Amy had been right—Mallory’s eyes were blue, but a blue rarely seen. It was deep, almost indigo, and there were tiny sparkles of gold. The effect was stunning.
“Pleased to meet you, Mallory,” Amy said. “Jake told me about you.”
“Nothing bad, I hope.” Mallory smiled. Her teeth, of course, were almost startlingly white and perfectly even.
“Not a thing; he told me how much he was looking forward to having you here.”
“Hey, look,” Jake said. “I promised to make Mal one of my world-famous burgers tonight. Can you come over and join us, Amy?”
Amy’s eyes flicked to those of Mallory, and she wasn’t quite sure if she’d actually seen the very rapid infusion of heat that was gone as quickly as it appeared.
“The more the merrier,” Mal said.
“I’d love to,” Amy said. “How about if I bring the salad again?”
“Sure, that’ll be great. About 6:30?” Jake said.
“OK then,” Amy said. “I need to scoot. I have an errand to run in town. Mallory, nice meeting you. See you both this evening.”
“Nice meeting you, Amy,” Mallory said. For whatever reason, her smile didn’t seem to reach her eyes.
Amy’s Jeep was filled with the smell of new leather, but she enjoyed the aroma and didn’t turn on the air or open her window any farther. Knipper’s Boots ‘n’ Shoes had quite a selection of boots, and Amy found a pair she immediately fell in love with. They were similar in cut and conservative design to those Mallory Powers wore, but the leather was a deeper, almost chocolate color. Amy reached over and patted the box printed with the name “Justin” and smiled to herself. “Justins are the top of the line in boots,” Mr. Knipper had told her. “They’ll last darn near forever and still look good.”
Amy sincerely hoped so.
Amy set out in her Jeep with her bowl of salad next to her on the passenger seat at 6:25. As she swung into Jake’s driveway, she wondered why she’d driven the relatively short distance. It was a delightful evening; a sweet little breeze that smelled of grass and fertile soil was chasing off the heat of the afternoon.
City ways, I guess. Just like wearing yuppie loafers instead of boots. She sighed but then brightened as she parked behind Jake’s pickup. But I’m learning.
The aroma of the briquettes and of the small, brittle branches of mesquite Jake always included in his grill fires reached around the corner of the house and beckoned Amy.
Jake was in a lounge chair, a tall glass of iced tea in his hand. He stood as Amy walked to the picnic table and put down her salad. “Perfect night for a cookout, isn’t it?” he said. “Only thing that makes it better is having you here to share it.” Amy noticed the quick flush that came to Jake’s face with the compliment, and it somehow made his words even more appreciated.
“That’s sweet of you to say, Jake. I’m happy to be here and very pleased you invited me.”
There was a short but not uncomfortable silence as their eyes met and held. Then, Jake said, “Have a seat. I’ll take your salad in and put it in the refrigerator.” He nodded toward the table. “I cut up some vegetables, and that dip’s real good. I’ll bring you a glass of iced tea—or would you rather have a Diet Pepsi or something? Coffee?”
“Tea would be great,” Amy said, sitting at the table. “I’ll try some of the veggies and dip.” She selected a three-inch piece of celery, used its length as a scoop into the reddish, salsa-looking dip, and took a bite. Her eyes teared almost instantaneously, and she felt as if she’d stuffed an ember from Jake’s grill into her mouth. Her throat constricted. The house and kitchen were nearby—but what would her host think? She looked around frantically, sweat streaming down her forehead as if she were standing hatless in the Sahara on the hottest day of the year.
There was a length of green garden hose under a spigot on the side of the house, she remembered. She ran to it, looked around quickly, spit the celery and dip onto the ground, and turned on the water. It was warm and murky and tasted like rubber—and it was wonderful. She turned the spigot handle a bit more to increase the flow of water and rinsed the inside of her mouth.
“You must be awful thirsty, Amy.” The word awful was stretched out in exaggeration.
Amy choked, dropped the hose from her mouth, and looked up to see Mallory standing a yard away from her.
“The dip,” Amy choked out. “It surprised me.”
