of Liz Matthews, dirty face, freckles, wild hair and all. He blinked and sat up.
She was the last woman in the world for him. She was so different from Sandi. He turned so that he could see the vibrant portrait above the fireplace. The woman whose eyes met his was darkly sleek, almost fiercely beautiful. Even in a big blow on Puget Sound in their sailboat, she’d always managed to stay neat. Until that final afternoon. He sighed and closed his eyes against that terrible image.
Every woman he’d ever dated since Sandi’s death had possessed that same elegance.
So why should Liz Matthews with her crooked nose and her grubby jeans attract him? She was so damned sure of herself, so career oriented. She crashed into his life like a freight train.
He set the empty beer bottle down on the coffee table as the realization hit him. Damn. All those qualities were exactly like Sandi. She’d spend all weekend designing one of her fancy Puget Sound houses and forget to eat or sleep. She dragged him to art galleries and theater and ballet and the opera—and taught him to love all of it. She’d exploded his miserable life like a rotten melon.
Four years out of Yale he’d been bored with making money, fed up with the ruthless negotiation and cliffhanger days when ten minutes might make the difference between a million lost and a million won. He’d needed something—or someone—new in his life.
He remembered the night he first saw her. He’d been alone, as usual, propping up the wall of the office reception room while a cocktail party raged around him, waiting until he could go home without seeming too rude.
She wore a loose red silk dress and the highest heels he’d ever seen outside of a topless bar. She stood out like a peony among all those navy and gray suits. Her long black hair was pulled back tight in a heavy bun on the back of her head. She caught him gaping at her, worked her way through the crowd until she was close enough to lay her hand on his arm. She said, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
He stammered, “I do now.”
He took her to bed two hours later, and six weeks later they were married. She was two years older than he, but that made no difference. They had six years of happiness. He bought her a forty-six-foot sailing sloop. Her career as an architect took off. He regained his pleasure in the money game. They seemed to live in a golden glow where everything they attempted turned out perfectly.
It had ended in four hours on a rainy Friday afternoon. She’d gone into premature labor, had an emergency C-section and burst a blood vessel in her brain that killed her twenty minutes later and left him with a two-pound baby daughter that he never intended to see.
He’d felt only rage. Rage at himself for giving in to her and getting her pregnant, rage at the child who had killed her, at Sandi for leaving him with this tiny little thing on his hands, at the doctors, the hospital, heaven itself.
He sailed their sloop out into the Sound so that he could open the sea cocks, sink the boat and join his wife.
He’d never doubted that it was Sandi who stopped him as he reached for the first plug. He turned the boat around, sailed back to the dock and drove at once to the hospital. He stood outside the neonatal intensive care unit looking at his blue-black stick figure of a daughter as she fought for her life. She was the ugliest small animal he’d ever seen.
As he stood staring in at his child, Sandi gave him her final gift. She filled his heart with love for this child for whom she had died. He sat down with his back against the wall and howled so loudly that two interns tried to sedate him.
He’d had his one great love. He couldn’t expect another. In the years since, he’d only sought to find a friend, a colleague, an ally to share his life and help raise Pat. Most marriages had considerably less going for them than friendship and collaboration.
Liz Matthews wasn’t his ally or colleague, and she didn’t act as though she’d ever consider him a friend. Yet she stirred his blood. He felt a tremor of disloyalty to Sandi, then he seemed to hear Sandi’s laughter. She never let him get away with nonsense like that.
Suddenly he had to get out of the apartment, drive. somewhere, anywhere. He told Mrs. Hannaford he’d be back in an hour or so and escaped from the apartment as though he were being chased by the devil himself.
“TRAVELLER’S MY PONY,” Pat screamed and started up the ladder to the hayloft.
“Get down from there,” Liz said. “I don’t feel up to climbing today.”
“I won’t.”
Liz sighed and began to follow, groaning at every step.
Halfway up the ladder, Pat stopped and glared over her shoulder at Liz. “You really hurt?”
“I am stiff and sore, thank you.”
