Her leathery features lifted with excitement. “Does this mean you’re coming back to us? We all miss you, and your mom, so much. The arena isn’t the same without the Lindsey-Sullivans to give us real competition.”
Was he coming back? He hadn’t really thought that through. All he knew was he had to get here, had to get to Gabrielle, and correct the worst mistake of his life. What came after, he hadn’t considered. “I guess that depends on how today goes,” he allowed. “Excuse me, Annie, but I have to hurry. I’ve got a class coming up, and I’m running late.”
She squeezed his forearm fondly. “You go win, Jake. And you let me know when I can send my horses back to you.”
His smile faltered as he gave her a short nod. Politely, he pulled his arm free and resumed his trek toward the barn. God above, if he’d eaten breakfast, he’d be hunched over behind the bushes puking out his guts. He couldn’t remember ever being more nervous in his life, and Mamoon didn’t have a damn thing to do with the frenetic tumbling in his gut. What the hell did he say to her?
He stepped into the overhang’s shade and let his gaze wander down the aisle. His heart jumped to life as he spied Gabrielle at the far end, her back to him. She faced a man whose portly middle tripled her petite girth. Jake scowled. Though he hadn’t met Henry Warrenton personally, he’d run into him enough times over the years to recognize him. Damn it. He did not need Gabrielle’s father to make today worse.
Class 227, this is your five minute warning
Maybe he could get by without saying anything at first. Their time was short enough, and, from the looks of things, the argument she was having had held up her progress to get the horses ready. As he looked on, Margie bustled into Rajiv’s stall with a brush and a bottle of baby oil. Yep, definitely running behind.
He shifted the heavy bag again, and lifting his shoulders, he started down the aisle. Putting off the inevitable wasn’t going to help him any. All he’d achieve that way was missing the class. And he hadn’t driven through the night to let Gabrielle show that screwball horse on her own.
“Leave it be, Daddy. All my life you’ve told me what to do, how to do it, and when I could. Not once have you ever stopped to consider what I might want. I won’t have it now. Tom Jones isn’t going near my horses, and I don’t care how much you paid him.”
Jake quirked an eyebrow at Gabrielle’s angry outburst. So her dad had hired a second-rate trainer to handle one of her horses. Jake didn’t have to guess which one. Did that mean Mamoon was living up to his usual antics? He narrowed his eyes at Henry. Good for you, sugar. Stand up to him.
Close enough to catch the scent of her flowery shampoo, he paused to glance in Mamoon’s stall. Mane still in long braids, tail still wrapped, he clearly hadn’t been groomed for the ring. Time to get to work. Good thing he’d thought ahead and donned his dress clothes.
Three more strides brought him to Gabrielle’s elbow and in front of the tack stall. He reached for the drape at the same time Margie rushed out. She squeaked in surprise, then took a step backward. Her hand lifted to cover her open mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of Gabrielle’s red hair as she turned around. Ignoring both of them, he pushed his way into the stall and dropped his duffle bag.
****
Gabrielle’s heart skidded to a standstill. She blinked, certain she was imagining things. But the way Margie’s wide eyes locked with hers told her this was no dream. Jake was here.
“I won’t have you humiliating yourself out there,” her father insisted. “You grew up winning, and that’s how it’ll stay, Gabrielle. You’ll use Tom, and use your head.”
Jake pushed his way out of the tack room. His eyes settled on her for a brief instant, and in that moment, that fraction of time where those sky blue eyes shone with emotion, she knew. The man who had more reason to stay far away from horses had come back. To her. Not to the horse, not to obligation, but to her.
Class 227 is entering the arena. Class 228, this is your five minute warning.
Jake glanced up at the overhead speaker as he carried a thick, bristled brush into Mamoon’s stall. Her pulse jumped into double time. Dressed in suit pants, a starched white shirt, and an indigo tie, his intent was clear. Not only had he returned, but he intended to handle Mamoon as well. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“Did you hear me, daughter?”
Her father’s sharp tone pulled her features back into a tense frown. She twisted to scowl at him. “I am using my head. Maybe a little of my heart too.”
