by Laura Moore
“Yes, sir.” Smythe’s head bobbed up and down as he turned to the phone, punching numbers that would make Stannard’s wishes a reality. So much for Smythe’s show of backbone, Brody thought acidly. Tyler Stannard was pacing the floor, refusing to look at the bed in the center of the room. He hated seeing his daughter there, lying pale and lifeless. It brought memories of Catherine rushing back. He’d lost his wife. He was not going to lose his daughter. It terrified him how easily she could have died. That damned horse.
“Brody, I need you to go back to the show grounds. Tell Meghan Grimshaw to find a buyer for Charisma. I’m selling the mare.”
Sam felt his jaw drop. “Mr. Stannard, Ty loves Charisma. You’ll break her heart if you take away her horse.”
“I didn’t buy the horse to have it kill my daughter. She could have been crippled or killed by that fall.”
God, this situation was screwed up beyond belief. Sam racked his brains, trying to find a way to make Stannard understand how important Charisma was to Ty. Perhaps if he simply and calmly explained what had happened. “Mr. Stannard, I know how worried you must be, seeing Ty hurt like this, but what happened was a freak accident. The wind was something wicked out there today. It dislodged the judge’s umbrella from its stand and blew it spinning across the show ground. Once she comes to, Ty’ll know it wasn’t the horse’s fault. She’s a kid with a lot of grit, Mr. Stannard. I’d be willing to bet she’ll want to be back in the saddle as soon as she possibly can.”
“Which is precisely why you’re going to make sure that horse is sold by tomorrow morning at the latest,”
Stannard interrupted smoothly, his cold glare the only sign of how furious he was at Sam’s show of resistance. “Tyler’s riding career is finished. She’d have had to stop soon, anyway. I’ve had Smythe looking into a school in Switzerland. Its reputation is excellent academically. Furthermore, it will attend to the social graces she’s going to need as she goes into society. Something I’ve begun to notice she’s sadly lacking. It’s past time Tyler put away her childish hobbies and acquired a little sophistication.”
So the bastard was going to send his daughter packing, separating her from the school she’d gone to since third grade, the one real friend she’d managed to acquire, and dump her in some fancy finishing school in Europe. To top it off, he was planning to sell the horse that she’d loved more than anything for the past four years? Without even giving her a chance to say goodbye? Just thinking about how it would hurt Ty made Sam want to break something. Tyler Stannard’s face.
Unable to contain himself, Sam blurted out, “Just what is it you want from the poor kid? Christ, I’ve seen children from the projects who have nothing, but at least their parents give them love. Ty should be so lucky.”
Long, slow seconds ticked by as the two men stood on opposite sides of the hospital bed, staring hostilely at each other. “I believe you’ve overstepped the boundaries of your job description, Brody,”
Stannard said softly. “You’d do well to remember that I hired you as a bodyguard. I hardly believe that qualifies you to tell me how to raise my daughter. Now, do I need to repeat myself? I want the mare sold by tomorrow.”
“Yeah, you can repeat that one till you’re blue in the face, Stannard, ’cause you’ll have to find someone else to do it. I sure as hell won’t. Like you just said, I was hired to protect her. You want to hurt Ty, then do it yourself. I quit.”
“You say you wouldn’t hurt her, yet here you are walking out on her. A rather glaring contradiction, don’t you think?”
Brody’s eyes cut like daggers as he looked at his former employer. “Yeah, I’m hurting her, too. But Ty’s a smart girl. It won’t take her long to figure out who the real son of a bitch is.”
Holding his fury in check, Sam Brody reached out his large hand and lightly stroked Ty’s bandaged head, bidding her a silent farewell. He only wished he could have done more to help when she needed backup the most, feeling a cold, impotent rage settle over him knowing that he’d failed her. Sam turned and walked out the door, closing the book on this chapter in his life.
A single tear slipped from the corner of Ty’s closed eye, leaving a transparent trail against her pale skin.
