Sarah would have preferred to bring Noble along to continue his work, but with two other youngsters for her to ride besides Modi, and seven juniors and amateur adults to coach, she wouldn’t have an instant to spare. Instead, Bob himself had promised to ride the horse for the week they’d be gone and Sarah would have to live with that.
Sarah tossed Noble a flake of hay and headed out to her vehicle: The Truck. That was how she thought of the thing, in capital letters.
It lurked in the driveway, a full ton of black metal and silver chrome crouched ready to spring at her and cause automotive mayhem. She snarled at it and the big grill sneered back, headlights tilted malevolently as The Truck mocked her fear.
She’d bought it with the blood money the insurance company had paid out after the total destruction of her old rig. The first time she drove The Truck, Sarah had to pull over three times during the five-mile trip home. She still shook a little when she drove it, especially when she pulled a horse trailer, but could usually make it through a whole trip now without reliving the accident. Without feeling the old truck hanging over that ravine held only by the guardrail, knowing that Noble and the trailer were somewhere at the bottom of the foggy ditch and that there was a big hole in the windshield where Jay should have been.
Even though she knew The Truck couldn’t possibly hate her, Sarah cursed the metal creature as she dumped her load on the floor of the six-horse trailer, planning to sort and stow later. She turned back to the shed row for another load, but was brought up by her aunt’s hail.
“Jesus, Sarah. When’d you get to be such a slob?”
Following the voice up to the old hayloft, Sarah stuck her head through the trap door and sneezed once as chaff tickled her nose. “Huh?”
Tilda was rummaging through one of three large trunks Sarah had brought when she and Noble came back to the farm. Heaps of old horse blankets, textbooks, and mismatched shoes lay on the dusty floor. “I said you’re a slob. Look what you’ve done to my hayloft. You were always such a neat child. What happened?”
“I’m the slob? I’m not the one rooting through those trunks looking for heaven only knows what. Last I saw, they were locked and stacked over by the back wall. Why’d you move them and throw my stuff around?”
Tilda straightened and regarded her niece quizzically. “This is where and how I found it all. Did you send one of the boys up here to get something out of them?”
Sarah shook her head and ignored the itch that began between her shoulder blades. “Nope, I’ve got all my everyday stuff down in the employee’s tack room, this is mostly storage for random things from the condo that I wasn’t ready to throw out yet. Are you sure this is how you found the trunks? I know I left them all organized and neat.” She climbed the rest of the way into the loft and started gathering her belongings off the floor. She sneezed again as she shook the old blankets and refolded them before placing them back in the trunks with her aunt’s help.
“Weird. Well, maybe one of the kids was up here looking for a spare blanket for one of the new ponies. I’ll ask around if you want.” Tilda shut the lid on the third trunk and noticed that the flimsy padlock would no longer shut. It was broken open, mangled beyond repair.
Sarah shook her head. “Naw, don’t bother. I don’t have anything up here I really care about and we’re leaving early tomorrow for Newcastle. Let’s not add any drama to the usual chaos.”
The drive to Newcastle, New York proved uneventful as well as mind-numbingly boring. Sarah had a few bad moments early on as the two heavy rigs forged through the morning fog, but she felt relatively safe in her position between the farm trailer and a convoy of smaller vehicles carrying the riders, grooms, and parents.
Ever since the accident she had avoided traveling with other people in her rig so she wouldn’t be responsible for them if anything happened. This also gave her the option to talk to herself, chant mantras, or sing along with the radio, all things various therapists had suggested as ways to manage her fear of driving.
She took a hefty swallow of coffee and grimaced. Her mouth tasted like dead leaves, the aftertaste of sleeping pills. She hated to take the drugs, but knew they’d keep the nightmares away for a night and she had needed to be sharp to drive six very expensive horses across two states.
As the miles ticked past on the odometer, she reflected that some of the big shows might be farther away in actual miles, but the drive to Newcastle always seemed the longest. The convoy had already been on the road for over an hour when they passed a sign on the Mass Pike that read “Albany 238 miles.” Everyone groaned at the thought that they’d have to pass Albany to get to Newcastle.
