Dream 3 - Finding the Dream

by Nora Roberts

  She'd seen the look in his eye, and the bat in his hand. Threw up her chin. "I suppose you were going to play baseball with him."

  "No, ma'am." It might be funny, years later, when he didn't ache everywhere. "We're not playing at anything here. And if you want to take a good look, you'll see the only one with bruises on him in this paddock is me."

  She did look, noted that although the coat was gleaming with a healthy layer of sweat, the horse was unharmed. In fact, he was magnificent. And the look in his eye wasn't fear, she realized. It was, if such a thing were possible, humor.

  Michael, on the other hand, was filthy, and there was the telltale outline of a hoofprint on the leg of his jeans.

  "If you threaten him with a bat, his only recourse is to strike out. I would think you'd—"

  "Mrs. Templeton." Patience was wearing thin and going ragged around the edges. "Does this little bastard look threatened to you? Right now all he's doing is gloating."

  It appeared that he was, Susan admitted, making another close study of the colt's eyes.

  "Then explain why—"

  "If you'd just let loose of him before he sees I can be slapped around by a woman half my weight and I completely lose the upper hand here, along with six months' work, I'd appreciate it."

  She did loosen her grip on the bridle, but warily. "I'm warning you, Michael. If you dare to hurt him, I'll do more than slap you around."

  "I believe it," Michael muttered as she took a single step back. "Would you move back to the fence, please? Bastard still has a problem with control."

  "Charming name." With her arms folded, Susan took a few more steps in retreat. And stayed poised, ready to leap.

  "You've got me in it now, haven't you?" With a firm hand, Michael took the bridle, pulled the colt's head down until their eyes were level. "Make me look like an idiot, pal, and I might just mistake your face for a Spalding. Got that?"

  The colt snorted, then jerked his head clear when Michael released it. Michael shifted his grip on the bat, curling fingers around tip and base, then lifted it. After a humming war of wills, the colt reared up, pawed the air.

  "Up." Heedless of striking hooves, Michael stepped under them. "Stay up there, Bastard. Nobody'll feed you if you kill me." Shifting the bat again, he grabbed a handful of mane and swung up onto the nearly vertical back.

  At the quick and easy grace of the move, the fluidity with which man and horse merged, Susan sighed in admiration. And again when Michael turned the mount in a half circle.

  The pressure of Michael's knees brought the horse down. "Stay back," Michael ordered Susan, without looking at her. "This is the part we're having trouble with."

  He brought Bastard into a rear again, rolled off and under the dancing hooves. "Don't you step on me," Michael muttered, as he felt the ground shake. "Don't you step on me, you son of a—shit!"

  A hoof caught him in the hip. Just a graze, but it was the principle of the thing. He was on his feet again, staring the horse down. "You did that on purpose. You're going to do it again till you get it right."

  Limping only a little, Michael picked up the discarded bat and went through the entire routine again. And again.

  When they were both winded and he'd managed to complete the drill without breaking anything, Michael, limping a bit more, went over to the bag he'd slung over the fence and took out an apple.

  The colt followed him, pushed his head against Michael's back. "Don't try to make up. I'm only giving you this because I'm not on my way to the hospital."

  The colt nudged him again, then tried to eat Michael's hair.

  "Cut it out. You are such an ass kisser. Here." The apple he offered was taken eagerly. "And you have revolting manners," he added when bits of apple flew.

  "I owe you an apology."

  Michael stopped rubbing his bruised butt and looked at Susan. In his concentration, he'd forgotten she was still there. "No problem. Maybe I was thinking about bashing him one."

  "No, you weren't." She stepped over, ran a hand over the colt's smooth neck. "You're in love with him."

  "I hate the bastard. Don't know why I ever took him on."

  "Um-hmm." She smiled, absently brushed some of the paddock dirt off the sleeve of Michael's shirt. "He certainly looks ill-kept, ill-used. Ill-fed too."

  Embarrassed now, Michael shrugged. "He's an investment. A good stunt horse earns good money."