P ART 3
1999
8
Manhattan
T y’s cell phone was pealing a three-note ring from the depths of her gym bag. She ignored it. By the time she’d rooted through the jumble of sweaty workout clothes, the voice mail would have picked up. Whoever or whatever it was could wait until she’d reached her apartment. She glanced at the elevator’s other occupant. Balding, in his mid-fifties, several inches shorter than Ty, and a good forty pounds heavier, the elevator man was dressed in the apartment building’s navy blue uniform, the jacket decorated with gold-braided epaulettes and brass buttons. At the moment, the man, whose principal job was to press the illuminated numbers on the large gleaming panel, was staring at them as if in rapt fascination, pretending to be oblivious to the persistent rings emanating from the depths of Ty’s bag. The obnoxious noise ceased just as the elevator reached sixteen.
“Have a good day, Miss Stannard,” the elevator man offered as Ty stepped forward.
“Thank you, John,” she replied gravely, even though she and John had enjoyed this exact conversation numerous times today, and stepped into the private foyer that led to her apartment. The elevator door slid silently shut behind her, cutting off the need for further polite conversation. With a sigh of relief, Ty slipped the bag from her shoulder, letting it fall to the marble floor. She picked up the stack of mail piled neatly on top of the small entry table and fished her keys from her suede leather jacket. The phone was already ringing as she pushed her door open.
“All right already, I’m coming, I’m coming!” she muttered, walking over to the end table by her sofa and picking up the phone. “Hello?”
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling all over the place!”
“The gym, errands. Hi, Lizzie, what’s up?” Ty sank into the plump, cream-colored sofa cushions and kicked off her leather flats. Tucking her legs underneath her, she winced slightly at the unexpected soreness. It occurred to her that she’d been a little too enthusiastic with the weights.
“Oh, nothing, just trying to arrange a wonderful, delightful celebration with the two people I love most in the world, but of course, whenever I try to reach you, I might as well be trying to get through to the president. Honestly, Ty, don’t you know cell phones were invented for a reason?”
Ty tamped down the guilt that immediately welled up inside her at the memory of the last time Lizzie had been unable to reach Ty. But Ty knew how much Lizzie hated discussing that period in her life. Furthermore, Lizzie’d be appalled if Ty revealed how much guilt she still harbored. So she kept her voice light, teasing. “Sorry, Liz, I’m not sure I’ll ever figure out why these bloody gadgets are so essential to modern man. In fact,” she quipped, “I spend hours fantasizing about what I’d do if I ever got my hands around the throat of the so-called genius who invented them! Just the sight of all those people walking down Madison Ave, talking into little plastic rectangles or, worse, looking like badly trained secret service agents, is enough to make me break out in hives.”
“Yeah, well, I’m all for fantasizing, but let me tell you, your disdain for modern technology makes you a very difficult person to track down. I’ve thought of everything—including carrier pigeons. I hate to admit it, but it sure was easier when you had a secretary, like when you worked for Stannard Limited.”
“Don’t go any further with that thought,” Ty warned, massaging the sudden throbbing at her temple. She, too, had topics too painful to discuss. At least half of the messages on her machine, signaled by the illuminated number twelve next to the red light blipping frantically on the console of her phone, were calls from the office of her father’s company, demanding her presence. Ty wondered whether Stannard Limited had been forced to hire a new employee whose sole responsibility
was to leave these predictable and unchanging messages: “Mr. Stannard is calling to request your presence at his office this afternoon.”
Wouldn’t that be a job from hell?
“That’s one of the reasons I almost never pick up,” Ty admitted. “The dratted phone rings every other minute. Not even screening the calls helps—I keep losing my place in the accounts and have to start my calculations all over again. It’s like one step forward, two steps back getting through these numbers.”
Lizzie made a noise of sympathy on the other end. “I can well imagine. I’m just thankful you’re dealing with it and not me! Look, you know there’s no rush on the books; we don’t have to file anything for months yet.” Lizzie paused for a minute before continuing. “So, Daddy Stannard’s trying to sweet-talk you into a reconciliation?” There was no love lost between Mr. Stannard and Lizzie.
“He’ll get over that particular pipe dream.”
