“Why did it have to be him?” It was a question many of my “friends” would ask me after all was said and done and my life fell apart and pinned me underneath the rubble. I suppose they had a point. I could have found a willing participant, had my fun, and possibly never been hit with the consequences. But it had to be him. It had to be him because he represented everything I’d never had, everything I had unwittingly sacrificed when I married Arnold. Passion. Excitement. Danger. Intrigue. Ecstasy.
And though he didn’t want me, even though he disliked me and grew to hate me in the end, he needed what I could give him, too. I controlled my husband’s millions. Arnold would never notice if some of it went missing. I could buy the best polo ponies in the world and pay for their room and board. Money meant nothing to me now. No price was too high, but I figured $800,000 was a nice starting offer.
He accepted. I fed on him ravenously. After five years of looking and wanting, it would be fair to assume that reality might be a letdown. But he was everything his gorgeous exterior and smoldering stare hinted at. No longer barely existing, I was thriving, reveling in the pleasure that lingered even after he left our hotel room.
Then one night, he didn’t pretend to want me anymore. His icy stare and barely contained rage shattered every bone in my body, leaving me utterly defenseless. I had known all along what he thought of me, but to have the words flung at me was different. It destroyed me. I crumbled to the floor as he left, wanting to die. I lay on the floor, breathing shallowly and sobbing violently, until an unexpected flood of anger short-circuited my brain. I jumped to my feet as if the floor was burning underneath me. I threw everything within reach against the wall, and then beat it with my fists until my blood was streaming down it. My emotions ricocheted like this for hours. It was exhausting. Finally, I slept. I did not dream. Unfortunately, I did wake up.
I stared at my scarred knuckles. These were not the hands of a millionaire’s trophy wife. But then, I wasn’t Arnold’s wife anymore, so it didn’t matter.
I pulled my coat over my emaciated shoulders. Stepped into my Leboutins. As I made the walk of shame down the staircase, I could feel the blisters starting already. I cringed at the sunlight coming through the windows. Arnold was standing by the door with two huge bodyguards on either side of him. Are you afraid of me, Arnold? I wondered. If I really wanted to attack you, I wouldn’t let those thugs stop me. Between his hulking protectors, Arnold looked smaller than ever. I felt an insane urge to laugh, but also like I might cry. My emotions never worked alone anymore. I shook them off. Squared my shoulders. My strides were long and efficient. I stopped in front of Arnold.
He was different. Colder. Less naïve. I didn’t like this new Arnold . He was kicking me out, and taking pleasure in it. I knew he expected me to cry. Fall on my knees. Beg and plead for forgiveness.
He opened his mouth, looking smug. “So, Elaine, was it worth it? Was he worth losing everything?”
I looked him in the eye and I said “Yes.”
Lawrence
The afternoon sun felt almost heavy on my shoulders. The air was thick and humid. Eloise gave me a pointed stare as I entered the barn. Turn my fan on. Now. I did as I was told, and she pressed her face against the bars of the stall, enjoying the artificial breeze. The flies weren't bad in the cool darkness of the barn, so I didn't torment her with fly spray. Elle hated that stuff.
The heat was so bad that I had kept the geldings in. I planned to turn them out in the evening, but Harry was getting impatient. He’d broken out in white foam pacing his stall, and he stared at me with white-rimmed eyes. "You'll get out soon enough," I told him. I glanced back at Elle, who displayed exemplary manners even though she'd been stuck inside for weeks. "Chill, Harry," I said as I walked past him. He kicked his stall savagely.
Ignoring Harry, I slipped into the third occupied stall. The bay gelding had been well-mannered in the few days I'd had him, and his lameness was practically melting away. I was dying to start training on him, but I knew I'd have to get him fit first. He'd lost a bit of condition, and I didn't want to "gallop him into the ground", as Wilson had put it. Stroking his neck, I admired his lean, athletic frame, intelligent eye, and clean legs. Well, they were clean if you didn't count the mystery lameness which was almost not there but not quite gone. I needed a name for him, but Elle and Harry had come with their names, so I had no experience naming horses. I should've asked Amber. While hauling him home, I'd called her up to share my good news. Surprisingly, she answered.