“That fool heart of yours is going to humiliate you. I can’t bear that to happen to my little princess. You’ve always brought home ribbons that made us all proud. Why take the chance when you can have the red? Our family will come in the top three—Maharazad in first, that chestnut of yours in second, and probably, good old Rajiv in third.”
“No,” she gritted through her teeth. “I have to finish getting ready. Goodbye, Daddy.”
He grabbed her elbow, his grip tight enough to make her wince. “Don’t be foolish, Gabrielle. You know I’ve always done what’s best for you. I’m trying to look out for you.”
Mamoon’s stall door rolled open, and Jake stepped out. One look at his hardened features, and Gabrielle knew he wasn’t happy.
He leveled her father with an ice-cold stare. “I’ve heard enough.”
Her father chuckled. “See, Gabrielle, I’m not the only one who tires of your constant arguing.”
“No,” Jake snapped before Gabrielle could respond. “I don’t care who you are, no one cuts her down in front of me. She might be your daughter, but she’s not a child anymore. You tell Tom Jones that Jake Lindsey-Sullivan is handling her stallion.” He ducked back into Mamoon’s stall but poked his head back out to add, “For free.”
Oh, God. A rush of emotion sprang free Gabrielle’s tears. She blinked them back as her throat closed against the wealth of feeling. Not only had he come back, but in one fell swoop he’d also championed her, and managed to say one of the few things guaranteed to intimidate her father.
Her father spluttered. Crimson color spread up his neck and stained his cheeks. At Gabrielle’s opposite side, Margie stared wide-eyed and unmoving. She jumped into motion when Jake hollered, “Margie, I need Mamoon’s halter.”
“Gabrielle,” her father ground out in a clipped voice.
For the first time in her life, Gabrielle gave her father a triumphant look. “You heard Jake. I have a handler. And now I have to go.” She accepted the lead Jake offered and marched away down the aisle.
It wasn’t until she got several feet away she noticed she led Rajiv, not Mamoon. Glancing over her shoulder, she flashed Jake a look of confusion.
“You’re showing him,” he said simply.
She blinked. Wasn’t the entire purpose of her lessons at home to prepare her to show Mamoon? Why in the world was he changing his mind now? She tried to keep her annoyance from sparking. Tried to remind herself that Jake was here, and she should be elated. Yet, defiant irritation sparked. He’d just told her dad she wasn’t a child, and here he was treating her like one again.
“We’re going in dead last. You go in front of me, and I’ll take the rear,” Jake announced as they exited the barn and headed toward the warm-up arena.
“Last? No one wants to go in last.”
Leading Rajiv on the opposite side, he pulled up beside her, so close she could smell a touch of citrus and spice. The faint aroma sent her tummy tumbling upside down, and she became aware of the man, not the trainer, who made her heart skip erratic beats.
Kiss me.
“We don’t have time for explanations,” Jake murmured. His gaze stole sideways, locking with hers, and for the first time since he’d arrived, he offered her a hesitant smile. “I’m sorry, and that’s all you get for now.”
She shook her head, but when she opened her mouth to tell him she didn’t need an explanation, he cut her off with another order. “Don’t get out of Mamoon’s sight. Wh
en we go in, when the judge asks you to present Rajiv, stay close. Don’t trot too far away. I’ll take care of Mamoon.”
“Okay.” She inhaled with a silent grumble.
“Watch out for Alan Tremain. He doesn’t show fair.”
Unable to stop herself, she gave Jake a frown. “I know that.”
Class 228 is in the arena. Class 229, this is your five minute warning.
Jake stopped her outside the warm-up arena. “We aren’t going in there. It’s too crowded.”
She took in the sea of horses and handlers crowding the smaller warm-up area, and concurred. As if to agree with Jake, Mamoon’s attention drifted to the ring, his ears flat.
Jake reached up to stroke the stallion’s neck. “When you set up Rajiv, don’t let him get tense. His neck is a little long. Don’t stretch him too far.”
Gabrielle pursed her lips. “I know. You told me that at home.”
