by Leigh Dillon
“Virginia’s a long way for me to drive for no commitment. Just sayin’.”
Destin took a breath and marshaled his patience. “It could turn into a commitment, depending on what you think of the horse,” he said in a very measured tone of voice. “It’s entirely up to you.”
“You’re just outside of Upperville, aren’t you?” Tonio sounded a little less suspicious, for what that was worth.
“You know where we are? Good.”
Tonio snorted. “It’s not like Bellmeade is famous or anything.”
Jerk. Tonio’s smartass tone made Destin feel reprimanded, as if he had said something wrong, and he didn’t appreciate it. It took him a moment to smooth his ruffled feathers enough to continue.
“Sure,” he said. “So you know it’s off Greengarden Road, just over Panther Skin Creek.” He gave the farm’s address. “You can’t miss it,” he added. “There are those two stone pillars and a tall iron gate with big Bs forged into the design. And a sign, of course.”
“A sign,” Tonio echoed. “Yeah. I bet it says ‘Bellmeade.’”
“Yes, it says Bellmeade.” If a hint of his displeasure crept into Destin’s voice, he didn’t care. In fact, if Tonio got lost and ended up wandering in the Blue Ridge Mountains all night, that was all right with Destin too.
“Duly noted,” Tonio said.
“Um, when do you think you’ll get here?” Destin asked.
“I can overnight it. I figure eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“That soon?” Destin did a mental review of the house and barns, trying to remember if he had anything embarrassing lying around. Everything seemed pretty okay. Bellmeade might not make the best first impression, but it wouldn’t make the worst either.
“I can come another day if I’m pushing it.”
Oh, you’re pushing it, all right. “No, tomorrow’s fine. The sooner we get this thing started, the better.”
“All right. Tomorrow morning, then. See ya.”
Tonio hung up, and Destin turned off his phone and held it, his hands sweat-slick against the hard case. He’d been less nervous calling his first boyfriend to ask for a date—but there was a lot less riding on that long-ago phone call. Heartbreak and humiliation were nothing compared to the prospect of going down in his family history as the Bellingham who lost Bellmeade.
Spent, Destin put his phone in his pocket and pulled on his jacket. The fine, bright day had turned to smoky dusk, and the autumn chill bit at Destin’s cheeks as he stepped outside the stud barn and headed down the brick path to the house. At the end of the far paddock, the mares stood lined up against the gate, waiting for the grooms to lead them into their stalls for the night. And just off to Destin’s left, confined behind the tall walls of the round pen, a dark shape moved, pacing restlessly. Destin stopped and watched him, that black enigma, and Black Sambuca watched him back. Pinpoints of eyeshine glittered between the planks, and Destin could hear the deep, powerful snuffing as the stallion winded him.
This is a mistake. Dread, as cold and gloomy as the evening air, descended on Destin. He didn’t want to meet Tonio. He wanted nothing to do with the man behind the snarky, disembodied voice on the phone, but he needed to do what was best for the farm. Getting his most talented horse into the show ring was one of those things.
So why did it feel so much like he was selling his soul?
Chapter 4
DESTIN WOKE as the first rosy hints of dawn streaked the ink-blue sky. He might as well get up, he figured—sleep had eluded him pretty much all night, and there was no use lying awake in his bed anymore, imagining all the ways his latest decision could end in disaster.
His dad always favored French press coffee, but Destin had brought his old drip percolator from his Boston apartment. He set it perking with a baleful glance at the fancy press shoved in the corner of the counter, then pulled his flannel robe a little tighter against the chill. The house was full of things like the French press, little reminders of the extravagance that had run Bellmeade into the ground. Things like the Maserati locked in the garage, the house kitchen with its quartz countertops and prismatic glass backsplashes, and the equally luxurious makeover of the apartment over the stud barn—the apartment the farm manager had occupied until the money to pay him ran out.
Away on the hill, fluorescent lights flickered on in the broodmare barn. Destin didn’t often get up before the grooms arrived, but the sight of the farm routine being carried out lifted his anxiety a little. No matter what happened to him, or even to the farm, the foals would be born in the spring, young jumping prospects would make their debuts, and the world of show jumping would go on as it had for decades. If it didn’t, at least nobody could lay the blame for its failure at Destin’s door.