Mallory waited a beat. “Are you OK now?”
Amy turned off the hose and wiped her hand across her mouth. “Sure. I’ll be right along—you go ahead.”
Mallory smiled again and walked around the corner of the house. Amy straightened her blouse, wiped her face again, and returned to the picnic table. Jake was in a lawn chair, and Mallory had pulled another chair around so that it faced him.
“I’m sorry, Amy,” Jake said. “I should have warned you about the dip. It’s pretty potent stuff. Do you want some ice water?”
“No, my tea will do fine. And I should have remembered that chili peppers and cayenne are favored out here.” She smiled. “I’ll try it again later, but in a very small dose.”
Jake’s eyes met hers. “Well, I’m really sorry. I just didn’t think.”
Amy took a long drink of the iced tea. It felt wonderful in her mouth and on her throat. “Forget it.” She smiled. “I’m still getting used to Montana.”
“Takes a while,” he said.
Mallory’s face was a study in innocence. “Takes some people longer than others,” she said. After a moment, she said, “I’m sure you’ll catch on to things... eventually.”
Mallory was being perfectly polite, but Amy couldn’t help but feel as if Mallory viewed her as an enemy.
Despite Amy’s sudden unease around the other woman, the meal went well. Jake’s burgers were perfectly cooked, the bakery rolls were fresh, and Amy’s salad was a success, as simple as it was. The conversation ebbed and flowed smoothly. They discussed the weather, current events, books, and the unhappy state of national politics. And whatever Amy seemed to have seen in Mallory’s speech earlier had disappeared. The woman appeared genuinely interested in Amy’s writing background and the fact that she was now laboring on her first novel. Maybe she was just uncomfortable, Amy thought. Or maybe I was too quick to judge, since I felt like such a dolt.
“Tell me about your career,” Amy suggested. “Jake says you’re a very well-known and respected trainer.”
Mallory’s smile was self-deprecating, almost shy. “I’ve had good horses to work with,” she said. “When I started out with my father’s stock, I didn’t know what I was doing. But I got lucky along the way and learned training from some of the superstars—friends of my dad’s.”
“Your family is in horses, then?”
“Oh yeah. Powers Ranch & Show Horses was started back in the 1940s, and it’s been growing ever since. I probably rode before I could walk. In fact, I know I did—there’s an old photo of me sitting in a saddle on a pony’s back, and I don’t look all of a year old in it.”
“Speaking of riding,” Jake said, “you haven’t taken me up on my offer to use Daisy again, Amy. That wasn’t just a polite offer, you know. The ol’ gal could use the exercise, and you can learn a lot picking around on the trails.”
“I haven’t forgotten your offer—and I’ll take you up on it soon. I’ve been putting some long hours in on my novel, and that doesn’t leave me much time.” Or long hours sitting at my kitchen table doing nothing but staring at my keyboard.
Mal leaned forward in her chair and put her hand on Jake’s forearm. “I can’t imagine writing a book, can you, Jake?”
Jake considered for a long moment. “Nope. I can’t say that I can.”
“And I can’t imagine riding like you, Jake, or training horses like you, Mallory. I guess each of us has our skills,” Amy said. “Also, there’s a whole lot of difference between writing a novel and writing a novel that gets the attention of reviewers and readers.” She met Mallory’s gaze. �
�That’s the hard part. Sometimes, too, the book seems to be...” She stopped, self-conscious, not wanting to reveal what was happening with The Longest Years.
“Be what, Amy?” Jake asked.
“Sometimes it kind of stalls for a little bit,” she said, forcing a smile.
The sun had eased down below the horizon as they talked. The picnic table was littered with empty iced tea glasses and three coffee cups that’d been refilled twice in the course of the evening. Jake yawned behind his hand and looked at the women guiltily to see if either had noticed. Both had.
Mallory checked her wristwatch. “Looks like it’s time to call it a night,” she said. “But Jake, you haven’t seen the inside of my new trailer yet. Want to take a quick peek?”
“I’d really like to see it too,” Amy said.
