The First Kiss

by Grace Burrowes

  So…that would be a flattering sort of no?

  “Budge over.” Vera scooted onto the bench beside James, though he didn’t budge far at all. “This one’s in E minor, and it’s underrated as party pieces go. Only two pages, and less saccharine than the E flat major.”

  She launched into the music, which to her evoked billowing seas and pewter skies with the odd ray of sunshine making a hopeful appearance in the contrasting theme.

  The nocturne was a muscular little piece, substantial, and hard to ignore.

  “That’s not background music,” James said when Vera brought her playing to an end. “Are they all like that?”

  “Some are bigger, some are longer, but yes, they all have that balance of substance and grace. If I were to record something, these would be near the top of the list.”

  James flipped through the volume of Chopin until he found the one Vera had just played at the back of the book.

  “Why don’t you record them, Vera?”

  Well, of course he’d ask. “People think recording is easy compared to a live performance, because if you muff it up, you can just try again, but it isn’t like that.”

  He closed the music and set the book aside. “What’s it like to record beautiful music, Vera?”

  This was another question nobody had asked her. Vera dreaded recording sessions, always had, and couldn’t bear to listen to the results for fear she’d hear mistakes.

  “Donal and Alexander never understood this,” she said, or maybe they hadn’t wanted to understand it. “In the concert hall, you make mistakes, but they’re forgiven, they’re almost expected. The occasional wrong note, the appoggiatura that doesn’t quite come off, the pedaling that ends up sounding sloppy in live acoustics, they happen. You learn to play on, and sometimes, it’s the best you’ve done with that piece, despite the boo-boos. The audiences and the critics get that, mostly.”

  For one, startling instant, Vera missed that. Missed the thunder of applause, the passionate appreciation from a packed house, the satisfaction of having played the hell out of a tough program.

  “Is there a but?” James asked.

  One of the cows bawled out in the pasture, a homely, lonely sound.

  “But in the studio,” Vera said, “you must be perfect. I have a friend who was performing seventy-five years ago, and she says the old guys, the generation who first recorded classical music, they were more confident of their reception, closer to their audiences, and they’d leave in a little mistake every once in a while, like blowing a kiss to the audience, or winking. You don’t get away with that anymore.”

  “It has to be perfect?”

  “Donal thought so, and so did Alexander, though he was more subtle about it. He’d look disappointed if I’d done an imperfect job, and in some ways that was worse than Donal’s ranting.”

  James closed the lid over the keys, a small act of consideration for the piano many people neglected to do.

  “What you think should be what matters,” he said. “For the record, I’ve never heard an obvious error in your recordings or your performances.”

  She stared at him sitting so innocently beside her. James would not lie to her, but he could not know—she hadn’t known—how much she needed to hear those words.

  “Say that again.”

  “I’ve never heard an obvious error in your performances.”

  “No, the other.”

  “What you think should be what matters. Isn’t that why you’re the teacher, Vera? Your judgment is the most trustworthy when it comes to music. You’ve devoted your life to it. You’ve had the best instruction. You’ve performed all over the world. You love music passionately and would play every day, even if you didn’t get paid for it…what?”

  Vera fumbled in her bag for a tissue, only to find James was holding out a monogrammed cotton hankie, his expression grave.

  She took the hankie and sniffed and blinked, and tried to think up a saint to invoke appropriate to this loss of dignity, and still James sat beside her. He’d taken the wind out of her sails, shown her in a few words how low her emotional reserves had sunk.

  And he’d offered her some fortification too.

  “What I think should be what matters.”

  Slowly, slowly, Vera let her head fall to his shoulder. His expression didn’t change, and his gaze remained fixed on the keyboard, but just as slowly, his arm stole around her waist.

  James waited while she composed herself, and still she didn’t want to sit back. He stayed right there beside her too.

  “Which nocturne was it that you played?” James asked after a few minutes of silence.

  “The E minor. You found it at the end of the book.”

  “Right. I’ll start with that one.”

  * * *

  “You should be looking at small horses,” James said. “But you’re stubborn, so feel free to drag me around to look at every foundered pony in western Maryland before you admit I’m right.”

  Trent kept driving, not sparing James even a glance, so James plowed on.

  “Ponies are what happens to decent, law-abiding horses when for untold generations, they can’t find adequate fodder. You try being hungry for thousands of years and see if it improves your disposition. Why are we looking exclusively at grays? They’re prone to skin trouble.”

  “Grace’s imaginary unicorn is white.”

  “With spots on his butt and wings,” James said, humor warring with a sense of avuncular doom. “If you’re looking to fulfill your stepdaughter’s fantasies, then you can drop me back at my house, and I’ll leave the unicorn shopping to you.”

  “You don’t understand.” Trent fell momentarily silent as they passed a tractor hauling a load of manure to the fields. “I want to find Grace the perfect horse. She’s had a tough start in life, and I’m the new guy, and this is important.”

  Those same sentiments regarding Vera had kept James on the piano bench until midnight last night.

  “You won’t find another Pasha,” James said. You used up your entire quotient of dad luck when that old duffer fell into your hands.”

