by Kit Ehrman
Chapter 9
When I looked back at Rachel, I realized I'd forgotten to introduce her. I apologized.
"That's all right." Her eyes twinkled with humor. "You were too busy being run over."
I snagged one of the servers, got a beer for myself and wine for Rachel--served in a plastic cup, nonetheless--and said, hoping it didn't sound idiotic, "To the future."
"To the future." She hesitated before taking a sip. The Christmas lights reflected in her dark eyes, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, the future would be an improvement over the past.
We carried our drinks into the barn and checked out the inhabitants. I stopped at the second stall on the right. "This is Jake, one of my favorites."
Rachel grasped one of the bars on the stall door, and the gelding tentatively stretched his neck and nuzzled her fingers with his velvety black nose.
"Yep," I said. "He's as sweet and as docile as a lamb, but boy, can he jump. Jumps like a jackrabbit."
We drifted down one side of the aisle and up the other. Kids were running and squealing in the aisle across the way, turning the barn into a playground. Most of the horses were eating their hay, some were dozing, none seemed disturbed by the activity. When I was satisfied that they were fine with all the commotion, we crossed over to barn B and eventually stopped at her horse's stall. The gelding tilted his head to the side, the way they do when they think they're going to be fed, and tried his damnedest to look cute.
"You're embarrassing. You know that?" Rachel stretched her fingers between the bars and rubbed his nose. He pulled back in annoyance.
Just then, Marty, obviously a shade drunk, strolled into the barn with his arm slung around the shoulders of a tall blonde and a beer dangling from his hand. I had never seen her before, but I wasn't surprised. With Marty's dark good looks and outgoing personality, he was never alone for long. They came to an abrupt halt in front of us. The blonde swayed from the unexpected maneuver. I glanced at my drink and wondered if I'd be driving them home.
"So-o-o, there you are," Marty slurred. "Was wonderin' where you'd got to. Steve, this is Angie." He paused, and I noticed a mischievous glint in his eyes as he added, "Jessica's sister." He gestured with his hand and beer sloshed down his fingers. "Angie, Steve."
So Marty's new honey was his ex's sister. Damn, he didn't worry about anything. I tried to keep a straight face. "Nice to meet you."
Angie pushed a handful of bleached-blond hair out of her eyes and mumbled something indistinct. She was heavy into jewelry and makeup--unappealing to my eyes--but Marty never sweated the details. His only concern, as he frequently lectured me, was the main course. And actually, the main course looked pretty good. She was built a lot like her sister.
Marty gulped some beer, then licked his lips. "Yep, ol' Steve here's the main man. Our hero. Defender of horses everywhere. Yep. Got the crap--"
"Marty!" I cut him off. "Marty, this is Rachel . . . Rachel, Marty. He works here, too."
Marty looked her up and down with evident approval and swayed when he leaned forward to shake her hand. "Nice to meet you." He looked past her and winked at me.
I sighed inwardly. Marty, sober, was not the epitome of tact. Plastered, he was much worse. Pulling his girl along with him, he stepped over to me and hooked his free arm across my shoulders.
"Rachel," he said, "take good care of this guy. I'm happy to see there's life in him after all." He squeezed my shoulder, then let his arm drop to his side. "Come on, Ange." He guided her toward the exit. "See ya later," he yelled over his shoulder.
I leaned back against the stall door, thinking that Marty could be so embarrassing when Rachel said, "What was he going to say when you interrupted him?"
The overhead lights shone like silver in her dark hair. "What?"
"What did he mean by 'defender of horses?'"
Damn Marty and his big mouth. "Nothing," I mumbled. "It's just something silly he likes to say."
She frowned.
Rachel, I saw, was not a girl to put up with evasion. I wondered what I should tell her. If I should tell.
I sighed. "In February . . . some guys stole seven horses from the farm. I ran into them. That's what he was talking about." And damn him.
"Is that what happened to your face?" she said.
"Yes." It came out a whisper.
"It must have been horrible."
"It's history. No big deal." My voice sounded convincing enough, and it was over and done with, but not in the middle of the night. Not in my dreams. Annoyingly, I still dreamt about it. Dreamt about him. And in those dreams he was disturbingly real.
"You're strong," she said softly.
I snorted. If she only knew. There was compassion in her eyes, I thought, and understanding. We were standing close. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her against me.
As I'd been ignoring Foxdale's policy of non-fraternization with the boarders, a policy no one paid attention to anyway, I said, "I know you get up early, but would you like to go to dinner and the movies" . . . and bed . . . "Thursday evening?"
She looked at my face, her dark eyes serious. "Sure."
I kissed her on the lips and thought the evening couldn't get any better.
We walked back outside to the party, or what was left of it. The caterer's wagon had been locked up tight, and many of the guests had gone home. As we crossed the grass, I heard someone shouting above the music. His back was toward us, his muscles rigid with tension, and he was flailing his arms. I groaned when I saw his target.
