Loving That Cowboy

by Victoria Chatham

  She covered her ears and dropped her head, shaking it to drown out a lifetime of sights and sounds that turned in her mind like a carousel. How could there have been so much?

  A procession of dogs, Labradors for her parents, mutts from an animal shelter for her. Making up feeds, filling haynets. The favorite titles on her bookshelf. School. Pay attention, Patricia. Her mother saddling Hawk, her first show jumper. And then Delacourt. Beautiful, black Delacourt prancing through her mind as easily as he had pranced into her life from the moment he was foaled. Speed, flight, fences. Tony, no, not Tony. Not ready to face that betrayal all over again.

  The thoughts came faster and faster, like driving into a snowstorm, a whirlwind that left her breathless and dizzy. Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Are you alright?” the woman behind her asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” Trisha stammered. “Just a bit light headed. I think I must be tired.”

  “Here, have this.” The woman handed her a bottle of water. “Might be you’re a bit dehydrated too. It’s been a warm one today.”

  Trisha thanked her, gratefully took the bottle and drank her fill. When she looked up she couldn’t quite believe that the show’s finale had begun. If asked she would say it was spectacular, but to describe any of it in detail would be beyond her. She got to her feet, thanked the woman behind her again and headed for the exit. For now she wanted nothing more than to get home, have a shower, put on clean clothes and sleep.

  Tomorrow she would talk to Cameron.

  He would either understand, or not.

  The crowd flowed in a never ending stream down the stairs and out of the doors. Tricia hitched the strap of her bag over her shoulder and prepared to skip down the final flight of steps, but a sudden prickle of awareness caused a hitch in her breath and made her stop.

  She wouldn’t have to call him. He was here, right behind her. Now beside her. She looked up into a pair of smoky-grey eyes that gleamed with humor.

  “Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said. He tipped his hat to her and swept past her, hand in hand with the blonde girl in pink cowboy boots.

  Trisha stared at his retreating back in disbelief. For a moment she had the oddest sensation of shrinking, of collapsing into herself as if left with no substance. How could he do this to her? She stood immobile until she gathered her stunned wits then stumbled onward with the human tide heading for the transit station.

  While she waited for the train she recalled all the time she’d spent with Cameron, the moments when he’d made her feel wanted and loved and human again. Was all that a lie? It couldn’t be, she didn’t want it to be but had to face the truth of it. Gathering up what little dignity she had left, she braced her shoulders and stood upright as the train drew in to the station.

  She didn’t owe Cameron Carter anything.

  She wouldn’t speak to him or see him again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Are you quite comfortable, Trisha? Is there anything I can get you before we start?” Bryan Ross, Samantha’s sympathetic journalist friend, placed a digital recorder on the desk.

  Trisha eyed the recorder and swallowed. She had one similar to Bryan’s, had used it over and over again and not once considered how her interviewees may have felt at some of the probing questions she’d asked.

  A lifetime ago she had answered questions put to her by sporting journalists after successes at major three-day event venues. On more than one occasion she’d been interviewed in television studios but now her palms were clammy and her fingers trembled. With the interview about to begin she desperately wished she had not agreed to it, could be anywhere else but here in Samantha’s office.

  She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m fine. I just want to get it over with.”

  “I understand.” Bryan flashed an encouraging smile at her. “It’s just you, me and Mike and you won’t hear a peep out of him. He just runs the camera. So if you’re ready?”

  Trisha nodded. Bryan switched on the recorder.

  “This is Bryan Ross with equestrian photojournalist Tricia Watts. Today is Thursday, the time two o’clock pm. Interview starting at,” Bryan looked at his watch, “two-oh-one pm.”

  Bryan had a notepad on his lap and a sheaf of papers in one hand. From what Trisha could see, it looked as if he had downloaded and printed a lot of information.

  “I’m interested in the career you followed prior to your present occupation,” he began, “so, in your own words, can you tell me about that?”

  Trisha licked her lips. Seconds ticked by. At one time in her distant past she had been full of confidence, still could be when involved on an assignment, but her barely recovered ego still did not want to acknowledge what had been so excruciating for her.

  Bryan leaned forward, the expression in his brown eyes kind and earnest. “I understand your apprehension. You had a frightening experience and reliving it must be painful, but your story might help others to find their feet again. Do you want a moment to regroup?”

  An image of Brent Heywood’s smiling face formed in her mind. No, she didn’t need a moment. The time was right to put so many issues in their respective places. She shook her head.

  “No thank you. But perhaps you could ask me a direct question? I think that would help me over the first hurdle.”

