Adelaide, the Enchantress

by Kay Hooper

  Ringer snorted just then, uneasy; he was back against the wall of his stable, his eyes showing white and his nostrils flaring. Addie glanced at the horse, then returned her steady gaze to Marshall Justin’s face.

  “That isn’t Resolute,” she said softly.

  Shane’s breath hissed between his teeth as the man’s hand jerked and the gun wavered, then steadied.

  “Do you take me for a fool?” Justin snapped.

  “We switched horses. You’ve never been close to Resolute—but you’ve heard about him. You know he wouldn’t let anyone else in his stable unless I’m there.”

  “It has to be Resolute. You’re racing tomorrow.”

  “Look at his teeth. That stallion is older than Resolute.”

  Justin stiffened, then smiled gently. “Nice try.”

  “She’s telling you the truth,” Shane said levelly, taking a quick step sideways in an attempt to draw the gun to himself. But he only drew an impatient glance.

  “You stay where you are. Another step and I’ll make sure she never races again.”

  “And Nightshade won’t race,” Addie said softly. “Or will you kill us both? What then? Tully and Bob will return soon. More witnesses. If you do this, you’ll never see another horse of yours run. You can’t hope to get away with this now.”

  “I’m going to kill the horse,” he said in a reasonable tone. “I wanted Bevan to, but he wouldn’t. He worked for me, you remember, years ago. He was loyal to me. But…he wouldn’t hurt the horse. He put the razor in that apple, and he picked the stitching on your bridle. He thought I was just trying to scare you. He thought you’d take the horse away from here. But he didn’t know about the land. I knew. I knew you wouldn’t give up so easily.

  “And Tate…” His face quivered suddenly. “Tate said I was wrong. He said he’d hate me if I did this—but he won’t. He’ll understand. When we win the Cup, he’ll understand.”

  “No. I won’t.”

  Marshall’s gaze jerked at the sound of his son’s voice, and the hand holding the gun wavered again. “Tate…”

  His son moved slowly until he was nearer, as close to Addie’s left as Shane was to her right; they were fanned out and facing his father. “I won’t understand, Dad.” Tate’s eyes were bleak, and his mouth was a thin, grim slash. “And no one else will. You set that barn on fire, and two horses are dead.” He drew a deep breath. “You promised me it was over. You promised me a week ago that you’d stop this.”

  “But we have to win the Cup,” his father told him in that eerie, reasonable tone. Still holding the gun on Addie, he shifted his grip on the hypodermic and took a step back into the stable.

  “That isn’t Resolute!” Addie said again desperately.

  “Liar!”

  Tate spoke rapidly after a glance at Addie. “Dad, she’s telling the truth!”

  Marshall laughed a bit unsteadily and reached backward. And Ringer, gentle horse that he was, might perhaps have been haunted by a bad memory of vets and shots or else simply felt the tension of the people around him and acted as any unpredictable animal would. He wheeled and lashed out with both rear legs, catching Marshall Justin a glancing blow on the ribs.

  Shane leaped, bringing Addie to the ground swiftly as the harsh report of the gun sounded in their ears. Tate had lunged at the same moment, knocking the gun from his father’s hand and snatching the hypodermic. Then he dragged Marshall from the stable, holding his arm tightly.

  “Addie—”

  “I’m fine,” she said a little breathlessly as Shane helped her to her feet.

  Marshall stood silently in his son’s grip, gazing downward at the ground. If Ringer had hurt him, it wasn’t apparent; he seemed to be in no pain but simply in a world of his own.

  Tully raced up just then, and his intelligent eyes took in the situation with a glance. He addressed himself to Tate. “A bloke says he saw your father toss a lighted cigar into one of the stables. They’re thinking it was an accident, of course, but—”

  “Yes.” Tate’s bleak eyes measured Tully for a moment. “If you could take him to our office and wait for me there…?”

  Tully glanced at Addie, then took Marshall’s arm in a tight grip. “This way, Mr. Justin.” As he led the older man away, they heard Tate’s father say tiredly, “The bastard kicked me. He always was a surly brute.”

