by Tracy Wolff
She stared at him in disbelief as her hands clenched into fists by her sides. “It’s been a long day, Jesse. Filled with surprises,” she said shakily.
Guilt hit him hard, a quick punch to the gut that nearly had him doubling over. He had done this to her. He had ruined their daughter’s wedding day with his impulsiveness.
He wanted to say something to erase the haunted look in her eyes. It had been his intention to have it out with her tonight; he had planned on confronting her and demanding an explanation about Tom Bradford. But she looked so tired, so beaten, that he couldn’t bring himself to kick her when she was down. Tomorrow was soon enough to deal with things between them. He knew her well enough to know that by tomorrow all of her defenses would be back in place.
“Go to bed, Desi.” His voice was husky with everything that had been left unsaid. “I’ll pay the caterers.”
“I can take care of it—”
“Damn it, Desiree. I know you can take care of it. I know you can do everything. But you’re dead on your feet. Go to bed and let me take care of this for you.”
She froze at his tone, her eyes growing wider. When she spoke, her voice was stilted. “Okay, then. Thank you.” Her bare feet whispered across the floor as she all but ran for the door.
He stared after her, cursing himself. He’d hurt her again, though he hadn’t meant to. When had she gotten so sensitive? He laughed unpleasantly. When had he become such a bastard?
He grabbed a beer from behind the bar before sinking into a chair in the corner, as far out of the way as he could get from where the catering staff was packing up. He popped the top and took a long swallow before propping his feet on a nearby seat.
Silently contemplating the beer, he brooded as he listened to the activity going on around him. Long minutes passed before he remembered the book Willow had given him. Desiree’s journal. He pulled it out of his pocket to stare at it. He wanted to open it and read what was inside. But he wasn’t sure, even after all these years, that he could handle it. That he could deal with Desiree’s true opinion of the ranch and of him.
Eventually he did open it, of course, because he could do nothing else. He read the first entry quickly, his eyes widening with disbelief as he skimmed her thoughts on love, on destiny. Page after page, he was shocked and abruptly humbled by this rare glimpse into his wife’s mind. Perhaps that’s what his daughter had had in mind when she’d handed it to him.
He read voraciously, stopping only when his gaze fell on a date he couldn’t bear to remember. He nearly closed the book, nearly walked away from it to avoid reading his wife’s thoughts about what had happened on August 6, 2006. It was a day he had come to think of as the beginning of the end of their marriage. He’d lived and relived it in his thoughts and dreams nearly every night for the past two years, and he really didn’t want to read about it from Desiree’s point of view.
But he’d never been a coward, had never walked away from the more unpleasant tasks in life. So, with a grimace and a long swallow of beer, he began to read.
How do you take back what you say in anger? How do you fight a battle that seems completely unwinnable? I’m so tired that I don’t know if I can fight anymore. How can anyone be this tired at forty-seven—tired and angry and so disgusted with myself that I can barely look at myself in the mirror or my husband in the eye?
Things had been going so well. Rio had just come home from school and was working on the ranch. Jesse and I had managed to smooth out so many of the rough edges that have crept into our marriage through the years. Then I went and ruined it. No, we ruined it, because he must take at least partial responsibility for what has happened.
We lost the Triple Crown again—a state of affairs that I am becoming embarrassingly familiar with. Our quest for the title and the near misses, year after year, have even sparked a kind of folklore around the track. Tales of a jinx, a curse, a self-fulfilling prophecy that will keep us from ever winning those three races in one year.
I don’t believe in superstition and I don’t believe in curses, but as I wait, year after year, to fulfill my father’s dying wish, I admit it gets tougher and tougher to still believe.
I did something horrible, said things I am completely ashamed of now that the heat of anger has passed me by. But how do I take them back? How do I approach him and say that I am sorry? Where will we be if I can’t?
When did marriage get so difficult? When did a collective dream cease to be enough and individual dreams spring up to take its place? I want a Triple Crown. I want to fulfill my promise to my father. Jesse doesn’t understand, because he wasn’t raised by Big John. He doesn’t understand this burning need inside of me not to screw up, not to live down to my father’s expectations of me.
How could following my own needs and desires, how could becoming the best woman I knew how to be, be such a complete disappointment to him? I married Jesse because I loved him and I couldn’t imagine my life without him—a feeling that still holds true today, even after every bitter word that’s passed between us and every disappointment we’ve been for each other. It is only after I’ve fought with my husband month after month, year after year, that the real question has become clear to me. How have I let the needs and ideas of a prejudiced old man rule the life I’ve spent so many years trying to build? How have I let my father interfere so completely in my relationship with my husband, with my children, with everyone I know?
We lost the Triple Crown today and I am so ashamed of what I said, of how I acted. I accused Jesse of sabotage, of betrayal, though I didn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth even as I said them. But he did. I could see it in his eyes, see it in the pain and disgust and—hatred?—that stared back at me. I told him he had betrayed me, betrayed the ranch, betrayed our entire family, when the truth is I’m the one who’s betrayed him—over and over again. I’m the one who’s let everything come between us, the one who’s pushed him away when all he wanted was to take care of me, to be close to me.
