by Nora Roberts
cliché, but I could use a cigarette. Let’s get some air. They’re nearly done here.”
Naomi pulled a stick of gum out of her pocket as she stepped outside. “Want some?”
“No, thanks.”
“It’s a poor substitute for tobacco.” She sighed a little as she folded the stick in her mouth. “But most substitutes are poor in any case.” Tilting her head, she studied her daughter more thoroughly. “You look tired, Kelsey. Restless night?”
“Somewhat.”
Naomi sighed again. Her daughter had once been so open with her, a chatterbox of news and questions. Those days, like so many others, were over. “You can tell me if you’d rather I leave it alone, but I’d like to ask if Philip is against this visit.”
“I think it’s more accurate to say he’s hurt by my decision to accept your invitation.”
“I see.” Naomi looked down at the ground, and nodded once. “I’d tell you I’d talk to him myself, try to reassure him, but I think it would only make matters worse.”
“It would.”
“All right, then. He’ll be uneasy for a few weeks.” Her eyes were hard when she looked up again. Dammit, she deserved this—one short month out of so many years. “He’ll survive. I can’t be dead just because so many people would prefer it.” She glanced over as Gabe led the sweaty stallion out of the shed. Her smile bloomed, softening her face again. “So, do you think we have a merger?”
“If not, it’s not for lack of trying.” He slapped the stallion’s neck before giving the reins to a handler. “The first of many, I hope. Well, Kelsey, you’ve had an interesting initiation into life on a horse farm. If you stick around till after the first of next year, you’ll see the results of today’s tryst.”
“That’s a very understated description for what went on in there. She didn’t appear to have much choice in the matter.”
“Neither did he.” Grinning, Gabe took out a cigar. “That kind of primitive attraction doesn’t allow for choice. Moses will let me know if we need a repeat performance,” he said to Naomi, “but I’ve got a hunch we won’t.”
“I’d ask for odds, but I prefer to go with your hunch on this one. Excuse me just a minute. I want to check on the mare.”
Kelsey looked over to where the stallion was being cooled down. “Shouldn’t you be over there, exchanging lies and letting him puff on that cigar?”
“I gave up lying about my sex life in high school. Do I make you nervous, Kelsey, or is it just the atmosphere?”
“Neither.” He made her something, all right, she thought. But that was her problem. “So you own the neighboring farm, then? Longshot?”
“That’s right.”
“I admired your house from the road. It’s quite a bit less traditional than the others in the area.”
“So am I. The very dignified Cape Cod that stood on the hill when the farm passed into my hands didn’t suit me. So I tore it down.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “You’ll have to come over, have a tour.”
“I’d like that, but I think I’ll concentrate on touring Three Willows first.”
“You won’t find a better operation on the East Coast. Unless it’s mine.” The snort from behind him made him turn, then grin at Moses. “Of course, I’d have the best in the country if I could lure Whitetree away. Double what she pays you, Moses.”
“Keep your money, boy. Buy yourself another fancy suit.” Moses handed the mare to a stableboy for a rubdown. “Owners like you—flash in the pan.”
“That’s what you said five years ago.”
“That’s what I say now. Give me a cigar.”
“You’re a hard man, Whitetree.” Gabe obliged him.
“Yep.” Moses stuck the cigar in his pocket for later. “Your groom with the broken nose? There was gin on his breath.”
Gabe’s easy smile faded, his eyes narrowed. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Tell your trainer to take care of it,” Moses shot back. “It’s his job.”
“My horses,” Gabe corrected. “Excuse me.” He turned on his heel and headed for the trailer where the stallion was being loaded.
“He’ll never learn, that one,” Moses muttered.
“There’s no chain of command as far as Gabe is concerned.” Watching Gabe confront the groom, Naomi shook her head. “You should have told his trainer, Moses.”
“And Jamison shouldn’t need me to tell him what goes on under his nose.”
“Ah.” Kelsey held up a hand. “Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”
“Gabe’s firing one of his grooms,” Naomi told her.
“Just like that?”
“You don’t drink when you’re working.” Moses hissed a breath out of his teeth as the groom’s enraged voice carried to them. “Owners should stay out of shedrow business.”
“Why?” Kelsey asked.
“Because they’re owners.” With a shake of his head, Moses strode off toward the stables.
“Never a dull moment.” Naomi touched Kelsey’s arm. “Why don’t we . . . shit.”
“What?” Kelsey looked over in time to see the groom swing at Gabe. And to see Gabe evade, once, twice, fluid as a shadow.
Gabe didn’t strike back, though the instinct was there, the back alley that always lurked under the civilized man he’d made himself. The groom was pitiful, he thought, and half his size. And the worst of it was that it had taken Moses to point out that he’d had a drunk handling his horse.