Destin had his second cup of coffee in hand when headlights raked the lawn at the curve of the driveway, followed by the crunch of tires on gravel. Destin glanced up at the kitchen clock. Barely seven o’clock. Tonio had arrived early.
Destin ditched his mug on the counter and dashed out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He heard a car door slam as he hopped wildly in place, forcing his legs into a pair of jeans, and had just pulled a sweater over his head when the doorbell rang. The fleece-lined moccasins he used for house slippers would have to do—at least he looked reasonably dressed. He bounded downstairs, clutching the time-polished banister so he didn’t pitch headfirst down the staircase, and paused at the bottom to catch his breath and smooth his tousled hair. However this turned out, however well or poorly he and Tonio got along, he didn’t want to greet his guest looking like a maniac.
He opened the door to find Tonio huddled on the porch in a puffy dark green parka, hands stuffed deep in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the early October chill.
“Tonio! Pleased to meet you! Come on in.” Destin stepped back, pulling the door wider.
A dark, curly-haired head emerged from the turned-up collar of the parka, and Tonio, with a curt nod of greeting, stepped past Destin and into the foyer of the Bellmeade farmhouse. “So you’re Destin Bellingham,” Tonio said. He stood for a moment, his intense eyes drinking Destin in with an interest that might have been flattering if it didn’t feel so predatory. Once he’d examined Destin to his satisfaction, Tonio stuck out his right hand.
“Yes, I am.” Destin took Tonio’s hand and shook. Tonio’s slim fingers were as cold as a bunch of icicles, but his grip was pure steel.
“You’ve got a nice place.” Tonio let go and stepped back, and his blue gaze traced the clean lines of the staircase before coming to rest on the carved neoclassical doorway separating the book-lined study from the hallway. “It’s been here awhile, hasn’t it?”
“Since the 1700s. Come on back to the kitchen. I’ve got coffee going. And let me take your coat.”
Tonio hesitated a bit about taking his coat off, even though the foyer felt perfectly warm to Destin. When he finally shucked it, he revealed another jacket—a fleece hoodie—under the first one. Destin didn’t comment on this, although he personally would have spontaneously ignited under that many layers of clothing. Maybe it was Tonio’s lean, wire-hard physique that made him cold sensitive, or maybe it was the toll his hummingbird energy took on his metabolism. He gave the impression of looking in every direction at once, and his presence set the air around him vibrating. He walked down the hall with a cocky strut, as self-assured as if he owned the place.
Not like I walk—like the place owns me. Because it did, and anybody would slump under that kind of weight.
One end of the kitchen had been opened up into an entertainment area, with the cabinets and counters stopping just short of a sitting room dominated by the house’s original enormous kitchen hearth. It wasn’t cold enough yet to light a fire in that fireplace, so it stood swept and cold.
Tonio immediately crossed over to it and stuck his head inside. “Holy crap. This thing is epic,” he announced, his voice echoing a bit in the brick enclosure. “I’ve seen apartments smaller than t
his.”
Destin smiled. “It’s not quite an inglenook, but it’s impressive.” He bustled off to pour another mug of coffee and came back to the sitting room cradling it in his hands. “You take cream or sugar?”
“Not if it’s brewed right,” Tonio said.
“Old-fashioned percolator. I hope that meets your approval.” Destin handed Tonio the mug and settled himself into the other armchair.
Tonio lifted the mug and sipped—carefully since the mug had steam boiling out of it. He nodded approval, and an awkward silence fell.
“Who’s the guy in the wig?” Tonio finally asked, raising his mug toward an oil portrait over the mantel of the hearth.
“That’s my….” Destin squeezed his eyes shut, trying to count back in his family tree. “Eight times great-grandfather, William Bellingham. He built this place, back when George Washington owned some of the property next door.”
“Wow, some neighbors y’all had. Great coffee, by the way.”
“Thanks.” Silence fell again, broken only by the slow, heavy ticking of the antique wall clock. The sense that he and Tonio were tap-dancing around the elephant in the room weighed heavier on Destin’s mind with every tick. A small herd of elephants, in fact. One of the elephants was big and black, and Destin delayed talking about him as long as possible. The other had come into the room with Tonio, a cloud of unasked and unanswered questions about Tonio’s suspension. And biggest of all loomed Bellmeade’s financial woes. If Tonio knew about that, he gave no sign, but Destin could hardly believe he hadn’t at least heard rumors. Bellmeade’s fall would be big news. Even a suspicion of failure would set off the gossip mill.