“And I’m telling you now too.” He nodded at her senior stallion. “Use Rajiv’s temperament to your advantage. He’s the only one out here who can strut and move without turning into a fruitcake. Keep him on a long lead. Let the judges see how willing and quiet he is, despite his flashy motion.”
Searching for a touch of humor to offset her growing angst, she quipped, “Okay, coach. I think I’ve got it. They’re lining us up to go in now. Can we join in before the class leaves without us?”
He ignored her remark, but motioned her closer to the entrance. “Tomorrow you scratch all your amateur owner to handle classes. I’ll take care of the boys.”
“I can’t take even Rajiv in by myself?”
“Not here. This is too important. Today is necessary. If you want to make an impact with your farm, they’ve got to win the rest of their solo classes. You can show halter at the local shows until you get completely comfortable with it.”
She bristled beneath his veiled, if not accurate, assessment. Though his blue eyes shone with compassion, his words still drifted toward the lecturing tone her father always assumed.
Class 228 poured out of the arena. One by one, the horses marched past, and the sound of an eager crowd erupted from within as the first place horse took its victory lap. When the winning horse trotted out of the arena and nearly crashed into both of them, Mamoon swung his neck around with bared teeth. Jake gave his lead a sharp, reprimanding jerk. Mamoon looked back to Gabrielle as if to seek comfort from her. Ahead, the horses in the front of the line filed into the arena at flamboyant trots.
Gabrielle took a deep breath and glanced between her two stallions. This was it. Showtime. Please, God, let Mamoon behave.
The wide-open space in front of her signaled her time to enter. She jiggled Rajiv’s lead to get his attention and clucked under her tongue.
As she took a step forward, Jake caught her elbow. “One more absolutely important thing.”
“What?” she growled. “I’ve got it under control.”
“The class is in session,” the gatekeeper hollered. “We need you inside.”
Jake hesitated.
Gabrielle shrugged off whatever instruction he intended to give and jogged forward with Rajiv. They’d close the gates if she didn’t get in the ring.
“I love you.”
Mid-stride, Gabrielle tripped. As Rajiv surged into the arena, she stumbled to regain her footing. She looked over her shoulder and found Jake running along at Mamoon’s side. His blue eyes locked with hers, his smile wide and bright. Erasing her disbelief, he tapped his hand over his heart before he turned his full attention on Mamoon.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jake kept a tight hand on Mamoon’s lead while they stood against the arena’s perimeter and waited for the other horses in the class to present to the trio of judges. In front of him, Rajiv stood at patient attention. Poised like a king, he exuded presence and grace, qualities that frankly stunned Jake. That lazy, complacent stallion knew how to show off, and he clearly felt more than comfortable in the show arena. His flashy white hind socks gleamed a pristine hue. His blood-bay coat glinted in the early morning light. Long mane, tail that dragged the ground—more than one spectator watched the flashy senior stallion.
The rest focused on Mamoon. Jake couldn’t decide whether it was because the stallion truly commanded the field of horses, or because he’d almost blown up when a black stallion drifted too close. He had reared, but that wasn’t terribly out of the range of norm for a class that demanded what Arabian owners fondly referred to as snort and blow. The crowd liked the stallions on the verge of wild, and those who exhibited the most pent-up energy often garnered the most applause.
Noise Mamoon didn’t need. Judging by the tenseness in his muscles, he could explode if so much as a hair twisted out of place.
To give the stallion credit, however, he behaved far better than Jake had anticipated. As long as Gabrielle stayed within ten feet, and as long as Rajiv didn’t get too close while she held him in hand, Mamoon seemed content to wait and see what might happen. As if he actually possessed the ability to reason.
Weird. Jake still hadn’t wrapped his mind around the concept, but the more he worked with Mamoon, the more obvious it became.
The ringmaster signaled at Gabrielle, and Jake pulled in a sharp breath. C’mon, sugar. You can do it.
As he’d instructed, she kept Rajiv on a long lead and escorted him toward the three judges gathered at the end of the arena. Mamoon lifted his head, took a step forward. Jake corrected him with a tug on his lead. In protest, the stallion whinnied, which set off a chorus of voices from the other horses in the arena.