We lost the Triple Crown today when my horse came in second at the Belmont Stakes, second to Jesse’s horse, Delilah, from his new stable, his new brainchild, his new love, Cherokee Dreaming. I’ve never felt so incompetent, so angry, so downright foolish—what is he not getting from the Triple H, what am I not giving him, that he feels the need to start his own line?
We lost the Triple Crown today and as I stared my husband down, terrible accusations trembling on my lips, I couldn’t help but wonder if we’d lost something infinitely more precious.
JESSE DIDN’T WANT TO face Desiree, didn’t know what to begin to say to her. Things weren’t supposed to work out this way. Delilah was a great racehorse with a huge heart and the love of running, but she was a late bloomer, a late starter. It had been a miracle that she’d qualified for Belmont at all, a miracle that all of his plans had come together so smoothly.
Months ago he’d noticed that Born Lucky ran best when Delilah was beside her. They brought out the best in each other, pushed each other, challenged each other, saw in each other something that made them both run faster and better than they had ever run alone. He’d worked hard—incredibly hard—to get Delilah into this race to help pull Lucky out of the funk she’d descended into. As he’d clocked them on the training circles these past few weeks, he’d even come to dream of a one-two finish. But in his dreams Born Lucky was always first, with Delilah a close second. The reality had been the reverse and the consequences worse than he even wanted to contemplate.
He’d taken his turn in the winner’s circle as owner instead of trainer—a little thrill ran through him at the thought, though he quickly tamped it down—had taken care of the horses, had talked to the press as well as friends, acquaintances and even his kids as he’d searched the throngs of people for his wife. But Desiree was nowhere to be found, which is why he’d finally returned to the hotel, angry and upset…and just nervous enough to be disgusted with himself.
The suite was empty, though Desiree’s clothes still
hung in the closet and her toiletries still sat on the bathroom vanity. He tried to ignore the relief that swept through him, to pretend that he hadn’t been afraid she’d taken her things and cut out of town as fast as possible.
He grabbed a cola from the minibar and, after kicking off his boots, sank gratefully onto the plush sofa. He let his head fall back, closed his eyes and tried to block everything out for at least a few minutes.
Less than five minutes later the door to the hotel suite crashed open and he jumped despite himself. He turned to see Desiree breathing fire, so angry that she was noticeably shaking. “How could you?” The accusation whipped through the room.
He put out a placating hand. “Let me explain.”
“Explain?” she asked in a voice that cut like razors. “What’s there to explain, Jesse? You deliberately sabotaged the Triple H, deliberately put in one of your precious horses to keep us from winning.”
Though he’d been expecting the accusations, had prepared for them even, they still hurt and angered him. “Do you really believe that?”
“What else am I supposed to believe?”
“You could trust me.”
Her laugh was harsh, and incredibly painful to hear. “You stabbed me in the back in front of hundreds of thousands of people and now you’re telling me I should trust you?”
“It wasn’t like that, Desiree. Things didn’t work out like I had planned.”
“Oh, I think they worked out exactly as you planned. What I want to know is why? What did I do that was so bad you felt the need to humiliate me this way?”
“Humiliate you?”
“Yes, you humiliated me. Do you have any idea how many people have given me pitying looks this afternoon? Do you have any idea how many snide comments I’ve had to deal with about controlling my husband, or worse, controlling the hired help?”
“Excuse me?” His voice dripped ice. “Since when has our marriage been about controlling each other?”
“Don’t you twist my words.” Her eyes narrowed.
“I don’t think I had to twist them—you did a fine job of that yourself.”
“I refuse to be the one put on the defensive here. You’re the one who entered a ringer into the race. You stole the Triple Crown right out from under me.”
He stared at her incredulously. “When did this get to be all about you, Desiree? When did the rest of us fall by the wayside?”
“The day my husband betrayed me.” She glared at him with enough hatred to stop his heart. “You know how much this meant to me. That race was ours—no one else would have been able to touch Lucky and you know it.”
“What exactly are you accusing me of?”
She pulled herself up to her full height and somehow managed to look down her nose at him, though he stood a good four inches taller than she. “I think it’s obvious, isn’t it? All these years I’ve put my faith in you. I’ve ignored the gossip that said you didn’t have it in you to deliver this title. All these years, I’ve trusted you. But now I can’t help but wonder if that trust was misplaced. Have we lost all these years because of bad luck? Or have you been sabotaging us all along?”
There was a roaring in his ears. His chest was so tight he would have worried he was having a heart attack if he could think of anything but Desiree and her insane accusations. “You don’t mean that.”
“Oh, yes, I do.”
“Stop it, Desiree, before you say something you can’t take back.”
“I haven’t said anything I would want to take back.”
Fury filled him, burning hotter and more vicious than it ever had before. He opened his mouth, prepared to deliver a scathing retort and lay into her like she so richly deserved. But he choked back the words at the last minute, refusing to lower himself to her level.