“Go back and get your gear, Lipsky,” Gabe repeated, icily calm as the groom stood with cocked fists. “You’re through at Longshot.”
“Who are you to tell me I’m through?” Lipsky ran a hand over his mouth. He wasn’t drunk, not yet. He’d had only enough of the gin in his flask to make him feel tall. And mean. “I know more about horses than you ever will. You lucked your way into the big time, Slater. Lucked and cheated and everybody knows it. Just like everybody knows your old man’s a drunken loser.”
The heat that flashed into Gabe’s eyes had the handlers easing back. In tacit agreement they silently formed a ring. It was, they believed, nearly showtime.
“Know my father, do you, Lipsky? I’m not surprised. You’re welcome to look him up, have a few drinks. But in the meantime, pick up your gear and the pay that’s coming to you. You’re fired.”
“Jamison hired me. I’ve been at Cunningham Farm for ten years, and I’ll be there after you’ve gone back to your roulette wheels and blackjack tables.”
Over Lipsky’s head Gabe saw two of the handlers exchange glances. So, he thought, those were the cards he was dealt. He’d play them out later, but now he had to finish this hand.
“There is no Cunningham Farm, and no place for you at Longshot. Jamison might have hired you, Lipsky, but I write your checks. I don’t write checks for drunks. If I see you near any of my horses, I can promise you, it won’t be Jamison who deals with you.”
He turned, his gaze cutting straight to Kelsey. She stood, like the handlers, watching the show. She had a moment to think she’d prefer that the calm disdain in Gabe’s eyes wasn’t directed at her before she caught the glint of sun on steel.
The warning strangled in her throat, but Gabe was already whipping back to face the knife. The first lunge sliced almost delicately down his arm rather than plunging into his back. The sight and smell of blood had the handlers shifting quickly from their mildly interested attitudes.
“Keep back,” Gabe ordered, ignoring the pain in his arm. His mistake, he thought, was in not judging correctly how far the drink would push. “You want to take me on, Lipsky?” His body was coiled now, ready. When you couldn’t walk away from a fight, you dove in and played the odds. “Well, you’ll need that knife. So come on.”
The blade trembled in Lipsky’s hand. For a moment, he couldn’t remember how it had gotten there. The hilt had seemed to leap into his hand. But it was there now, and so was first blood. Pride stirred by gin wouldn’t allow him to back off.
He cr
ouched, feinted, and began to circle.
“We have to do something.” The horror in Kelsey’s throat tasted like rusted copper. “Call the police.”
“No, not the police.” Pale as wax, Naomi clenched her hands at her sides. “Not the police.”
“Something. Good God.” She watched the blade gleam and lunge, slipping by inches from Gabe’s body. No one moved but the two in the center of the circle, then the stallion began to kick in his trailer, excited anew by the scent of blood and violence.
Before she could think, Kelsey grabbed a pitchfork leaning against the side of the shed. She didn’t want to dwell on what the tines would do to flesh, so she hefted it and began running forward, only to stumble to a halt when the knife flashed again. It arched up, flying free, as Lipsky hit the ground.
She hadn’t seen the blow. Gabe hadn’t appeared to move at all. But now he was standing over the groom, his eyes cold, his face as calm as carved stone.
“Let Jamison know where you end up. He’ll send your gear and your money.” In an effortless move he hauled Lipsky up by the scruff of the neck. The stink of gin and blood curdled in his stomach, sour memories. “Don’t let me catch you around here again or I might forget I’m a gentleman now, and break you in half.”
He tossed the limp groom down again, and turned to his men. “Let him off on the road. He can ride his thumb out of here.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Slater.” They scrambled, as impressed as boys at a school-yard brawl, dragging Lipsky up and carrying him to the truck.
“Sorry, Naomi.” In a careless gesture, Gabe raked the hair out of his eyes. “I should have waited to fire him until we were back at Longshot.”
She was trembling, and hated it. “Then I would have missed the performance.” Forcing a smile on her face, she moved closer. Blood was dripping down his arm. “Come on up to the house. We’ll clean that arm.”
“That’s my cue to say it’s just a scratch.” He glanced down at it, grateful it wasn’t much more than that, no matter how nastily it throbbed. “But I’d be a fool to turn down nursing by beautiful women.” He looked at Kelsey then.
She still held the pitchfork, her knuckles white as bone on the handle. Valiant color rode high on her cheeks and shock glazed her eyes.
“I think you can put that down now.” He took it from her, gently. “But I appreciate the thought.”
Her knees began to shake, so she locked them stiff. “You’re just going to let him go?”
“What else?”
“People are usually arrested for attempted murder.” She looked back at her mother, saw the wry smile curve Naomi’s lips. “Is this how things are handled around here?”