  “Addie, I’m sorry.” Tate looked and sounded as if every breath he drew was torture. “I should have gotten help for him when I realized he was trying to kill Resolute. But somehow, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell you it was Dad.”

  She touched his arm briefly. “I understand, Tate.”

  “The authorities will have to know.”

  She shook her head. “Not about this. You’ll have enough to deal with because of the fire.”

  A little gruffly, he said, “Thank you.”

  She nodded, silent.

  “Two good horses are dead, a barn destroyed.” He looked blindly at the hypodermic in his hand, then slipped it into the pocket of his jacket and bent to pick up the gun. “Lord, what a mess.”

  Storm arrived then, her face pale. Whether she had seen and spoken to Tully or not, it was obvious she knew at least some of what had happened.

  Tate spoke to her distantly. “I won’t be able to take you to dinner. I’m sorry.” He gestured wearily. “I’ll have to talk to track officials…and others.”

  Storm’s big blue eyes searched Tate’s face for a moment, and then she slipped her hand into his. “You have to eat sometime,” she said briskly. “I’ll wait.”

  His eyes focused on her face and cleared a bit. And even though his smile wasn’t much as smiles go, it was there. “It may take a while,” he warned.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Addie went into Shane’s arms as the other two walked away. “Poor Tate,” she said quietly. “No wonder he’s been so wild these last weeks. It would have been disloyal to warn us, yet he couldn’t stop his father….”

  “He’s been in hell,” Shane agreed. “And I’d guess there is worse to come for him. If word gets out the fire wasn’t an accident and the newspapers get hold of it, they’ll have a field day.”

  Addie pulled back just enough to gaze up into his face. “If I had sold Resolute to Tate, none of this would have happened.”

  His arms tightened around her. “Nothing that’s happened,” he said flatly, “was your fault, Addie. He became obsessed with winning a race and it twisted his mind.”

  She wasn’t entirely convinced, but realized the folly of hindsight. She sighed. “I suppose.”

  Shane smiled down at her. “You said it yourself, honey. Resolute deserves to run in the Cup. He’s earned it. And so have you.” Softly, he added, “And there’s more than a race at stake for you.”

  He hugged her, gazing briefly over her head at a splintered plank bearing a ragged hole; if Addie had remained still, that shot would have hit her. His arms tightened around her. A fall from a horse hadn’t taken her from him, but a madman nearly had.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said gruffly.

  —

  The Melbourne Cup had been run on the first Tuesday in November since 1867, and was a national event. The entire nation, including Parliament, came to a halt. Australians listened to the race on the radio, watched it on television or at the track, and bet huge sums of money on the outcome.

  The burned hulk of a barn testified to tragedy, but the newspapers had followed the official report, which was that Marshall Justin had accidentally set the fire and had suffered a breakdown as a result of the tragedy. He was, reported the papers, under sedation at the family home in New South Wales. His son Tate was at the track, haggard but calm, and their horse Nightshade had not been scratched.

  “He deserves his chance,” Tate had told Addie hours before the race was to start. “He’s a damn good horse; after you take Resolute to the States, Nightshade won’t have a serious contender left to race against.”

  Th
at was true, and Addie knew it. Nightshade might as well have been the only other horse in the race; as far as the crowd and press were concerned, it was a two-horse race.

  But there were other hopefuls; the field, though not large, was certainly not small. A dozen horses were slated to begin the race, and all were there because someone thought they had a chance. And then there was the tried and true adage: Anything can happen in a horserace.

  When the time came, Addie dressed in her green and silver silks with the help of a subdued but smiling Storm. Hearing the murmured wishes of luck, she weighed in and carried her saddle to the paddock, where Resolute waited.

  Shane, holding the spirited stallion, grinned at her. “He tried to take a bite out of me.”