“So,” Tonio said, the single syllable cracking the silence so abruptly that Destin twitched. “Tell me about your problem child.”
Destin sucked in his lower lip and chewed on it, running explanations through his head. There was no good way to frame what he had to say, so he stopped angling and dove right in. “He’s one of Maximus’s last crop, out of a mare named Midnight Magic,” he said. “Fantastic jumper, all the talent and athleticism in the world. His name is Black Sambuca.”
Tonio sat forward in his chair so violently that the chair feet grated backward, and he stared at Destin, his eyes owl-huge in his lean face. “Black Sambuca?” he repeated. “Ho-ly shit! That monster belongs to you?”
Chapter 5
SO THIS is it.
Destin put his coffee mug down and prepared to stand. There was no way Tonio was going to stay after that announcement. From his tone, Destin might as well have told him there was a live bomb under his chair or cyanide in his coffee.
But Tonio remained seated. He had come to the edge of the cushion and looked like he might take flight at any moment, but he didn’t. His eyes returned to their normal size, and he lifted the coffee mug to his lips again.
“So it’s Bellmeade Black Sambuca,” he murmured over the rim of the cup. “I haven’t seen him around since, what was it, that AA-ranked show last year? I figured whoever owned him had sold him to a rodeo.”
“That was my dad, and he never got rid of anything. Now Black Sambuca is mine, and I need him to compete.”
“And that’s where I come in,” Tonio finished.
“If you can do it.”
Tonio subjected Destin to another long, thoughtful examination. Then he turned his gaze on the hand-hewn ceiling beams, the painting of William Bellingham, the fireplace, and the Regency-era drop-leaf table that stood between the armchairs.
“Well, let’s go meet Mr. Sambuca, and then we’ll decide.” Tonio tossed back the rest of his coffee and stood.
Destin led the way to the stable, his bare feet sloshing around in a pair of rubber muck boots because he was too embarrassed to go upstairs and get a pair of socks. Tonio didn’t seem to notice. He bounced along, making Destin hurry to catch up, even though Destin had at least four inches on Tonio in height and leg length.
Early morning sunlight slanted across the aisle when they entered the stud barn, illuminating the lazy dust motes swarming above the straw-littered cobbles. Argento and the riding horses had been released into their paddocks, and their stall doors and windows stood open to the fresh air. Down at the end, a long black head hung out over a stall door, and dark liquid eyes watched Destin and Tonio approach.
Nearing the stall, Tonio paused and kicked a muck bucket aside. “Man, your barn crew is slack as shit,” he said, walking on.
“They’ve been with us for years,” Destin protested, stung. “Saying they’re slack is a little uncalled-for.”
Tonio stopped marching and turned on Destin. “You don’t smell that sour smell? How long has it been since your guys took the stalls down to the clay and scraped it? Are they even taking out the bottom layer of shavings? I don’t care how long they’ve worked here. That’s slack.”
Destin choked back an impulse to order Tonio off the farm right then and there. Fact was, he had noticed the sour smell, but bringing it up to the barn crew risked a walkout.
“Look,” he said, as much to mollify himself as to answer Tonio’s charge, “I only took over here two months ago. It’s been kind of a rough transition, and some things have gotten in arrears, but I’m working on it.” And who are you to take me to task about it, anyway?
Tonio crossed his arms over his chest, his challenging stare not wavering one iota. “That’s what farm managers are for, but last I saw, Greg Witt was out looking for a job. Your trainer, Johanna, jumped ship too. What’s up with that?”
Destin shook his head. “My dad. I’m fixing it.”
Tonio made a little “mmp” noise and resumed his march to Black’s stall. Destin followed, stewing a little but relieved Tonio still seemed to be on board. So far, so good.
Black Sambuca watched their approach with a kind of wary friendliness. Destin didn’t blame him. Destin’s father and the various riders and trainers he’d inflicted on Black were enough to make anyone, especially a high-keyed performance horse, suspicious of strangers.