“Hmm . . .” Lizzie’s reply was noncommittal. She didn’t believe that Tyler Stannard was going to give up the warped pleasure he got from having Ty around to manipulate any time soon. He’d enjoyed having his dutiful daughter at his beck and call for too long, and he wasn’t the kind who took no for an answer. No, Lizzie reflected bitterly, he just enjoyed being able to say it to others. Ty’s voice interrupted her musing. “So, what are we celebrating?”
“A milestone anniversary, kiddo. Do you realize today marks exactly eighteen months since the divorce came through and just shy of a year since you and I opened the barn? I thought the three of us might go out to a restaurant after the benefit tonight. Just think of it, we can spoon mush down Emma’s throat while we pour champagne down ours.”
“Sounds utterly irresistible! So I get to see Emma tonight, too?”
Emma was Lizzie’s daughter, Ty’s goddaughter, and in Ty’s unbiased opinion probably the cutest twoyearold ever. A curly-haired strawberry blonde, she was the spitting image of her mother. Beautiful from the day she was born, whenever Emma and Lizzie came to the city for a visit and the two friends took Emma out for a walk, navigating the dark blue stroller through the busy streets, little old ladies stopped them to coo and exclaim over the adorable baby. Fortunately, Emma also had inherited her mother’s sunny disposition and, as if knowing it would make their day, gurgled happily and energetically into the old ladies’ faces. Ty loved her as if she were her own and tried to spend as much time with Lizzie and Emma as she could.
“I reserved a room for Em and a baby-sitter. After the benefit’s over, we can pick her up and take her with us. Does Giorgio’s sound good to you?”
“My mouth’s watering already.”
“Well, your appetite might vanish once you get a load of Emma’s new favorite food.”
Emma had entered the terrible twos with decided tastes. Ty remembered how for an entire month, she’d insisted on eating only green foods, morning, noon, and night.
“So what is it these days?” Ty inquired curiously.
“She’s gone orange on me, Ty,” Lizzie replied in a piteous tone. “Butternut squash is her top favorite, although I did manage to sneak a few squares of cheddar and cantaloupe into her this morning. You’ve no idea what a tricky, underhanded mom I’ve become. I thought green was bad, pureeing broccoli and spinach until I wanted to scream, but this squash stuff is a nightmare! I have to soak her tops for days. That, or dye them all orange!”
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll make sure I stay out of range. So what time do you want me there tonight?”
Ty asked, glancing at her watch. It was just three now.
“Six o’clock. By then, most of the guests will have arrived and you can start working your magic. I need that killer instinct of yours to drum up clients and open checkbooks. If we get a full enrollment for the summer program, we’ll be able to offer at least eight scholarships for next winter’s program.”
“It’s at the Waldorf, right?”
“Yes. The organizers wanted it in a convenient location so the out-of-towners wouldn’t get lost.”
Ty leaned back against the cushions, stretching her long legs out in front of her. She hated social functions. Passionately. “Great. I’ll be there with bells on, encouraging one and all to enroll their horse-crazy kids in Cobble Creek’s summer horse masters’ program.”
“Thanks, Ty. But forget the bells. Just wear the Valentino number. The guys’ll be too blinded by lust to count how many zeros they’re tacking on when they write out their checks. Oh, my God! Look at the time! Gotta run if Emma and I are going to beat the rush-hour traffic. See ya, sweets.”
With a small smile at Lizzie’s undiminished exuberance, Ty replaced the phone on the cradle. She steadfastly ignored the flashing red light, a reminder of countless messages. Her mind was traveling back, recalling how much Lizzie had been through these past eighteen months, how much Ty wished she’d been a better friend.
Lizzie Osborne Strickland’s life had taken a dizzyingly fast downward spiral from the moment her patience snapped, her sense of pride reasserted itself, and she at last filed for divorce from her philandering husband, Michael Strickland, asking also for custody of their baby girl, Emma. Within a mere twenty-four hours after the papers were filed, Michael hired a divorce lawyer widely acknowledged to be the most ruthless in the city. Before Lizzie could catch her breath and her own lawyer knew what had hit them, Strickland emptied Lizzie’s and his joint checking account, canceled her credit cards, and pressed charges against Lizzie himself, seeking to have her declared an unfit mother. He even went so far as to claim that she had attacked him in a drunken rage.