Pat said nothing for a moment, then she started down. “Get out of the way.”
Liz stepped off the ladder and stood waiting in the aisle with her hands on her hips. “Come into the lounge so we can discuss this properly.”
Pat slouched ahead of her, dropped onto the leather couch, crossed her arms over her chest and pouted.
“Did we or did we not have an agreement about tantrums?”
“You gave that stuck-up Janey my Traveller. How could you?” Pat wailed.
Liz blew out her breath and sank gingerly into one of the chairs. “Janey is an experienced rider. I’m too big to work Iggy, and Vic doesn’t ride. Every step Janey takes on that pony teaches him.”
“But I want to ride him now.”
“Forget it.”
Pat set her jaw and glowered. Liz did not react.
After a moment Pat sighed and said, “Okay. But only if I can stay late for an extra lesson every day this week.”
“God, you drive a hard bargain. Anything for a peaceful life.” Liz pulled herself to her feet. “So go get Wishbone tacked up and get yourself into that arena.” She walked out.
Pat uttered a deeply put-upon sigh and heaved herself off the sofa just as Vic stuck her head in the door.
“You’re in my class today,” Vic said. “I warn you, I don’t put up with bad manners. One fit and you’re out.”
“Everybody’s always trying to throw me out.”
“No, we’re trying to keep you in. You just make it darned difficult for us.” She put her arm across Pat’s shoulders. “Listen, you’ve got the makings of a good rider.”
Pat shook off the arm. “How come you don’t ride? You’re scared, right?”
Vic caught her breath. “Boy, you go for the jugular, don’t you? Okay,” Vic continued. “I used to think I stopped riding because I was scared for myself. That’s not it. I’m terrified that somebody else will do something stupid and will get hurt because I’m not good enough to get out of the way. I can’t take that chance again.”
“That’s silly.”
“You asked. I told you. Now get Wishbone ready. We’re ten minutes late.”
PAT’S LESSON WENT smoothly enough. She did everything Vic asked of her including trying to post at the trot. Toward the end she seemed to click into the rhythm. She did have the makings of a rider.
Janey, meanwhile, handled Traveller beautifully. At the rate she was taking him, he’d be jumping small fences in a week.
At four o’clock Liz found herself hanging around inside the barn waiting for Mike Whitten to pick up Pat. When the silver Volvo pulled into the parking lot ten minutes later she felt her heart lurch. It sank as a plump lady climbed out of the driver’s side.
“Hey, I’m Melba Hannaford come for Pat.” She presented a note from Mike.
“Oh? Where’s Mr. Whitten?”
“Had to go out of town for a couple of days.”
Pat saw Mrs. Hannaford, and after a moment’s hesitation, took her on the same tour of the barn she’d dragged her father on.
She wasn’t so lucky at dragging out her visit, however. “No. I’ve got to stop by the store and get dinner in the oven,” Mrs. Hannaford said. “You’ll be back tomorrow.”
Pat stormed off to the car, climbed in and slammed the door. Through the windshield, Liz, Vic and Mrs. Hannaford could see her staring bullets at them.
“I hope he’ll be back in time for the barbecue and sleepover Friday night,” Vic said.
“Sleepover?”
“The parents are all coming for dinner, then the kids will stay over in sleeping bags on the lounge floor.”
“Oh, dear, I don’t think Mr. Whitten would allow that. Pat has never slept over at anybody’s house.”
“Time she started, then,” Vic said.
Mrs. Hannaford smiled. “You’re right. I’ll talk to him. Oh, can he bring a date?”
“Sure,” Liz said. Her voice sounded like a croak. “Now, I’ve got to go work out my jumper before my next lesson shows up. Nice to have met you.”
Of course Mike Whitten would bring a date. He must have dozens of women—beautiful, fashionable, clean women. Why did it bother her so badly? She turned to find Vic at her elbow and asked, “What’s this about a barbecue? We can’t afford it.”
“We can’t afford not to. Albert and I have everything arranged.”
“I should have guessed.”