Of all people, he had to be arguing with Mr. Sanders, who was so anxious to get away from the guy, he was practically squirming. His face was red from embarrassment or anger. I couldn't tell which. It hadn't taken him long to replace Steel, though I imagined the twenty-thousand dollar insurance claim had helped considerably. A week after the theft, he'd purchased a large blood-bay hunter with an ugly head and surly disposition. The new horse didn't take well to mistakes or roughness from his rider and was teaching Sanders a thing or two about finesse and tact, having bucked him off whenever Sander's aids weren't precise.
I asked Rachel to stay where she was, then walked down the alleyway between the barn and canopy. The troublemaker was waving a beer bottle in the air and shouting increasingly vulgar obscenities. Sanders backed up, reminding me of a horse ready to bolt.
I stepped closer. "Excuse me."
The troublemaker wheeled around and lurched sideways. "What the fuck do you want?"
I was surprised because I knew him. He drove Harrison's hay truck more often than not, and he hadn't been invited to the party. I thought about the bale he'd slammed into my back and wondered what his problem was.
"You'll have to leave," I said.
In a low, menacing voice, he said, "Make me, you little boot-licking, cock-sucking, creepy bastard."
Conscious of the attention we were attracting, I stood very still, knowing full well that my lack of reaction was pissing him off.
I should have seen it coming . . . stupid, really, that I didn't. I had started to turn, to make sure Rachel hadn't followed, when he punched me in the face. I crashed backward against the barn siding. I was still scrambling to get my footing when he swung the beer bottle at my head.
I ducked it . . . just. The bottle exploded against the ridged metal siding, inches above my head.
He now held in his hand a jagged, lethal-looking piece of glass which he held close to my face.
I didn't move . . . didn't dare.
He couldn't be stupid enough to use it in front of all these people, could he? But he was drunk. "Drunk and disorderly" came to mind as I looked in his eyes. Nothing reassuring there. Nothing at all.
I couldn't think of a way out. I was afraid to move. Was sure he'd use it if I did.
"Hey!" a loud voice boomed. Marty.
The driver looked at Marty. I didn't. When his gaze was off me, I hit his arm hard. The glass flew out of his hand and bounced across the grass.
He spun ba
ck around. His eyes had the glazed-over look of the truly inebriated and were wild with hate. An ugly vein that ran across his temple had become distended and throbbed visibly. I rammed my fist into his ear with a fierceness that surprised me. He yelped and cupped his hand over his ear.
I tackled him, and we crashed into a picnic table. He hit the wooden edge hard. The momentum carried us across the top, scattering paper plates and half-filled cups.
When we landed on the grass, I got to my knees fast and rolled him onto his back. I straddled him and slammed my fist into his face. My knuckles connected solidly with his nose, and I felt the cartilage give. I got in two more swings before he got his arms up and covered his face. I punched him in the solar plexus, then swung my arm back for another go.
Someone grabbed my wrist and hauled me to my feet. I whirled around.
"Jesus Christ," Marty yelled. "What's the matter with you?" He glanced down at the driver, who was rolling over onto his hands and knees, and pulled me across the grass. "What'n the hell do you think you're doin'?"
"Get off me." I yanked my arm free and spun around. The driver was staggering between a table and half-empty tub of soda on his way to the parking lot. I started after him.
Marty latched onto my arm. "Give it a rest for crying out loud."
"Let go!" I pulled against him, but his grip was like steel. "Let go of me, Marty."
"Forget him."
"Fuck you." I slammed my hands into Marty's chest and pushed him backward, but he held on like a leech. I looked after the driver and saw that he'd already disappeared around the corner of the indoor.
Marty moved around in front of me and blocked my view. "Steve, you're making a mistake."
"No, Marty." I glared at him and said through clenched teeth, "You're making a mistake if you don't fucking turn me loose."
I looked down at his fingers wrapped around my arm, at my hands clenched into fists, at the blood smeared across my jacket.
"Okay, Steve." He released my arm. "It's your call." His voice was so calm, it took me by surprise. "Just don't be stupid."
I glanced around. The remaining guests were clustered in little groups, whispering to each other with sidelong glances, trying not to be too obvious. I sat down at a nearby picnic table, braced my hands on my knees, and watched blood drip from my nose and splatter onto the grass between my feet. I closed my eyes and felt dizzy.
"Come on, Steve." Marty slipped his hand under my arm. "Let's go into the lounge. Okay, buddy?"
I yanked my arm free. "I can stand up, dammit,"
It wasn't until I was on my feet that I noticed Rachel. She was hovering behind Marty with her arms wrapped around herself, looking like she didn't know what to do.
She walked over to me. "Are you all right?"
I nodded.