Tonio picked up the vibe right away and slowed down, approaching at a gentle mosey. “Hey there, Sam,” he said in a calm, cheerful voice, as if he’d known Black Sambuca for years.
Black flicked his ears forward at the name, and he stretched his sinuous neck out and snuffled at Tonio’s hoodie.
“Actually we call him ‘Black,’ not Sam,” Destin corrected.
“Really?” Tonio stepped back a little. “Hey, Black!” he said. Black didn’t respond. “Hey Sam!” Black Sambuca’s ears shot forward again, all attention. Tonio laughed. “‘Sam, I Am,’ he says.”
“All right.” Destin frowned. “He’s Sam from now on.”
“Mmm-hmm. Sam knows I have peppermints, because Sam is a very bright boy.” Tonio moved closer to Sam and held his arms out to his sides. “If you can find the peppermint, you can have it.”
Sam skimmed his velvet muzzle over Tonio’s jacket, nostrils whuffing and flaring. He stopped at Tonio’s left kangaroo pocket, and his prehensile upper lip wriggled its way inside, followed by a lapping tongue. Then Sam drew his head back, nearly taking Tonio’s jacket with it, and munched. The smell of peppermint filled the barn.
“Told’ja he was smart.” Tonio untwisted his rumpled hoodie. “And he seems pretty good-natured. I hate it when they’re assholes and mean tempered too.”
“If you want to try him out, I have the practice ring set up,” Destin said.
“What level?”
“AA. That’s what he was training for, so I left the cups where Johanna put them.”
“All right. Let’s go riding.”
Sam didn’t mind leaving his stall, but once the saddle was on and it was time for the bridle, he clamped his teeth against the bit. Tonio raised an eyebrow at this and looked at Destin.
Destin shrugged. “It’s not his mouth,” he said. “Believe me, I’ve looked, and the vet’s looked, too.”
“Huh.” Tonio worked his thumb and fingers into the corners of Sam’s mouth and
squeezed. Sam resisted for a moment more, then flicked his ears back and gave up. Tonio took extra care with the fitting of the bridle, running his fingers under the chin strap several times to check the slack and making minute adjustments to the cheek straps. When he was finished, Sam looked bright-eyed and comfortable, and Destin breathed a sigh of relief.
Despite the promising start, Sam balked again when Tonio tried to lead him into the round pen for some warm-up longing. When Destin explained that they put Sam there after his escapes, Tonio unleashed a few choice expletives.
“So now he hates round pens because they’re punishment, and I’m thinking he won’t take a bit because he hates going into the practice ring. Anything else I should know?”
Destin didn’t think so, and he said as much. Still grumbling, Tonio led Sam to the mounting block and swung into the saddle, choosing to ride Sam for his warm-ups. After a few lazy circles and figure eights around the ring, Destin realized the tempo had changed. First there were flying lead changes, then two-tempis lead changes that made Sam appear to be skipping across the ring.
“Well, Johanna got his dressage groundwork down cold before she left,” Tonio called as he passed Destin on the rail. “First time around! Nice and easy.”
Sam lengthened out, warm and supple. Tonio aimed him toward the first jump, and Sam’s ears pricked toward it, all attention.
Please, please behave. Destin clenched his fists, willing Sam to cooperate.
Sam lifted over the jump, a simple vertical, hardly breaking stride. Miraculously he kept on cantering, going wherever Tonio pointed him, leaping with the effortless ease of a top-level jumper. And with every cleared jump, Destin’s heart rose a little higher, until an angel’s choir of joy began singing in his chest.
Forget AA. I can start Sam at Grand Prix level. I can….
Tonio finished the course and turned Sam back toward some random jumps. Just as Destin’s hope had begun to peak, Sam slammed on the brakes in front of a low oxer. No reason. He had already jumped the oxer twice. This time, though, he wanted no part of it. Tonio, who had all his weight shifted forward in anticipation of a jump, shot out of the saddle but somehow, monkeylike, caught himself on Sam’s slippery neck. Sam threw his head up and bolted, throwing in a few bucks for variety. Tonio let the horse’s momentum sock him back into the saddle seat, and he clamped his muscular legs around Sam’s barrel and held on.