"I bought a new horse," I said to her.
"So, what's wrong with this one?" She asked. "Is it traumatized and vicious, or untrained and crazy?"
"Neither. This one's lame!"
"You're kidding."
"Kindasorta. "He's a little off on the near front. But I'm pretty sure it's just a stone bruise."
"You're pretty sure? As in, you didn't have it vet checked?"
"Why spend money I don't have?"
"You're a fucking moron, Lawrence." She hung up the phone.
My phone began vibrating in my pocket. I pulled it out and was surprised to see her name on the caller ID. It wasn't like her to apologize. There's a first for everything, I guess. I flipped the phone open. "Hey, Amber."
"He shipped her." Amber's voice was small and breathless. Hopeless. At first, I didn't know what she was talking about. But as the memories of my visit to the track came back into focus, the meaning of her words became horrifyingly clear.
"Oh God, Amber." I leaned against the wall, barely aware of Harry's frantic whinnying, or anything else, for that matter. "What happened?"
"In her last race, she struggled, and finished up the track. She was limping after the jockey pulled her up." Amber sounded grim and unemotional, like she was trying to distance herself from any part of her that felt or cared. "She suffered a stress fracture."
"That's not exactly a death sentence, though...a few months of stall rest, and she could go back into training."
"You think I don't know that?" Amber was crying now. "This is Clint we're talking about. He won't give a horse six weeks, let alone three months. She left on the trailer an hour ago."
The trailer. Right now, Soiree was in a low-ceilinged metal deathtrap designed for cattle, not panicky, high-strung horses feeding off each other's fear. The blonde filly's trusting face filled my head, and I tried not to succumb to the images of her delicate nostrils flaring as the scent of blood filled them, and the people who would beat her senseless if she refused to abandon her instincts and follow them into the place where she would die.
I closed my eyes. "I'm really sorry, Amber," I said dully. My words sounded profoundly inadequate, but then, no words would save Soiree now.
"Don't feel sorry for me," Amber snapped. "Soiree's the one who's dying because Clint's a greedy son of a bitch, and I can't do anything to stop it. I can't even afford to buy her by the pound." She choked out a sob.
The bay gelding nudged my arm just then, giving me a gentle reminder that he was out of hay. I found myself staring across the aisle at ten empty stalls. There was hay in the loft, and shavings in a storage shed nearby. Elle had been on a fast track to the slaughterhouse when I bought her. So had Harry. They had been in that dangerous position because of their unwillingness to cooperate with a human agenda. But they were good horses, in spite of their shitty luck. And Soiree was a good horse, too. She trusted humans implicitly, and that trust was about to be violated. If I stood by and let it happen, I was as guilty as that asshole who sent her on the trailer. He wasn't going to lose any sleep over Soiree. But I knew I would.
"You really like this horse, don't you?" I said to Amber.
"I loved her!" Amber's voice was breaking.
"And she's a really good horse, isn't she?"
"Yes! She was wonderful! Why do you keep saying stuff in the present tense?"
"She's not dead yet." I was resigned to my fate as a bleeding-heart horse fanatic. "I could make a few calls."
"You would
n't." Amber sounded cautiously thrilled.
"Sure I would. I've already got one busted horse. What's one more?"
Amber squealed delightedly (and shrilly). I cringed, holding the phone away from my ear.
"Just so we're clear, this is a one-time deal. The next time you fall in love with some ill-fated horse, you are not allowed to call me and tell me the sob story. Do you understand?"
"Sure, sure." Amber's voice was still unnaturally high-pitched. "You are so wonderful, Lawrence Cavanaugh. Soiree is going to be so thankful."
"I doubt that. She'll just beg for food, like any other horse. And I'm gonna need that asshole Clint's number if you want me to save this nag."
Forty-five minutes later I stood by my truck on a dirt road as the trailer lumbered into view. I could hear horses scrambling for traction on the metal floor as the driver hit the brake. As the plaintive, nervous whinnying reached my ears, it took every ounce of control I had to not break down.