“Shush,” Jake scolded.
Using the end of her lead, Gabrielle asked Rajiv to square up his front feet. She added pressure to the long length of leather, and Rajiv responded by shifting forward and extending one hind foot slightly behind the other. Perfect open stance. She bounced the lead rope, shook the end in front of his nose, and he stretched his muzzle toward her. His tail swished lazily.
Beautiful, sugar. Just like that.
For several long moments, the horse held the pose. When he relaxed, she coaxed him back into the unnatural stretch and waited as the three judges circled him time and again. They made notations on notepads, chewed on the ends of their pens as they assessed his build, his bone structure, his Arabian type.
With a curt nod to Gabrielle, the solo female judge signaled to trot off. Gabrielle shook the lead under Rajiv’s nose to release him from his halter stance, and with a cluck of her tongue asked him to trot. She ran at his side, her short legs forcing her to leap, as opposed to run, to match his long stride. Awkward, yes. A little amusing as well. But it worked. Without breaking stride into a canter—like so many of the other stallions—Rajiv put his heart into the request. They made a half-circle around the judges.
Not too far. There. Stop there.
Mamoon tossed his nose in the air, fighting the pressure of Jake’s hold.
Stop, Gabby!
She took another long stride, then pulled back, and Rajiv settled his weight into his haunches. He halted with the precision of a horse who knew dressage. Jake quirked an eyebrow. Just what all had she done with Rajiv? Or had someone else taught that horse how to move?
The ringmaster urged Jake forward, and he dismissed his curiosity. Contrary to his instructions for Rajiv, he kept Mamoon close, sensing that if given too much room, the stallion would jerk free and make a beeline across the arena to his mistress. Given that she held Rajiv, the encounter wouldn’t be friendly.
The first few steps across the deep, sand-dirt floor had Mamoon tense. But as they moved forward, he relaxed, eventually giving in to a nice swinging, four-beat gait. He tossed his tail over his haunches, arched his neck, and worked as if he were in a bit—the way Jake’s mother had taught all her halter horses. If done correctly, the technique used all the horse’s muscles and showed the true freedom in a shoulder.
He stopped in front of the judges, and, like Gabrielle, asked for the halter stance. He took care to emp
loy the identical commands his mother used. Wide-eyed, Mamoon’s gaze followed the judges as they circled him. He broke his stance twice trying to twist his head to watch. Again, nothing detrimental to their success, but enough of a behavioral flaw that it annoyed Jake. In time, however, Mamoon would learn. All told, two breaks was nothing compared to the other horses and signaled remarkable success given the horse had only had a week’s refresher after three years off.
“Thank you,” the female judge said.
Jake gave her a brief nod. He swallowed thickly, his nerves strained at the prospect of striking up the trot. With a low cluck, he gave Mamoon more freedom on his head and asked the stallion to move forward.
Mamoon responded in a heartbeat.
He barreled forward, forcing Jake to stretch his stride to the limit just to keep up. Knee action at a minimum, Mamoon extended his forelegs almost level with his chest as he trotted away from the judges and around the wide corner. When he looked up and caught Gabrielle straight ahead of him, he widened his stride a little more, surprising Jake. But taking the blessing for what it was, Jake allowed Mamoon to race up behind Rajiv. He stopped him at the last moment, several feet behind Gabrielle.
Rajiv arced his head around to investigate who approached.
Jake laughed to himself. That damned old man was downright amusing at times. He glanced at Mamoon and gave the younger stallion a hearty pat. This one, however, surpassed his expectations. Now, if only the judges saw what he recognized. Or even better, if they were unbiased enough to look beyond Alan’s name and realize the bright copper stallion at his side had too long a back, and his shoulder was too straight.
The ringmaster prattled some nonsense to the anxious crowd, his voice drowned by a sea of cheers and applause. Everyone loved the stallions. They would, though—Scottsdale could make or break a stallion.
“We have our results,” the ringmaster announced.
Breath held, Jake exchanged a nervous glance with Gabrielle. The spectators went deathly silent.
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