When they finally reached the Newcastle show grounds, Sarah pulled her rig off to the side of the dirt road that separated the stables from the far turn of the carefully groomed racetrack and made her way into the show offices to produce vet certificates for each animal and pick up the riders’ numbers.
Sarah and Tilda unloaded the horses with the help of Philippe and Freemont, an unlikely pair of Mexican immigrants who groomed at the away shows and worked the barn when they were home. The junior and amateur riders drove straight to their hotels to settle in and go to dinner, planning to arrive at the show grounds the next day in time to mount their gleaming, braided horses.
“The boys can set up the stalls if you want to be in charge of the grooming area while I decorate.” Tilda directed her minions like a true veteran, and the Pruitt Farm stabling area hummed with activity as embroidered banners were hung, monogrammed deck chairs unfolded, and bark mulch spread to create a formal sitting area at the end of the stable block. Each farm had a similar display and the trainers would compete to see which group could hang the most tricolored rosettes.
“I’m going to take the babies for a walk before we tuck them in for the night, okay?” Sarah didn’t wait for her aunt’s agreement, it was understood that she was in charge of the young horses.
Modi was high as a kite, his eyeballs bulging as he tried to watch everything at once while jigging back and forth at the end of the rope. Sarah threaded the chain of her lead over his nose for added leverage and decided she would have to take him around the show rings the next morning for a look-see before it got crowded. Larth and Covenant were slightly more mannerly and only required a little extra fussing before they settled quietly into their stalls.
Philippe and Freemont had measured out the horses’ supplements and made up bran mashes for their dinner before leaving for the hotel in a rattling red pickup. After writing up a list for the braider, Tilda and Sarah took one last look around before they piled into The Truck and left, waving at trainers and riders they knew. Tomorrow was soon enough to make social plans. Tonight was for a quick bite, a long shower, and a good night’s sleep.
Sarah gasped in horror when she caught her own frightful reflection in the rear-view mirror. “Oh yuck!” Her hair was standing on end—glued with the handful of poultice she’d inadvertently smeared there while wrapping Larth’s legs. She was wearing more of the white goo in a festive pattern across her left cheek and had a faint bruise beneath one eye that she didn’t remember having gotten.
Tilda laughed. “Well, if we’re lucky you won’t run into anybody you’re trying to impress.”
“Fortunately the only people I’m likely to know are from the show and look as nasty as I do at the moment. Besides, I can’t think of anyone here or elsewhere that I’m worried about impressing.”
Okay, if Sarah was being completely honest there was one person she might want to impress a little bit, which is why she was less than thrilled to spot a familiar scarred leather jacket at the front desk of the St. Peter’s Motor Lodge. She considered ducking behind a brochure rack, but before she managed the feat Dante turned and caught sight of her.
He flashed that dimpled grin that would ordinarily have made her heart flutter a bit but right then just made her feel dirtier and smellier than she had moments before. “Sarah! Fancy meeting you here!”
&nb
sp; “Hello, Dante. I didn’t know we’d be seeing you at Newcastle.” Actually, she had hoped he’d be at the show, but she hadn’t planned on their sharing a hotel. Damn him for looking so sexy after the drive while she looked like she’d been trampled by a herd of rhinos wearing track shoes. “Won’t the magazine spring for better accommodations for you? This is pretty rank.”
She ignored the desk clerk’s glare. The Ritz this was not, but Pruitt Farms spent its money on luxury for the horses, not the barn help. Sarah snuck her hands behind her back, trying to hide the grime crusted under her fingernails and the trail of bran mash she wore on one sleeve. The statuesque blonde standing right in front of Dante had lingered after checking in, obviously hoping he’d pay some attention to her once he’d gotten his key.
Sarah briefly pictured herself scratching the lovely woman’s eyes out.
“I don’t mind. It’s a relatively new mag and they’re not real sure how their cash flow is going to be yet. Anyway, a bed off the ground is heaven compared to the amenities at some of my previous jobs.”