  “At least he’ll let you near him.” She watched while Shane guided Sebastian off Resolute and onto his own back, then stripped the stallion’s blanket off. She put her saddle in place and cinched it tight, accepting a leg up from Shane when the call came for jockeys to mount.

  She adjusted her stirrups and buckled her helmet in place, then gathered the reins and gazed down at her man. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” He smiled at her, his green eyes bright. “Good luck, honey.”

  Shane watched her ride the prancing gray horse onto the track, then made his way to a place near the finish line. Sebastian had fallen asleep, his chin on his human tree’s shoulder, totally unperturbed by the noisy crowd. Absently, Shane adjusted the koala’s weight, hardly noticing the grins directed at him.

  He thought fleetingly of the problems he was likely to encounter in getting Sebastian to the States, and then the further problems in supplying eucalyptus for food in an area where it was somewhat difficult to come by. Then he shrugged the thoughts away. He would do it. Somehow.

  The start of the race found him gripping the railing tensely, his eyes fixed on the bobbing green and silver rider. She was lost in the pack for seconds only; within a few strides two horses had pulled ahead. Neck and neck they swept around the turn, their lead on the other horses increasing with every stride.

  Resolute and Nightshade. Gray and black, a ghost and a shadow, they matched each other stride for stride.

  The announcer called out the time for the first half of the race, and the crowd went wild, but Shane barely heard. He leaned toward the track, silently urging, mentally commanding that gray horse to run…run…run!

  Then, lengths from the finish, Addie suddenly turned her stallion loose. She never used her whip, never urged him on with arms or legs. But Resolute shot forward as if he’d been only cantering gently until then. Neck stretched, ears forward, nostrils flaring, he was racing the wind, racing the sun, racing time. The crowd was on its feet, cheering violently, going wild as the ghost left his shadow far behind and streaked beneath the finish line in the fastest time ever run in the Melbourne Cup.

  —

  Victory was a warm memory as Shane held Addie in his arms late that night, and in the lamplight there was peace and quiet.

  “I want a baby.”

  Shane lifted his head from the pillow with a jerk, staring at her with startled eyes. “You—”

  “Well, yes. D’you mind?”

  He gazed into those great glowing eyes and smiled slowly. “No. Oh, no, I don’t mind at all. As a matter of fact…”

  Imps danced in her eyes. “We have been rather involved in each other, haven’t we? Absolutely reckless. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the decision had already been made for us.”

  Shane thought of Addie carrying his child, and he lowered his head to kiss her with fierce tenderness. “You wove a spell and caught me in it,” he murmured. “Enchanted me…I love you, Addie.”

  Her arms slipped up around his neck and her voice was velvet magic. “That’s all I ever wanted, darling.”

  Epilogue

  “What the hell?”

  Startled, a bit guilty, Maggie gasped when her husband’s arms swept her from the stepladder. “Rafe!”

  Rafe Delaney presented the appearance of a man who would have been tearing his hair if he hadn’t been clutching his erring wife to his chest. “Dammit, lass, every time I turn my back for two seconds, you climb up on something!”

  Gesturing with the tape measure in her hand, she said crossly, “Well, we need new drapes.”

  Rafe looked to the ceiling for inspiration, then carried his wife into the den and deposited her on the couch. “Then I’ll hire a decorator,” he said with extreme patience. “I’ll hire ten decorators.”

  “I want to do it myself.”

  Gazing down at the stubborn jut of his Maggie’s chin, Rafe sighed in bewilderment. “Why? You’ve been perfectly happy in this house for a year now.”

  Maggie surged upward to wrap her arms fiercely around his waist. “I’m still happy!” Then, to her absolute astonishment, she burst into tears.

  “Don’t—oh, Lord, don’t do that!” Rafe held her tightly, puzzled and anxious, every sob cutting him to the bone. “Don’t, Maggie. I’ll help you measure for drapes, sweetheart, just don’t cry!”

  Maggie searched for his handkerchief and sank backward onto the couch, blowing her nose. “It wasn’t that,” she said somewhat thickly.