  “He’s a prince, but he can’t be the only prince within shopping distance.”

  Yeah, he could. “Does your stepdaughter know you’re looking?”

  “No, and Hannah and I agreed we’re not incorporating step-anything into our vocabulary. The girls can pick and choose labels as they see fit, but Hannah and I have two daughters, period.”

  Interesting, when James had decided he wasn’t a stepuncle, either. “What does Merle’s mother make of this development?”

  James posed the question because a brother could ask it, under the right circumstances, and who else was Trent going to talk it over with? Mac tended to get either silent or violent when the topic of Trent’s ex came up.

  “She was surprisingly gracious, or she was relieved. Now she can be even less attentive to her daughter, because Hannah will love Merle the way a mom ought to love her children. The way we were loved.”

  “Your turnoff’s coming up.”

  This time, Trent did glance at James, but James didn’t take the bait.

  Nearly five years younger than Trent, James had long since concluded they’d been raised by different parents. Trent’s parents had been hardworking, loving, devoted to their children, and tolerant of them within sensible limits. James’s father had been too.

  “The place needs a little work,” Trent said as they bumped up a rutted lane between two lines of sagging board fence.

  “Spring hasn’t arrived yet,” James said. “Nobody fixes their fences until the grass starts coming in.”

  They parked the truck near a bank barn whose standing-seam tin roof sported a thick coat of rust. Russet bantams huddled on a fence rail looked cold and scrawny, even for bantams, and a lone dog on a thirty-foot rope was tied on
the other side of the barn.

  “Why would you tie up a farm dog?” James asked.

  “Because he bites.”

  “Right.” How could the dog possibly be happy, tied in a barnyard with acres of liberty—and dead groundhogs—all around him?

  “Does this charming and carefree mood of yours have anything to do with Vera Waltham?” Trent asked.

  James was saved from making a reply by a woman coming out of the nearby farmhouse, the screen door banging closed behind her.

  “Let me do the talking,” James said. She was in that transition from middle-aged to older, a life on the farm taking its toll at the same time it imbued her with a certain purposeful energy. James suspected her name might rhyme with Irmantrude.

  “You fellas come to look at the pony?”

  “Hello, ma’am, James and Trent Knightley.” James stuck out a hand, which she took, eyeing him up and down.

  “You didn’t bring a trailer. I was told if you were buying for slaughter, you’d have a stock trailer and offer cash on the spot. I’m only selling to a good home.”

  Charming, carefree moods were apparently thick on the cold, hard ground today. “We’re looking for a first horse for my niece.”

  “I only advertised the pony,” she said, glancing at Trent, who, understanding his role, nodded affably. “The pony has some years left in him. The horse is like me, seen better days.”

  “We need something with a lot of experience,” James said. “My niece hasn’t been riding very long, but she’ll love any horse put into her care.”

  “Sure she will.” The lady scuffed a worn tennis shoe in the dirt. “Until she takes a notion to chase boys. We got the pony and the horse for our granddaughters, but they don’t come around much anymore.”

  Or their parents didn’t bring them. “Grace is seven,” James said. “She’d better not discover boys any time soon, or her daddy will take exception.”

  This earned James a fleeting twist of the lips that might have passed for a smile.

  “Come along, then. The paddock’s out back.” She walked off, her gait uneven, and James moved along beside her.

  Why were there no tall old women? “May I ask why you’re selling the pony?” James’s tone was deferential, and he slowed his steps to keep pace with her.

  “My husband had a stroke right before Christmas. He’s up and around some now, but he tires easily, and horses are a lot of work if you take proper care of them. Planting is coming up, and it will be all we can do to keep up with the crop farming this year.”

  Horses were a damned lot of work, though Trent seemed to manage that work easily enough.

  They rounded the corner of the barn, coming up to another sagging fence enclosing a few barren acres. A dozen muddy Angus steers milled around, along with one very muddy horse and an even muddier pony.

  “Who’s your farrier?” James asked, extending a hand over the top rail. The horse eyed him curiously, the pony turned its mud-caked butt toward the fence.

  Thousands of years of short rations did take toll on a gal’s mood—or a fellow’s.

  “Mr. Dean did the horseshoeing, but he moved away first of the year.”

  The first order of business was a visit from Mac, then, who’d picked up farriery in college as a way to earn extra money.

  “Mind if I introduce myself?” James asked.

  “Watch that mud. This time of year, it’s nothing but mud everywhere.” As James clambered over the fence, the lady glared at her farmyard as if the mud fairy would catch a stern lecture for all this mess.

  James had dressed with the weather and outing in mind, and waded through the indifferent bovines to reach the horse first. The beast’s mane hung to its shoulders in dreadlocks of mud, its forelock was a solid mass of burrs, and beneath a coarse gray winter coat, the animal wasn’t carrying any extra weight.

  The pony, a shaggy gray, was in only slightly better shape, and both were overdue for a foot trimming. James scratched the horse’s withers, which inspired the pony to amble closer.

  “You had their teeth floated lately, ma’am?”

  “Maybe last year.”