She filed that for future reference. “Well, most of the professionals and grooms are either here or across the street at the HoJo’s, and the riders and parents are at the Renaissance and the Marriott. I stayed at the Renaissance once. There was a hot tub in the room with a TV clicker next to it. Heaven.”
The blonde was starting to look irritated and Sarah considered drawing out the conversation further, but was foiled when the clerk handed her the key to her room. Oh well, Dante would just have to fend for himself. Sarah’s first priority was a shower.
She shouldered her heavy duffel and collected the garment bag that contained her show clothes. Her boot bag, saddle, and bridle remained in The Truck for now, although she’d bring them in later if she got motivated enough to clean and oil her tack.
“Well, see ya tomorrow, I expect. There’s free coffee and donuts at the show until eight, so don’t worry about breakfast unless you’re a health food nut.” She turned and almost fell when her bad shoulder gave way under the weight of her luggage.
Dante muttered something and shouldered his own lighter bag before taking several long strides to bring him even with Sarah as she wove down the hall. The blonde dropped something on the floor as he stomped by and she pouted when he ignored her.
“Here.” He deftly relieved Sarah of her burdens and handed her a pair of camera bags in exchange. “Carry these.” Flipping her key over, he grunted. “You’re right down the hall here, on the left.”
He opened the door and dumped her bags on the pea green coverlet that adorned the narrow bed. Still grumbling, he crossed the room and opened the smeared windows that looked out on the parking lot. It was full of big trucks, most with barn names painted on their doors.
“Your room smells as funny as mine does,” he complained, and shot a jaundiced glance at the little kitchenette. “Do you actually intend to cook over there?”
“Not for you.” She took his arm to point him at the door. “I appreciate the help, Mr. Devers, but right now I really want to unpack and take a shower. I’m sure you can find your way to your own room without my assistance. If not, ask the blonde that’s lurking out there in the hall waiting to drop her keys again.” She handed him his cameras and eased the door shut in his chuckling face.
Dante was fast asleep an hour later when an ear-splitting blast of rock music almost knocked him off the soggy excuse for a mattress. Peeling his eyelids back rewarded him with a stab of blinding light from the bedside lamp. He growled in irritation and tasted something nasty in his mouth.
Unfortunately, he discovered that it was his tongue.
The music roared to a howl of electric guitar counterpointed by whiplashing drum and cymbal work that under other circumstances he probably would have appreciated. At that moment, however, he thought it might blow his head right off his shoulders and leave his body a smoking wreck.
“Shut up,” he whimpered. This is why he never took naps—it hurt too much to wake up.
“Shut up,” he tried again, a little louder as he began to wake up and his head pounded in sync with the music.
“SHUT THE HELL UP!!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, ready to kill the sadist who had the nerve to wake him up at—he looked at his watch and tried to focus through the goo that crusted his eyes—eight o’clock in the evening.
No change in the volume.
Lurching to his feet, Dante fumbled with the latch of the connecting door and hoped his noisy neighbor hadn’t thought to lock it on the other side. As he swung the door open, the music ratcheted up several decibels and he drew breath to shout again.
He had forgotten who was staying next door.
Sarah stood flat-footed, her back to him as she stared unseeingly out the smeared window. Snug black spandex molded itself around her tight, round buttocks and crept up her narrow waist. The cheerful pink of her tiny jog bra clashed with the mottled red of a long scar that started at the base of her neck just where her sweaty ponytail flopped, meandered across her right shoulder, then dipped down to trail off halfway down her ribcage.
The music swirled around them both, a throbbing, insistent beat that cocooned the man and woman.
As Dante watched, Sarah lifted a blue plastic-covered weight above her head. He could see the thinness of her right arm in comparison to the left, the sunkenness of her right shoulder. Shaking with the effort of controlling the five-pound weight, Sarah brought it behind her head and up again. As she repeated the exercise, Dante could see the tendons in her neck quiver with the strain.