Divorce is never pretty, but Lizzie had never dreamed that Michael could sink to this level of viciousness. He’d seemed like such a great catch.
Lizzie and he met at a party thrown by mutual friends. Lizzie, twenty-three and more dazzling than ever, had graduated from college the spring before. She was living in the city, working for a PR company, and riding competitively on the weekends. One look at Lizzie’s gorgeous body and the thick strawberry-blonde mane that fell down to the middle of her back, and Michael, a smooth-talking, ambitious executive at a large telecommunications firm, reacted like every other male who’d ever laid eyes on her. He’d gone straight to the party’s host for the name of the babe with the “killer bod” and racked his brains for the best angle to entice her into his bed.
Some men know instinctively how to play to women. Michael Strickland was one of them. He joked, he flattered, he listened to Lizzie’s descriptions of her small group of clients and accounts as if they were more than fascinating. He asked her questions, scrupulously careful not to switch the conversation and talk about his job, an instant signal that he considered his own career more important. He hinted broadly that he might be able to line up some new clients for her.
The following day, Lizzie’s doorbell rang, and a delivery man presented her with a bouquet consisting of twenty-six tea roses, intermingled with freesia and lilies, the scent of the bouquet as bewitching as it was beautiful to behold. Anote scrawled on a thick vellum card accompanied it, inviting her to dinner that evening.
They were an item within days, and two months later their engagement was announced. Lizzie threw herself into wedding plans with her customary enthusiasm, and Michael continued to be the epitome of charm. Ty managed to get together with the fianc?s a couple of times, for dinner or drinks, but it was a period during which she was traveling virtually nonstop for her father’s real estate company. She’d been too busy and too tired to probe beyond the slick surface of Michael Strickland’s character. And as Lizzie and Ty both now knew, Michael Strickland was a first-class liar and dissembler. Someone as practiced as Strickland was awfully hard to catch.
Both women might have been in the dark about Michael’s character for far longer if he, himself, hadn’t chosen to reveal his true colors right after the wedding day. In fact, Ty unfortunately got her first glimpse of the real Michael Strickland even sooner, a mere half-hour after the beautifully orche
strated ceremony Lizzie and her mother had organized, with Ty as the maid of honor. Sentimental tears had run down her cheeks as Lizzie, looking achingly beautiful, pledged love and loyalty to the man standing at her side. Shortly after the ceremony, Ty was in the upstairs guest bathroom, repairing the damage her tears had wreaked on her makeup. Without knocking, without any warning, Michael sauntered into the bathroom, so startling Ty that she almost dropped the wand of mascara she’d been using on her smeared eyelashes.
Embarrassed and surprised by the intrusion, Ty glanced at Michael uneasily, wondering whether he might have been going a little heavy on the champagne. What else could cause him to barge in on her while she was in the bathroom?
He didn’t appear to notice her distress. For all the world, he looked perfectly relaxed, his black cutaway emphasizing the muscular build that had made him one of the leading rushers on his college rugby team. White teeth flashed as he gave her an easy, confident smile. “Ahh, I found you. Lizzie’s been wondering where you snuck off to. Told her I’d hunt you down.”
If he were drunk, Ty couldn’t detect it by his speech or by his eyes. They shone bright and clear in the large bathroom mirror. Catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror, he paused and lifted a hand to his head, smoothing a lock of his gelled short brown hair. Evidently pleased with what he saw, his lips in a cocky grin. Then, as if he abruptly remembered her presence, his gaze abandoned his own image and locked on Ty’s. His smile broadened, and Ty was suddenly reminded of a slick used-car salesman. Quickly, she looked away, thoroughly irritated at his behavior. What was he doing here, in the bathroom with her? Anyone else would have excused himself immediately.
Although she tried to keep her face expressionless, it was difficult to mask the annoyance in her voice.