  Bryan grinned. “Great. You’ll be fine.”

  And she was. Bryan asked a few questions which she thought about before answering, but then she became more relaxed and talked about her childhood and teenage years, the horses her mother raised and the riders her father trained.

  “From everything you’ve told me so far,” Bryan prompted, “you really were a rising star in the three-day event world.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but because I had the benefit of such a talented horse we did have a chance at the title,” Trisha agreed.

  “Perhaps you could explain why it’s such a popular sport in Europe?”

  Trisha sat back. “It’s a sport that grew from the methods used to train cavalry horses to show suppleness and obedience, strength and endurance and still have the ability to recover and have the stamina to compete in show jumping. It’s like a triathlon for horses.”

  “But accidents happen?”

  Trisha paused, knowing that question would be put to her, dreading having to answer. “Yes. We were about half way round a cross-country course. My horse Delacourt tripped before a fence but I brought his head up and we cleared it. He stumbled a little when we landed and I thought he might be going lame. I nearly pulled him up but then he galloped on so smoothly I carried on. He stumbled again as we approached a combination of a log and post-and-rails fence. I should have pulled him up there but I didn’t. I pushed him and he gave a huge jump but when he cleared the log he kept going down and down. I can still see the ground rushing up at me. I, I …”

  “Give yourself a breather here, Trisha.” Bryan turned to his cameraman and made a cutting motion across his throat with his hand. “We’ll take a few minutes for you to settle yourself before we start again. Can I get you a drink of water or a coffee?”

  Trisha fisted her hands to stop them from trembling. Confession was supposed to be good for a person but she felt nauseous. Her legs felt heavy yet with no weight to them and she thanked the stars she was sitting down. She was not sure that she could have stood if she’d had to.

  “Water, please,” she said, her voice breaking.

  Bryan left the room and came back with a glass of water for her and a bottle each for him and Mike.

  “I can appreciate how difficult this must be for you,” Bryan said. “Reliving such an experience can’t be easy.”

  “No, it’s not,” Trisha said. She finished her water, blotted her lips with the napkin Ross had thoughtfully provided and nodded to him. “Thank you. I’m fine now. Shall we continue?”

  Ross gave Mike a thumbs-up signal to start the camera again.

  “What did the vets have to say about your horse?” Ross
asked. “I guess there must have been an autopsy.”

  “Yes, of course.” Trisha swallowed the hurt that still arose when she had to think of it. “Delacourt had passed all the vet checks, had shown no signs of any problem but he suffered a brain aneurism. My own vet thought it had likely happened when I felt him stumble the first time, but adrenalin and momentum kept him going.”

  “So you suffered serious injury yourself.”

  Trisha pressed her lips together, then nodded. “I sustained a head injury and spent eight weeks in a coma, another two weeks in hospital after I came out of it and was in therapy after that.”

  “You mean physiotherapy?”

  “That and,” Trisha halted, choking on the admission she was about to make, “psychological counseling. After I’d more or less recovered physically I found that I’d lost my nerve. Any horseman will tell you to get back into the saddle after a fall. But it wasn’t just any fall. My vet told me that even if I had pulled him up, Delacourt would probably still not have survived. But I don’t know that for sure. My mistake killed a good, brave horse and I couldn’t face it happening again. So I stopped riding and turned to photography.”

  Bryan reached across to her, put his hand on her knee and mouthed ‘well done.’ He gave her a moment before he went on to his next question.

  “Had you always enjoyed photography?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’d been given my first camera as a birthday present when I was fifteen and found that I had a knack for it. It’s presented me with different opportunities and given me a good career.”

  “Including being invited to judge Purple Plain’s cover model competition?”

  Trisha nodded and dug deep to summon a smile. “One of my more fun assignments, I must say.”

  After a few more questions Bryan closed the interview and switched off the recorder. Trisha took a deep breath, thankful it was over but before she could get to her feet Bryan held up a hand to stop her.

  “Trisha, before we close can I get a couple more shots of you?”

  “Yes, if you have to. What do you want me to do?”

  “Look straight into the camera.” Trisha looked into that impersonal glass eye. “I want you to think of one thing that made you really sad.”

  Trisha flicked him a glance. Hadn’t he been listening? The whole last two years of her life had been sad, but to pick one thing? She caught her lip, heard her father’s voice again telling her how sorry he was that Delacourt, the one thing she loved more than anything else, was gone. No more slipping into his stable at night to whisper her concerns and fears into his willing ears. No more soft, silky neck to lay her head against and relax into his warmth.