Her body was soaked with sweat, her grunts of effort and pain drowned out by the howl of heavy metal.
Dante stepped back quietly and shut the door, but the scene stayed with him as he allowed the bed to once again swallow him in its infernal grasp. He had spent the last few months of his life hating this woman and planning to destroy her, but now he found himself beginning to wonder whether he’d had the wrong target all along.
Her every muscle sobbing in protest, Sarah poured herself into the shower, nearly needing to lift each leg with her hands to crawl into the tub. She longed for a punishingly hot bath and whirlpool, but this was the St. Peter’s. Not only was there no in-room whirlpool, she’d be afraid to let more than her feet touch the tub. So a shower it was. Luckily she was able to coax the nozzle into producing an acceptably hot, hard spray. No massage setting though, more’s the pity.
Her thigh was nicely black and blue where Modi had kicked her the day before in a fit of pique at having his tummy washed and her legs were rough with stubble. She would have shaved them, but her back was too sore to bend down that far and who was going to see them anyway?
She luxuriated until the spray started to cool. Her neighbors would be in for some lukewarm showers for an hour or so, but she was too comfortable to care. A couple of painkillers and a beer and she’d be as good as new.
Sarah gingerly patted herself dry and rummaged through her squashed duffel, pulling out the flowered silk robe lined with terrycloth that was one of her favorite possessions. Before belting it she shrugged the robe away from her shoulders, holding it at her waist and standing in front of the wavery mirror.
She examined herself critically. Extensive plastic surgery had removed the slashing scar that had run from the corner of her left eye to well behind her ear. The whitened hair that grew along that line was dyed to match her natural red gold. She ran her fingers along her right collarbone, feeling the slight ridge where the bone had knit.
She gazed at her right shoulder and arm, smaller and thinner than the left, but better now than before. And then she turned, presenting her back to the mirror and looking over her ruined shoulder at the jagged scar that had not been removed. It had been kept as penance, to remind her of the decision that had killed Jay Fontaine.
A brisk knock snapped her attention from the mirror. Shrugging back into the robe and blotting the ends of her hair on a skimpy hotel towel, Sarah stepped to peer through the s
py hole.
“What do you want?” She spoke loudly so it would carry through the door and she wouldn’t have to open it.
“Open the door. Please.” Dante added the last word almost as an afterthought.
“No.” She was still embarrassed by having him seen her so disheveled earlier, and hated the fact that her heart was now bumping along unsteadily. She preferred to deal with him at the farm or the showground, where she at least had the home field advantage. “Why don’t you go bother that blonde in the lobby?”
“She scares me. I don’t think the things she whispered in my ear earlier are humanly possible.” But they had been intriguing. She was just the type he’d normally go for, but Dante had his priorities. At the moment they included little Sarah Taylor. “Will you open the door? Your aunt gave me a message for you when I saw her by the sod machine.”
Sarah opened the door. Yelling through it was giving her another headache. “The what?”
He grinned, flashing those dimples appealingly. “The sod machine. The light for the ‘a’ is out. Do you think it sells little squares of grass?”
Dante tried to keep it light, even though he wanted to growl with pure masculine appreciation. She was wearing some sort of wraparound that she probably thought was concealing. Its fine flowered silk flowed from shoulders whose flaws and strengths he had seen only an hour before, down across her upthrust breasts to hug her tiny waist, and then flared across subtle hips before parting gently to allow him just a glimpse of rosy calf and thigh.
An image of those legs clamped around a dappled gray ribcage flashed through his mind and his palms grew damp. He had dreamed of her again the night before, a surreal tangle of woman and man and horse. A sudden dizziness reminded him to breathe. She’s just an assignment, remember? With a rasping wheeze he sucked in a lungful of air and realized she was speaking to him.
“Huh?”
“I said.” Sarah folded her arms over her lush breasts, one foot tapping as if she were an elementary school teacher talking to a dull-witted second grader. “Would you be so kind as to stop staring at me and give me the message?”
The Stable Affair Page 5