  Two years ago, then, at least. “May I ask where you bought them?”

  “An ad in the paper about five years ago. The pony is the one we’re selling.”

  The pony, who was now nuzzling James’s back pockets, from which James withdrew a lump of sugar. “You mind if I feed them a treat?”

  “Go on ahead. They won’t bite. My husband wouldn’t put up with anything that bites.”

  “You have a bridle for either one of them?”

  “Yes, we do, and you can have the bridle if you buy the pony. I’ll fetch the bridles, if you’re interested.”

  Nobody should be interested in this pair, based on their appearance. “A saddle for the horse would be nice, if you have one.”

  She nodded, her expression disgruntled.

  “Are you being polite,” Trent asked when the woman was out of earshot, “or are you really considering one of these warthogs for my daughter?”

  “Hush. You’ll hurt the lady’s feelings.”

  “Not if I pay cash, but, James, you can’t be serious. These two are out of condition, ugly, neglected, and filthy. They even smell like cows.”

  James had long enjoyed the smell of cows. “You can fix all that. Look beneath the mud to the disposition, which you can’t fix very easily once it’s been soured.” When Mrs. Farmer-the-Charmer returned, James took the pony out of the paddock first, which left the horse pacing the fence.

  “We’re not going far,” James said to the horse. “You can cheer us on, but your turn is next. What’s the pony’s name, ma’am?”

  “Josephine. We call her Jo for short.”

  James bridled the pony, rigged long lines from bailing twine, and hand-drove the little beast all over the barnyard, using a broken-off cane of sumac for his driving whip.

  Josephine was quiet, obedient, and happy to take any reasonable order. When James asked her to hop a log, she cast him one questioning glance, then cleared it willingly enough.

  He fed her another lump of sugar and gave Trent a pointed look.

  “She’s a perfect lady,” James said to the owner. “Do you mind if I work with the horse for a few minutes?”

  “I don’t see where it would hurt, but he’s seventeen. That’s getting old for a horse.”

  For some horses, but by no means for all horses. James peered into the gelding’s mouth before slipping the bridle on, then swung up onto the animal’s back without benefit of a saddle.

  The horse stood docilely. “How long did you say it’s been since he was ridden?”

  “Years.”

  The gelding recalled his manners, and packed James around the barnyard at the walk, trot, and canter, both directions. He stopped on cue, he backed, he side passed, he even half passed.

  A gentleman fallen on hard times, then, one who’d never make an impression on the ladies in his present state. James liked the horse for trying and for maintaining his equine dignity in the midst of humble circumstances.

  Also for being protective of the little mare.

  Chapter 9

  “What’s his name?” James asked, petting the gelding on its shaggy, muddy neck.

  “Wellington,” the lady replied. “When he loses his winter coat, you can see he probably started out as a strawberry roan, but he’s mostly white now. He used to be a fine animal.”

  James could sympathize with that sentiment, but not for any amount of money or attack of softheartedness would he saddle his brother with a lame horse. The next step was an inspection tour of the gelding, picking up each foot, peering into its ears, running hands over flanks, legs and belly, lifting the tail, and listening to the animal breathe.

  “Mind if I have a word with my brother?” James ask
ed their hostess.

  “Not at all. I got chickens to feed.” She half limped off in the direction of the barn.

  “You’re going to tell me to buy them?” Trent asked as James slipped the bridle off the horse. “This guy is breathing hard, and you barely worked him ten minutes.”

  “I worked him nonstop for ten minutes. I’m six foot three, and he’s been out of work for years. Give the guy a break. Seventeen is a perfect age, and he’s a gentleman.”

  “He’s not for sale.”

  Damned lawyers, always getting focused on the minutiae. “I never met a horse that wasn’t for sale at some price. The pony will be a nice little driving horse when nobody wants to ride her.”

  “A guest horse,” Trent said, jamming his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “Now that we have two girls, the house is overrun with children on weekends and days off.”

  “A guest horse, then. These two are solid citizens, and you can get them for a song. Have the vet out to take a bunch of X-rays and charge you a lot of money, but for what you’re going to pay, they’re worth it.”

  The pony remained by the fence, aiming hopeful, hungry-pony looks at James, while the horse took to scratching a shoulder against a fence post.

  “What were you looking for under the horse’s tail?” Trent asked.

  “A pot of gold.”

  Trent smacked his arm.

  “Melanomas. Pink skin is prone to them, but he’s in good shape.”

  “What did you think of the horse’s gaits?”

  A prospective buyer’s question. “Grace can sit them with a little practice,” James said. “The canter is particularly nice, considering the boy’s feet are overdue for some attention.”

  Trent scrubbed a hand across his chin as the pony lifted its burr-laden tail and let go a sulfurous, sibilant fart.

  Ponies were not known for their diplomacy.

  “You think I should get both? I can’t take them home looking like this, and the present owner hasn’t so much as taken a brush to them in years.”

  While James’s hands fairly itched to start combing the burrs out of their manes.

  “They’re a couple, Trent. You saw how the horse fretted when he thought the mare was being taken away.”