  "I'm sure." She simply couldn't stand it—now she broke into excited questions. "How in the world did you teach him to do that? How do you keep him from trampling you? Aren't you worried? How long have you been working with him?"

  Rolling his aching shoulders, Michael settled on the last question. "Not long enough. He's smart, but he's got some rough edges." Then he grinned. "You had me quaking, Mrs. Templeton. I figured you were going to grab the bat out of my hands and go to work on me with it."

  "I might have." She caressed the colt. "I can't stand to see something abused."

  "Can't say I care for it myself. There was this wrangler on a set a while back. He had this terrific horse, sweet-natured, generous. But the wrangler was never satisfied, always pushing for more, working that horse to exhaustion and never giving anything back. It was bad enough to see him breaking that horse's heart, and his spirit, but then he started using a whip, and his fists, and whatever else came in handy."

  Michael paused to shovel the hair out of his eyes, squint at the sun. "He got himself a bad rep. Nobody wanted to hire him or work with him anymore. They all said it was too damn bad, 'cause that horse was a rare one."

  "Why wasn't something done?"

  "There's politics, the network—the wrangler'd been in the game a long time. I was pretty new at it then, and I never did care much for politics. I talked him into selling me that horse. Made a pretty decent stake working with him."

  "You talked the wrangler into selling?"

  Michael looked back at her. "More or less."

  "Did you use the whip, or just your fists?''

  "I don't care for whips. And Max, the walker I bought, he can't stand the sight of them." He nipped the bag away before the colt could investigate the contents. "You out for a walk this morning, Mrs. Templeton?''

  "I could use that for an excuse. But I imagine we both know I wanted to speak with you."

  "Yeah, I figured you or your husband would come down." And he'd prepped himself for it. "You're going to have to talk while I work. My stock need some exercise."

  "All right." She went with him as he walked out of the paddock and into the stables. "Laura tells me you're giving the girls riding lessons."

  "Just a few basics. I've got some quiet saddle ponies."

  "I was treated to a dissertation on Mr. Fury and his horses over breakfast this morning. You've made quite an impression on my granddaughters. Let me help you," she said, taking the bridle of one of the horses he'd begun to lead out. "And you've made an impression on my daughter as well."

  "She's a beautiful woman."

  "Yes, she is. And she's been through hell. In many ways it's made her stronger. But she's vulnerable, Michael, and more easily bruised than either you or she might realize."

  "You want me to promise not to hurt her." He stepped back as the horses trotted into the paddock. "I can't do that."

  "No, you wouldn't do that. As I recall, even as a boy you were careful not to make promises."

  "You don't make, you don't break," he said simply and went back to the stables.

  "You had a difficult childhood," she began, then broke off, raising her eyebrows, when his head whipped around.

  "I don't believe in blaming what is on what was. I-imagine you had a dandy childhood. Is that responsible for everything you are?"

  She nodded slowly as he led out the next horses. "Well put," she murmured. "No, I wouldn't like to think so, but it did give me a solid foundation to build on."

  "And mine's shaky." Though he'd told himself he wouldn't allow it, the bitterness came through. "You don't have to tell
me where I come from, Mrs. Templeton. I know."

  She stopped him by reaching up, closing her hand over his. "That wasn't a criticism. I'm not blind, Michael, and I don't like to think I'm narrow-minded either. I can see you're building something here. And I know why you left your childhood behind before anyone should have to."

  When he said nothing, she smiled and let him go. "I know what goes on in my own house, Michael, and I know what goes on in the lives of my children's friends. If your back needs to go up because I felt sorry for that boy, then so be it. My heart broke for you."

  "You wasted your sympathy."

  "I don't think so, but as you said, that's what was. Now is what is. You never cross the wire in the marathon of parenthood, Michael. You never finish the race and take a victory lap. Laura is a grown woman, free to make her own choices and live her own life, but that doesn't stop me from worrying or wondering or hoping she chooses well."

  He knew what she was telling him, had expected it. "And you've got to wonder, considering things, if she's choosing well this time."

  She nodded slowly. "Yes. I won't say that sex doesn't last. It can and does if you're lucky. But it isn't enough by itself."