Mallory’s eyes flashed hotly for the briefest part of a second and then became calm once again. “Sure. Let’s head over there now.”
They walked through the burgeoning darkness with Jake walking between Amy and Mallory. The trailer seemed graceless and lumpish in the dwindling light, at least to Amy.
Mal took a set of keys from the pocket of her jeans and pressed a button. A light over the front door clicked on, as did lights at either end of the trailer and along its front, splashing illumination around the unit.
“Neat,” Jake observed. “Like the ignitions on the new cars and trucks.”
Amy and Jake stood back as Mal fit a key to the lock of the front door and swung it open. She waved her arm theatrically. “Come on in, folks—I’ll give you the grand tour of my castle.”
The interior was strangely expansive, given the dimensions of the trailer. The couch and two chairs were leather; the carpet a rich Berber. Bookshelves were placed against two walls. A flat-screen TV was set into the wall between the living room and kitchen. Below the screen were shelves holding a high-end sound system.
Mallory led them into the kitchen. It was a bit crowded, but it accommodated all three of them. The range was brushed metal, as was the sink. The refrigerator was a stark, flat black. A microwave was suspended beneath a counter. The countertops were marble.
“This seems really comfortable, Mallory,” Amy said honestly. “I guess I expected... well, I’m not sure what I expected.” Jake was fascinated by the allocation of space and the feeling of openness that was radically different from any trailer he’d ever been in, mobile or stationary. “Did you design the interior, Mal?” he asked.
Mallory laughed, moved a step closer to Jake, and put both hands on his arm for a moment. “Thanks for the compliment, Jake. I wish I had,” she chortled. “But no, I hired an architect who specializes in these types of things.”
The bedroom easily contained a queen-sized bed and a dresser. The bath wasn’t spacious, but it offered both tub and shower. The sink was marble. The remaining small area—not much larger than a sizable and deep closet—which Mallory described as the den, held a small desk, a computer and monitor, and two upright, three-drawer filing cabinets. The framed pictures on the wall were of cutting horses at work in arenas before stands full of people. Mallory was the rider in most of them.
The tour ended back in the living room. Amy crouched and checked titles of the books on the shelves while Mal and Jake discussed the work planned for the next day. The conversation buzzed to the side as Amy pulled the occasional novel off a shelf. What looked like a leather-bound collection of the full works of William Shakespeare turned out to be a prop—a device made to look like a series of books on a shelf. She had to swallow the grin that had spread across her face before she turned back to Jake and Mallory.
“Good,” Jake said, a note of finality in his voice. “We’re agreed that Lancer’s Trifle is a good prospect and you’ll spend some time with him.”
“He’s a good horse, Jake. His sire is as dumb as a fence post, but Lancer seems willing. I guess we’ll see how bright he is as we go on. If he doesn’t work out, you’ve got other good stock.”
“Amy?” Jake called. “You about ready to go?”
She stood from the bookshelf and walked to the door, where Mal and Jake stood. “Thanks for showing me your place, Mal,” she said. “I’m really impressed.”
“Me too,” Jake agreed. “See you in the morning, right?”
“Right. ’Night, Amy.”
When the door was closed, Jake and Amy walked back toward Jake’s home. The night was as quiet as most Montana nights were, and Amy was getting used to the silence. They walked about half the way without speaking.
“Nice trailer,” Jake said, sounding as if he’d been searching for some way to break the silence.
“Nice,” Amy agreed.
“So, what do you think of Mallory?” Jake asked.
“She’s an interesting person. And she seems very competent at what she does. Do you know her well?” she asked.
They continued walking as they talked, their boots moving silently in the grass.
“Not really, no. I met her a couple of times at rodeos.” He stopped there, making it clear he didn’t have a whole lot more to say on the subject.
“Really? She seems to know you well.” Suddenly she regretted saying it. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business,” she said as she felt her face flush red.