“You’ll have to ask Moses,” Naomi replied. “He does the firing at Three Willows.” Taking the bandanna out of her pocket, she stanched the blood on Gabe’s arm. “Sorry I don’t have a petticoat to tear up for you.”
“So am I.”
“Hold it there, press hard,” she instructed him. “Let’s go up to the house and get it bandaged.”
They started off, Gabe keeping his pace slow until Kelsey caught up. He turned his face to hers, and grinned. “Welcome home, Kelsey.”
CHAPTER
FIVE
KELSEY LEFT THE FIRST AID TO HER MOTHER, AND THE BUSTLING AND clucking to Gertie. She would have voted for a trip to the emergency room, but no one seemed particularly interested in her opinion.
Knife wounds, it seemed, were to be taken philosophically and mopped up in the kitchen.
Once Gabe’s arm was cleaned, medicated, and bandaged, bowls of chicken soup and hot biscuits were served. Talk was of horses, of bloodlines and races, of times and tracks. Since it wasn’t a world Kelsey understood, she was free to observe and speculate.
She had yet to determine Naomi’s relationship with Gabriel Slater. It appeared intimate, easy. It was he who rose to refill coffee cups, not his hostess. They touched each other often, casually. A hand over a hand, fingertips against an arm.
She told herself it didn’t matter what they were to each other. After all, her mother and father had been divorced for more than twenty years. Naomi was free to pursue any relationship she chose.
And yet it bothered her on some elemental level.
Certainly they suited each other. Beyond the easy flow between them, over and above their interest in horses that consumed them both, there was a strain of violence in each. Controlled, on ice. But as she knew with her mother, and as she’d seen for herself with Gabe, deadly.
“Kelsey might enjoy a trip to the track for some morning workouts,” Gabe put in. He was enjoying his coffee, enjoying watching Kelsey. He could almost see the thoughts circling around in her head.
“The track?” She was interested, despite having her private musing interrupted. “I thought you worked the horses out here.”
“We do both,” Naomi told her. “Using the track gives a horse a feel for it.”
“And the handicappers a chance to gauge their bets,” Gabe put in. “The track draws an interesting and eclectic group, particularly in those dawn hours long before post time.”
“Dawn’s no exaggeration.” Naomi smiled at her daughter. “You might not like to start your day quite so early.”
“Actually, I’d like to see how it’s done.”
“Tomorrow?” The lift of Gabe’s brow was a subtle challenge.
“Fine.”
“We’ll meet you there.” Naomi glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to get down to the stables. The farrier’s due.” As she rose she pressed a hand to Gabe’s shoulder. “Finish your coffee. Kelsey, you’ll keep Gabe company, won’t you? He’ll tell you what to expect in the morning.” She grabbed a denim jacket and hurried out.
“She doesn’t stay in one place very long,” Kelsey murmured.
“First part of the year is the busiest in the business.” Gabe leaned back, the coffee cup in his hand. “So, should I tell you what to expect?”
“I’d rather be surprised.”
“Then tell me something. Would you have used that pitchfork?”
She considered, letting the question hang. “I guess neither of us will know the answer to that.”
“I’d lay odds you would have. A hell of a picture you made, darling. More than worth a prick on the arm to see it.”
“You’re going to have a scar, Slater. You’re lucky it was your arm and not your pretty face.”
“He was aiming for my back,” Gabe reminded her. “I didn’t thank you for the warning.”
“I didn’t give you one.”
“Sure you did. Your face was as good as a shout.” He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a worn deck of cards. Casually he began a riffling shuffle. “Do you play poker?”
Confused, she scowled at him. “I don’t as a rule, but I know the game.”
“If you take it up, never bluff. You’d lose more than your shirt.”
“Have you? Lost more than your shirt?”
“More times than I care to remember.” Out of habit, he began to deal two hands of stud, faces up. “Would you bet on your queen?”
Kelsey moved her shoulders. “I suppose.”
He flipped up the next cards. “After a while, if you’re smart, you don’t risk what you can’t afford to lose. I’ve got plenty of shirts. Your queen’s still high.”
“So it is.” For some absurd reason, she was enjoying the game. On the third card, her spade queen still reigned. And on the fourth. “Still mine. Is it the betting or the horses that interests you?”
“I’ve got more than one interest.”
“Including Naomi?”
“Including Naomi.” He turned over the last card, smiled easily. “A pair of fives,” he mused. “Looks like they usurp your queen.”
Her mouth moved into what was very close to a pout. “It’s a shame to lose to such pathetic cards.”
“No cards are pathetic if they win.” He took her hand, amused when the fingers went rigid. “An old southern tradition.
Ma’am.” He brought her hand to his lips, watching her. “I owe you for Lipsky.