  He'd expected to be warned away, but he wasn't ready to be pushed. "If you've come down here to ask me to stay away from her, you're wasting your time. I won't do it."

  She measured him. "I'd be disappointed in you if you would. What I'm asking you to do is be kind." She looked away to where the horses pranced. "Just be kind."

  "You want a promise, I'll give you one. I'll never treat her the way Ridgeway did. I won't cheat or lie or take anything from her she doesn't want to give me. And I won't leave her feeling like a failure."

  Susan's gaze came back and sharpened. It was the words, yes, but more the edgy anger behind them that had her reevaluating. "You understand better than I gave you credit for."

  "I understand failure just fine." And he knew that compared to a woman like Susan Templeton, he might not be a failure, but he could hardly be considered a success. "If that's all, I've got work to do."

  "Michael." Remembering that he'd always been easily roused and prone to impatience, she kept her hand firm and her eyes level with the storm in his. "It's nice to have you at Templeton House again. Now will you show me the horse you told me about? Is it that walker over there watching you as if he'd die if you asked him to?"

  Michael blew out a breath and wondered how a man was supposed to understand any of the Templeton females. "Yeah, that's Max. He's just hoping for a handout."

  "Why don't you introduce me?"

  "I actually told her I was sleeping with him." Laura kept her voice low as she slipped clothes back onto hangers in the wardrobe room. "I can't believe I stood there and told my own mother I was having sex with Michael."

  "Odds are, she'd figured it out for herself." Margo slipped discarded shoes back into their slots. "And probably wasn't all that shocked, as it's likely she knew you'd had sex before. Seeing as you have two children."

  "You know what I'm talking about," Laura mumbled. "It's weird."

  "How'd she take it?"

  "Well enough. Poor Dad is tiptoeing around the subject as though if he wakes it up it would start an orgy."

  "Well, you could hardly pretend nothing was going on when Mrs. T caught you and Michael playing lifeguard in the pool." She chuckled, checked her hair in the mirror. "God, I wish I'd seen that one."

  "I'm sure it was illuminating for all parties. It felt like that time Annie caught us necking with Biff and Mark on the cliffs. The cliffs!" she exclaimed before Margo could comment. "Lord, my mind is a sieve today! Wait."

  She dashed out, nearly bumping into a customer and causing Kate to eye -her curiously. In the back office, Laura dug her purse out of a drawer and the coin out of the small zippered compartment.

  "What's the problem?" Kate demanded, slipping in. "Did Margo forget to order boxes again? We'll be out by Monday if she hasn't—what have you got there?"

  "The cliffs." Laura pressed a hand to her heart. "Last night. I forgot."

  "You found one!" In a leap, Kate snatched it from Laura's hand. Excitement and triumph spurted straight up into her heart. "You found another one! Seraphina's dowry. And you forgot to tell us?"

  "This morning was such a zoo. I didn't know I would be in until Dad insisted he'd cover for me at the hotel, and then Kayla and Ali were begging to stay home from school to spend time with Mom, and—oh, never mind," she finished with a wave of her hand. "Yes, I forgot."

  Margo opened the door behind them. "Would the two of you mind terribly if we attempted to run the business today? We have customers who—what have you got?"

  "Laura found it. And forgot."

  "When?" Letting the door close smartly at her back, Margo took the coin from Kate. "Where?"

  "Last night. On the cliffs. On that ledge where I like to sit sometimes. I was just sitting there, thinking, and when I started to go back, I saw it. Well, felt it," Laura corrected. "I put my hand down right on it. I'd been sitting right beside it."

  "Just like the other times," Margo murmured. "When one was just there for me and one was just there for Kate. It's a sign."

  "There she goes." Kate rolled her eyes and eased a hip onto the desk.

  "Well, what would you call it?" Margo snapped back. "We search like maniacs, have been on and off since we were kids. Nothing. We've all but groomed those cliffs with tweezers. Nothing," she said again, gesturing wildly. "Then each one of us goes there, at some turning point in her life, and there it is. A coin. One for each. Which means…"

  She stopped, looked up from the gold glinting in her hand, and stared at Laura. "Which means," she said slowly, "you're in love with Michael Fury."