“This is a family barn, Liz. Time we started treating it that way again. Show Whitten what a marvelous atmosphere it is for kids.”
“He’ll never let her eat barbecue in the open. He probably prefers pheasant under glass—suitably disinfected, of course.” Liz stomped off with Trusty’s halter in her hand.
Vic raised her eyebrows at Albert, who was straightening the wash rack and surreptitiously watching Liz. He nodded and grinned. “Uh-huh. Thought so.”
CHAPTER SIX
FRIDAY THE CAMPERS brought sleeping bags and paraphernalia for the sleepover. All except Pat. Mrs. Hannaford explained to Vic. “Mr. Whitten gets in from San Francisco at noon. I’ve talked to him on the telephone about the sleepover and the party, but he hasn’t made his decision yet.” She patted Vic’s arm. “I think I can persuade him to let Pat stay. I’m off to buy Pat a new sleeping bag. He can bring it with him tonight.”
Because all the kids were staying late, there was no extra lesson for Pat in the afternoon. She really didn’t need one. She had worked hard all week, and was progressing as well as everyone else.
Much to Liz’s amazement, Pat and Janey were becoming a team. They giggled together, ate together, played with the kittens together. Pat had become accustomed to Wishbone, but Liz caught her looking at Traveller wistfully, particularly now that Janey had progressed to trotting the pony over poles on the ground and cantering low jumps.
Liz knew Pat was still scared, although she hid it well. She did fine at the trot, but so far she’d categorically refused to try to push Wishbone into a canter. Each day she told Liz she’d try, and each day she reneged.
Now the barn was spiffed up, the horses were. groomed and fed, the barbecued ribs and shoulders were turning over a slow hickory fire in the parking lot, the tables and chairs were set out and ready.
Parents and clients began to arrive at six, and within minutes, pandemonium reigned as proud youngsters introduced their parents to the horses.
Liz, who usually loved parties and liked meeting new people, found herself strangely absentminded. Mike Whitten was late. She was curious about his date. Probably some long-stemmed beauty with painted toenails and expensively streaked hair.
At seven the silver Volvo pulled into the parking lot. Liz held her breath. Mike climbed out and walked around to open the passenger-side door. Liz blinked. He was wearing tight black jeans, a black linen shirt open at the neck and polished loafers without socks. He really did have a great body. She gulped, saw the woman emerging from the car and began to laugh.
Melba Hannaford climbed out and pulled a new sleeping bag and duffel from the back seat. She loaded Mike down with his daughter’s gear, turned, saw Liz, smiled and waved. Mike saw her at the same moment. He frowned.
“This is against my better judgment.” he said without preamble.
“Good grief, why?” Liz asked.
“Pat sleeps in filtered ionized air. She’s not used to sleeping on the floor surrounded by dust and pets.”
“Maybe it’s time she started.” Liz took the duffel off Mike’s arm. “Come on, Melba, meet the crowd.” She led them into the party.
Mike hated parties. He was lousy at making small talk with strangers. He glowered. That generally kept people at a distance.
Not tonight. A tall, graying man with a cherubic face and pink cheeks strode up to him with hand outstretched. “Hey, Mike. You may not remember me. I’m Kevin Womack. Your locker is two down from me at the club.”
Womack clapped a hand on Mike’s shoulder and began to introduce him around. Everyone was speaking at once and seemed to be having a great time. Mike searched the crowd for Pat, who had vanished.
“She’s in the hayloft with Janey,” Vic said from behind his left shoulder. Mike began to make his way through the crowd. He wanted to see his daughter.
As he turned the corner, he heard one Edenvale father say to a rotund, middle-aged man, “That’s Michael Whitten. Increased the endowment three hundred percent. I’m glad he’s on our side. I hear he’s a bad enemy.” Mike smiled grimly. At least his reputation . was intact.
“Pat?” he called up to the hayloft. He was answered by a pair of squeals. A moment later two heads, Pat’s and a dark girl’s, appeared over the edge of the hayloft.
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