Jake stopped, and Amy did too. In a moment he took a half step and turned to face Amy. “I met her father about eight or so years ago. Her mother, I later learned, died shortly after Mal was born. Stuart Powers—her father—was one of the most unlikable men I’ve ever met—avaricious, unyielding, not particularly good to his horses. Don’t get me wrong—he wasn’t cruel to them, didn’t neglect them. But for someone in the business of raising and training horses, he never seemed to really care about them. He was hard on his daughter, I’ve heard. Distant is one word folks use to describe how he treated her. Like she was a hired hand who was barely worth keeping on the payroll.” He paused before continuing. “He died six months ago.”
“She’s done well even in spite of her father though, hasn’t she?”
“Yeah. Regardless of Stuart, she became a top trainer. It hasn’t been easy for her.”
They walked to Amy’s Jeep, neither speaking until Amy turned at her vehicle door. “This was fun, Jake. I enjoyed myself.”
Jake extended his hand for the friendly shake they’d parted with in the past. “I... well... this was fun, Amy. Thanks for coming over, and for welcoming Mallory.”
“I had a good time,” Amy said. “Thanks for having me.” She smiled at him. “See you soon.”
“You bet,” Jake said.
“Well,” Amy said aloud as she drove down Jake’s driveway to the road. “Well,” she repeated as she turned into her own driveway a few moments later and tucked her vehicle into its spot in the garage. Instead of entering through the garage to the kitchen door, Amy walked out through the overhead, leaving it up, and sat on her porch step. Across her side yard and beyond Jake’s fence and pasture, she could see the glow of a light in Jake’s living room. There were no lights showing in Mallory’s trailer.
A cool, almost chilly, breeze sent Amy across the porch and in her front door. She clicked on the lamp at the end of the couch. Nutsy attacked one of her new boots from under the love seat, shooting out hissing in mock ferocity, wrapping his front paws around her ankle, digging at the leather with his hind paws.
“Swell,” she said to the kitten. “I forgot to leave a light on for you, so you slept all night. And now it’s playtime, right? Whether I want to sleep or not?”
Nutsy released the boot and hustled back under the love seat, his eyes glinting like black marbles as he glared at his quarry. Amy started for the kitchen. She’d taken only a couple of steps before being attacked again. She sighed through a smile. It had been an interesting and in some ways perplexing night.
The mail came early in Coldwater, or at least it did to the ranch and farmland surrounding the city. The rural carrier, a part-timer with a herd of dairy cattle to look after, swooped th
rough his route like an eagle, skidding to a stop at roadside boxes, blasting past open fields and pastures to the next box, and the next, often leaving the post office in full dark to begin his rounds.
Amy had gotten into the habit of taking her first cup of coffee outside on the pleasant summer days that seemed to be following one another without a break. It was a part of the day she cherished, perhaps because it was so conspicuously free of the rush and hustle that had started her days not too long ago.
She stood in her backyard and watched a few of Jake’s mares arguing about something, their high-pitched squealing sharp and angry. She’d long since gotten used to the pasture squabbles and had grown to enjoy watching the horses and their own closed little society with its tightly established pecking order.
The rumble of a blown exhaust system brought Amy to her feet from her porch and started her toward the mailbox at the roadside in front of her home. The deceleration of the carrier’s engine indicated that he had something for her. The carrier slid to a stop at her box and then, almost instantly, was blasting on down the road again with a cloud of dust and grit in his wake.
Amy checked the sole piece of mail she took from her box: “Lloyd Hampton Sturgiss, Literary Agent, 417 Madison Avenue, New York, New York, 10016” stood out crisply as the return address. She opened the letter right there at the mailbox. The text was in a script font on thick, creamy paper.
Dear Amy,
Just a brief note to see how things are going with you and how Longest is progressing. As I mentioned to you at lunch the last time we met, we were very fortunate to contract with Meadowdale Publishing Group. They’ve never been prone to taking on newer writers who can’t show extensive track histories. Nevertheless, your editors there have great faith in you and in how Longest will impact the market.
Of course, the schedule you and I structured several months ago isn’t carved in stone. I realize that delays can take place. Still, the completed first half of the novel was due last week. I hope you’ll get those pages to me quickly so that I can meet again with Meadowdale to further discuss promotion, signings, and the postpub tour.
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