  "What in the world does one have to do with the other?" To buy time, Laura took the coin back, set it in the middle of the desk blotter.

  "The day I went there and found mine, I was thinking about Josh and what I was going to do about being in love with him. And Kate—" She looked over at her friend, who was frowning in thought. "She went, thinking about Byron. You were in love with him, weren't you?"

  "Yeah, but…" Kate trailed off. "Look, this is a little too Twilight Zone for me."

  "Open that accountant's mind for a minute." Impatient, Margo turned back to Laura and took her by the shoulders. "Are you in love with Michael?"

  "That isn't—"

  "I asked a direct question, Laura, and I'll know if you lie."

  "All right, yes, but it doesn't—"

  "Love matters," Margo said quietly. "We matter. Maybe that's the whole point." She released Laura and reached into her pocket, where she habitually carried her coin. "This matters." She placed it beside Laura's and looked at Kate, who rose and took her own out of her purse.

  "It matters," Kate agreed when the three coins sat side by side. "We're still in it together. Have you told Mick, Laura?"

  "No. And no, I don't know if I'm going to, or how I'll handle it. I can't plan things out like you, Kate, or run on instinct the way you do, Margo. I have to do it my way. Which means, I suppose, maintaining illusions and waiting to see what comes. And my emotions are my responsibility."

  Then she smiled, traced a fingertip over all three coins. "A sign from Seraphina. Well, maybe it is. Maybe she's telling me not to put all my dreams into one man's hands this time."

  "Or she might be telling you that you can find that dream if you know where to look." Margo draped an arm over Laura's shoulders. "Either way, you can't stop looking. It's the same as jumping off a cliff."

  "1 haven't stopped looking." She patted Margo's hand before reaching for her coin. "And I think this calls for a celebration. Why don't we get together tonight and open some champagne?"

  "Talked me into it." Kate pocketed her own coin. "I was coming over anyway. Poker night at the De Witts'."

  "That's right." Laura grinned. "Dad's already rubbing his palms together. So, Margo, are you up for it?''

  "I'll be there." Margo p
icked up her coin but held it. She hoped Laura wouldn't put hers—or her dreams—away too quickly. "Maybe we can get Mum and Mrs. T a little drunk and play some poker ourselves."

  "I'm game. Why don't we—" Kate broke off at the brisk knock on the office door. The customer who poked her head in seemed annoyed and impatient.

  "Excuse me, but is anyone working here?"

  "I'm so sorry." All conciliatory smiles, Laura stepped over. "We had a small problem. What can I help you with?"

  Michael had never been driven to a poker game in a limo, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. Not that he hadn't ever ridden in one before. After all, he'd worked in Hollywood for five years.

  But to a poker game? It felt, well, pretentious.

  Then again, as Josh had said when he came to the stables to fetch him, no one would have to worry about how many beers they knocked back.

  Obviously at home in the plush surroundings, Thomas leaned back and tapped his finger on his knee in time with the aria playing on the stereo.

  All Michael could think was that big limos, opera, and poker didn't mix. And he began to worry just what the hell he'd gotten himself into.

  "I'm feeling lucky." Thomas wiggled his eyebrows. "I hope you two boys brought plenty of money."

  Which made Michael realize that his idea of plenty of money and Thomas Templeton of Templeton Hotels' idea of plenty of money were unlikely to be in the same ballpark.

  Jesus, he could lose his shirt, and his ego, in one fun-filled evening.

  "My wife fell in love with a Tennessee walker you have down at the stables, Michael." Thomas crossed his legs at the ankles and decided to see how much of a rise he could get out of young Michael Fury. "Maybe I'll win him from you before we're done tonight."

  "I don't bet my horses," Michael said easily, "or my friends. Nice watch, Mr. Templeton." He flicked a glance over Thomas's slim gold Rolex. "I could use a new watch."

  Thomas let out a bark of laughter and slapped Michael on the knee. "A boy needs his dreams. I ever tell you about the time I played seven-card stud for thirty-six hours? That was in Chicago in '55. Now we—"