The driver jumped down from the cab of the enormous truck he drove. "You here for the chestnut?"
I nodded. Yes. I'm here for the chestnut, and no one else. I will get Soiree and leave. I will not look back.
"I don't normally do this," the driver said as he struggled with the bolt on the door. "And I expect to be compensated for the inconvenience."
"Sure." I spoke the word calmly enough, but I saw neon red. Saving this filly's life is an inconvenience?
The door screeched open, and the driver waved me over. The sickening reality hit me. Of course. I would have to go in the trailer to identify Soiree. And look in the eyes of all the horses I couldn't save.
I followed the driver in, trying to distance my soul from what my body was doing. Fortunately, I'd had practice. Thank you, Elaine Windzor.
The floor was slick with horse manure and urine. A few horses panicked when they saw me, shoving past others to get away. Men had not been kind to those horses, and their lives were only getting worse. But the ones who walked up to me were the worst. Old horses with hollows above their eyes and white hairs sprinkled on their faces. Confused and scared weanlings with tiny, velvety noses. Gaunt horses, fat horses and even a few who looked like show horses. All of them honed in on me, like they knew I was their last hope. I stroked the neck of a mare who had to be 30 years old. This was a mare who had worked long and hard. And some thoughtless, uncaring person had sold her at auction, probably for less than euthanasia would cost. Now I was about to let her down, too.
"Is this the one?" The driver gestured to a chestnut thoroughbred colt.
I shook my head. "It's a filly...light chestnut, gold mane and tail, blaze and socks. She's pretty tall."
The driver disappeared into the crowd of horses. Then I heard a nicker. That has to be Soiree. I saw her face just then. She was practically smiling as she followed the driver out of the mob. "Sure is a nice horse," he said as I took hold of her halter.
I almost laughed. Only Soiree could get that response. As the driver opened the door, the ancient mare was still standing at my side. I grasped a handful of mane and led them both out.
The driver glanced at the two mares with a bemused expression, but didn't say a word. He held the old mare while I loaded Soiree. Both horses walked right in.
"So." I pulled out my checkbook. "How much do I owe you?"
"Auction prices are pretty low right now. Eight hundred should do it."
I wrote the check and handed it to the driver. "Have a nice trip," I said, with only a hint of sarcasm.
Driving home, I felt better than I had expected. Maybe it was the old mare's presence in my trailer. When I arrived, I turned her out in a grass-filled paddock. I watched her graze for a few moments, and then took Soiree to her stall. I'd chosen what looked to be an old foaling stall; it was bigger than the others. It was also across the aisle from my other horses, to minimize the risk of my irreplaceable (well, except for Harry) polo ponies contracting some dread disease. Soiree called excitedly to the other horses. Harry and the un-named gelding answered enthusiastically, but Elle pinned her ears and made nasty faces until Soiree shut up.
Amber showed up just as I was turning the geldings out. "Please tell me Soiree is okay," she said urgently.
"Of course she is." I looked at her in surprise. "You could've called if you were that worried."
"I did call." Amber was furious. "You turned your phone off, idiot."
"I didn't turn it off. The battery must've died on me."
"Oh." Amber's voice softened. "Is that your lame horse?" She gestured to the bay gelding.
"Yes, and he needs a name. I'm tired of calling him 'The Lame Horse'."
Amber looked him over. "Vegas," she said decisively.
"Why Vegas?"
"Duh...'cause you're gambling on his soundness."
"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I like it." I took a step toward their paddock. "C'mon, Vegas."
After I let the geldings loose, I headed back towards the barn. Amber was watching the old mare. "Is this your new polo prospect?" She asked dryly.
"No, I'm just going to funnel money into her until she dies. Which will hopefully happen soon."
"Are you kidding? There are horses that live into their forties. She'll probably outlive Eloise."
"Lucky me."
"Let's go see Soiree." Amber took off at a run.