He walked into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. His fists were clenched, his breathing harsh, as he struggled to get himself under control. He just needed some time—a minute, a few seconds, anything to give himself a chance to calm down. To get the image of strangling her out of his head.
The bedroom door slammed open. “Don’t you walk away from me.”
“Get out.”
“Don’t you dare tell me to get out. I am paying for this suite, just like I pay for everything. Your salary, the house you live in, the food you eat.”
The roaring grew louder. Desiree, eyes wide, had clamped her hand over her mouth as soon as the words had escaped. He could see the apology in her eyes, but it was too late. The damage was done.
“Jesse, I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, don’t back down now, darlin’. You’ll lose all your momentum.”
“I’m sorry. It just came out. I…” She looked ill as she made the excuses, but he was far past caring.
“I’ll move Cherokee Dreaming off the ranch as soon as we get back.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Oh, yes, I do. As for the rest…” He shrugged. “I guess it’s up to you. I spent the first years of our marriage trying to convince you to move off the Triple H. I wanted to build a home for us and our children using my own money. I didn’t have as much as your father, especially back then, but it would have been enough. I would have built you the nicest house I could.”
“I know.” Her voice was anguished.
“You don’t know anything. If you did, you never would have had the nerve to throw that in my face.”
He crossed to the dresser, scooped a pair of jeans, clean underwear and a red polo shirt from the top drawer.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To get my own room. One you aren’t paying for.”
“Jesse, no.” Her voice was low and urgent. “You can’t.”
“It’s a little too late for you to tell me what I can or can’t do,” he replied as he headed toward the door. “Besides, you don’t expect any of your other employees to sleep with the boss.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
WITH A SIGH OF DISGUST, Desiree gave up watching the minutes crawl by on the digital clock next to her bed. Emotionally and physically exhausted from the wedding, she had lain in bed for nearly two hours waiting in vain for sleep to claim her. Throwing the covers back, she climbed out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well do something useful. She had forgotten to check on M.C. before heading to bed, so she would do so now.
The house was quiet as she let herself out the front door—she had heard the caterers leave over an hour earlier and had listened as Jesse climbed the stairs and headed to his room down the hall. She’d wanted to go to him, had wanted to crawl into bed next to him and ask him to hold her, but her pride wouldn’t allow it.
As she neared the maternity stable, she heard the high-pitched screams of a horse in pain. M.C. was in labor and no one had alerted her. She started to run, hitting the stable at full speed.
“I thought I told you to call me,” she said as soon as she entered the stable, expecting to find her stable manager with the frightened mare.
But it was Jesse’s voice that answered her, Jesse her eyes found as she searched the dim stable. “I figured you could use the sleep. I can handle this.”
“I know you can,” she answered softly as she approached the laboring horse. “But I wanted to be here.”
His eyes met hers in the semidarkness, concern gleaming in their ebony depths. “Then have a seat. It’s going to be a long few hours.”
Desiree settled into the straw next to M.C. and reached a hand out to stroke her shuddering stomach. Her breaths were coming in pants, and contractions strained her body almost continuously. “Is she all right?”
“She’s in a lot of pain and the foal isn’t in any hurry to drop. But I’ve checked and it’s positioned correctly—not breech or anything.”
Desiree sighed in relief. “Thank God. I know you can handle just about anything, but I’m glad we don’t have to deal with that tonight on top of everything else.”
> Jesse’s startled eyes met hers, and she wondered what she’d said that could have surprised him. Then she realized—she had shocked him with her faith in him. Had she praised him so rarely in recent years? Did he really not know how much respect she had for him and his abilities?
“What can I do?” Her voice was subdued when she spoke.
“Just talk to her, pet her. I need to check her again and she hates it.”
Desiree leaned down, pressed her cheek to the top of M.C.’s head as she crooned to her in the language and the words she’d heard Jesse use so often. She could tell the minute Jesse had started to examine the horse because she tensed, her shaking getting much worse.
Desiree grimaced before she could stop herself. Labor was hard on any horse, but it was especially bad for the high-strung and coddled Thoroughbreds, who were so unused to painful disruptions in their daily lives. “What a good girl you are, M.C.,” she crooned. “Your baby’s going to be so beautiful. All long legs and curiosity. He’ll be a champion, just like you, girl. Just like you.”
She was conscious of Jesse’s eyes on her and the frown that seemed to have taken up permanent residence on his face. There had been so many days—years really—when he’d never looked at her with anything but a smile that this new countenance was hard to take.
She didn’t know how long they sat there, with Jesse murmuring to M.C. in Cherokee while Desiree continued to pet and sooth her. But suddenly Jesse’s crooning stopped and he said grimly, “Okay, this is it.”
Desiree moved to her knees, taking M.C.’s head in her hand as she did. “All right, girl. Let’s show him how it’s done.”
The mare’s whinny was high-pitched and painful to hear. Her body shuddered again and again as she struggled to bring forth new life. Jesse continued to work, using his strong arms to help M.C. guide her foal into the world.
As the horse continued to shake, her body convulsing, Desiree closed her eyes and prayed. “Should it be taking this long?” she asked Jesse hoarsely.