  He sat beside her a bit gingerly, eyeing her as one might eye a bomb with a distressingly short fuse. “It wasn’t?”

  “No, of course not.” She hiccuped. “I’m just feeling peculiar these days, that’s all. Yesterday I cried because Merlin killed a bird.”

  Rafe blinked. “Oh.” He studied his wife for a moment, still puzzled. She was, as always, beautiful, and there was an added glow now, a depth to her eyes and a curious mystery in her smile. Rafe found the changes endlessly fascinating.

  “Miss Maggie, do you still want these in the bedroom?”

  Rafe looked up at their housekeeper, her arms full of material and her brows lifted. He turned stern eyes to Maggie’s guilty face.

  “I measured for those last week,” she murmured, then cleared her throat and spoke to the housekeeper. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Taylor.”

  The housekeeper glanced at Rafe’s distracted expression and said comfortably, “My youngest did the same with her first. The nesting instinct, they call it. Lining cabinets and hanging drapes. We won’t let her paint,” she added, turning away. “Dangerous.”

  Maggie was frowning at the wall. “More color—”

  “No!” Rafe hastily gathered her into his arms. “Lass, promise me you won’t paint.”

  “But—” She stared at her husband, then sighed. “All right, darling.” An odd expression crossed her face, and she sighed again. “I can’t seem to help myself, though.”

  Rafe kissed her, half-laughing. “It’s a good thing Kath’s on her way back home.”

  “Just how long,” Maggie demanded, “do you expect to keep your brothers in the dark? When you called York to get Kath back—”

  “Laid it on a bit thick, didn’t I?” Rafe grinned. “But I’ll be damned if either York or Burke gets to hang on to her for their firstborns—not, at least, until ours is out of the nursery. Kathleen’s single talent is in the area of caring for babies. And York will remember that just as soon as he gets over the indigestion she’s given him these last months.”

  Maggie giggled in spite of herself. “He’ll kill you.”

  “Nonsense. He’s about to be an uncle.”

  “In seven months. I’m not even showing yet.”

  Rafe smiled at her, his black eyes alight as always with love. “Oh, you’re showing,” he corrected her gently. “In your face and your eyes and your smile. I love you, lass.”

  She linked her arms around his neck, managing one kiss before they heard the commotion signaling Kathleen’s return to Shamrock. In the bustle of welcoming their inept but endearing housekeeper/nanny, Maggie found a moment to marvel at Rafe’s reaction to her pregnancy—and her own.

  Curiously enough, Rafe had not objected to her doctor’s approval of Maggie’s riding; since it was something she w
as long accustomed to, the doctor had said only that she should avoid strenuous riding, but could go on with her normal daily rides. Rafe, who had always been proud of his wife’s abilities, didn’t attempt to discourage her.

  But if she so much as looked at a stepladder, she thought with an inner smile, he came unglued. And he watched her constantly, his expression bemused and his gaze fascinated. He was clearly enthralled by the changes in her body and her personality, and could hardly wait to feel the first kick of their child. He had already signed them up for natural childbirth classes, meaning to be with her throughout the labor and delivery.

  She thought about that, feeling secure as never before in her life, almost unbearably excited over the child she carried. No longer apart and alone, she had Rafe and their baby and the ranch they worked together to build even larger than it had been.

  Talking to a laughing and eager Kathleen—who had needed no more than one glance to see Maggie’s condition and approve of it wholeheartedly—Maggie barely heard the summons of the telephone that drew Rafe back to the study. She spent a while with Kath, filling her in on events and seeing her resettled into her room. Then Maggie went back to the den.

  Rafe was still on the phone, laughing, a delighted expression on his face. He gathered Maggie to his side with one arm and hung up the phone. “Maggie, you’ll never guess! My Lord, I can’t believe it! We should have guessed that old Bill had left more than a pair of boots during his travels.”

  Maggie, who knew the Delaney family history very well by now, was instantly intrigued. “William? What else did he leave—and where? Who was that on the phone?”