Walking at a more leisurely pace, I found Amber in Soiree's stall, her arms wrapped around the filly's neck. Soiree nickered eagerly when she saw me, dragging Amber to the door. "I told you she'd be grateful," Amber said, sticking her tongue out at me.
I patted Soiree's forehead. "You do realize that once Soiree heals, I'm going to have to train her and sell her."
"Of course." Amber buried her face in Soiree's mane. "I just want her to be happy."
"She's always happy."
"Oh, I know. She used to nicker at Clint. It drove him nuts." Amber looked up at me. "So in your life, up to now, you've bought an abused, vicious horse, a crazy horse, a lame horse, a busted horse and an old grey mare. Respectively."
"It sounds terrible, when you say it like that. What the hell is wrong with me?"
"Nothing." Amber patted Soiree's neck. "Absolutely nothing."
Erica
Bruce Springsteen's gravelly voice blasted from my stereo as I drove down the sparsely populated road, passing hay fields, pastures dotted with cows and little farmhouses surrounded by free-range chickens before I pulled into his driveway. I turned down the music as an afterthought, then stepped on the brake and removed the key from the ignition.
As I looked around, I noted some changes. Harry was out in his paddock with a bay gelding. A polo pony, I was sure of it. His mane had been shaved off, and he was small and wiry. The two geldings were shoving each other around like a couple of adolescent boys.
And the paddock nearest to the barn contained a grey mare, her coat whitened by age. Her back had taken on the contours of a hammock, and she was clearly malnourished. She was eating the spring grass as if it was a delicious last meal, and took no notice of me. The mare was homely, to be sure, but I still couldn't take my eyes off her. "What's your story, old girl?" I crooned.
Suddenly Lawrence was at my side, and I stopped thinking about the old mare, or anything else, for that matter. It was like 98 percent of my brain cells had exploded, and the remaining 2 percent could only marvel at his incredibly toned arms. Must be from whacking polo balls around. Okay, I did have some degree of intelligence left in me. Speculating about how his arms had gotten so muscular was slightly better than just drooling over them.
I smiled in greeting. "You've had a real population explosion around here." Wow, an actual witty statement! Go me!
Lawrence flashed his magnetic grin. "Yup, three new horses in about as many days."
"Wow, you've got a real problem here. I think I might need to stage an intervention." A joke? My brain is back!
He laughed. "I think my bank balance already intervened. I won't be hitting any more horse sales for a w
hile."
"So can you introduce me to your new charges?" I was still amazed at my miraculous recovery.
"Sure." Lawrence headed over to the geldings' paddock. I noticed that his jeans were especially tight that day. My brain was gone again.
He led the bay gelding out of the paddock, closing the gate in Harry's face. Harry screamed indignantly, but the bay followed Lawrence obediently. He was a lovely horse with an intelligent eye. I could see he was very well trained from the way he kept an ear on Lawrence, waiting for a cue.
"This is Vegas," Lawrence said. Vegas stood at attention, as if he knew I was there to admire him.
"He's lovely," I said unimaginatively. "And he's probably much more reliable than Harry."
Lawrence snorted, but he still managed to do it attractively. "Vegas is the kind of horse every polo player covets. Normally, I'd never be able to afford him, but thanks to some...interesting circumstances, I managed to snatch him up." The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
"Well, good for you." I cringed inwardly at the blander than bland words coming out of my mouth. Why does he even put up with me? Oh yeah, free training. Right.
I watched as Lawrence returned Vegas to his paddock. The geldings immediately returned to their game of "push 'n shove".
"So what's the story on the old mare?" I gestured to the paddock where she stood grazing.
Lawrence paused. "I was picking up a horse for a friend, and she followed me off the trailer." A lopsided smile appeared on his face. "I had a two-horse trailer, and I couldn't let her go to Canada or Mexico or wherever she was headed."
My jaw dropped. "Someone sold that old mare at auction?"
He nodded. "Yeah, and she wasn't the only one, either."
"That's awful." I stared at the old mare, filled with sadness and anger. "I can't believe someone could do that." I walked over to her paddock to get a better look. The mare's ears flicked in my direction, but she kept eating.
Training Harry Page 8