  “Good, Trisha, that’s really good,” Bryan murmured as he watched the emotions play across her face. “Now I want you to think of something that makes you very happy, just for us to finish on a good note.”

  “Happy?” Trisha stared at him in surprise. Happy. Did he know what he was asking?

  “Yes,” Bryan persisted. “However brief the moment, there must be something that grabbed your heart in its fist and warmed you through and through.”

  Trisha closed her eyes and thought of Cameron’s smoky-grey eyes with their thick fringe of lashes, remembered the sensation of his long, strong fingers trailing over her skin. Remembered seeing him hand-in-hand with the blonde girl, remembered the sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  She’d allowed a handsome face and a kind manner to overturn her usual good sense. She had no one to blame but herself. Not a happy thought. But there had been moments, fleeting though they were, when everything had seemed so right.

  Suddenly the casual photograph she’d taken of Cameron with the mare and foal came into her mind. She’d captured Sweetpea nudging his elbow and Rosie nuzzling his face. His expression had been one of pure and simple contentment. He’d been totally at peace with himself and his environment.

  Her own life might be a bubbling mess, but at least she had pride in her work.

  She turned to face the camera and smiled.

  * * *

  Brent idly flicked the pages of the magazine he’d picked up in the motel lobby. Being in no position to join the back-slapping, beer-swigging guys in the bars or the long-legged lovelies hovering at patio parties, he’d spent most of the week in his room in an effort to conserve his dwindling funds. To relieve his boredom he ventured out only during the evenings. He managed to lift a few wallets, but now that so many people recognized him he had to walk the tightrope of caution. Getting caught for petty theft at this stage would do him no good at all.

  After Saturday it wouldn’t matter, though he doubted the prize check would last long once he cashed it but at least he could party some. Whoever won the contest would sign their contract the same day and he could be in a photo shoot as early as the following Monday. How much were they paying? He should have read the contract terms more thoroughly. He couldn’t remember any of the terms or the proposed rate and reached into his laptop bag for the publishing house’s paperwork. He’d only skimmed over it when he first received it and now pulled out the sheaf of papers to read the details in full. It would be useful to know how soon after a shoot he could expect to be paid.

  The television, his only form of company right now, played quietly in the background. He glanced up at the screen from time to time, paying no real attention to it until the daily round-up of news from the Stampede.

  “Join us after the break,” the announcer invited, “for an in-depth interview with Trisha Watts, the international photo-journalist who has the unenviable task of picking a winner for the Purple Plain Publishing house’s cover model competition.”

  Brent frowned. What the hell was she up to? He reached for the remote and turned up the volume. The news anchor, a pretty brunette with a wide smile and not a hair out of place, introduced the interviewer and Trisha.

  He listened in total disbelief as she answered the questions asked of her, slowly revealing every fact he’d threatened her with. She choked a little when she talked about how she’d lost her nerve after her accident and how she had wanted to keep that fact to herself. The news crew had even found a video of her competing on her black horse for Christ’s sake.

  Enraged, he leaped up from his chair, scattering papers everywhere.

  The bitch, the stupid bitch. He raked his hands through his hair in sheer frustration and walked in circles, breathing hard.

  First prize. Gone.

  The agency contract. Gone.

  The book cover award. Gone.

  Everything he’d counted on disappeared in a haze of helpless fury. His hand curled into a fist. He plowed it into the back of the chair in which he’d been sitting again and again until he was breathless.

  Think. Think.

  What could he threaten her with now? The photographs he’d taken of Carter and his girlfriend would shatter her confidence all over again but that would barely give him any satisfaction at all at having his ambitions wrecked. No, it would have to be something more concrete than that, something that would hurt her more deeply, something that she could not walk away from, something that she would do anything to prevent.

  What had she said?

  My mistake killed a good, brave horse and I couldn’t face it happening again.

  He halted in mid-stride. That was it. She’d given him the answer he needed. Now all he had to do was track her down and face her with an ultimatum.

  * * *

  Despite Brent’s best efforts he didn’t catch up with her until Friday afternoon, and then only by constantly patrolling the photography display area in the exhibition hall. Once he caught sight of her, he made sure there were several people between them. He didn’t want her spotting him and shaking him off before he’d had a chance to deal with her. His mouth pressed into a grim line as he watched her talk to people filling out and posting ballot forms. He couldn’t hear the conversation but whatever was said made her laugh.

  The sound of it set him o
n edge and his jaw tightened. When he was done with her she’d regret having tried to better him.

  After what seemed to him an interminable time, she moved away from the table holding the ballot boxes. Satisfied that she was alone, he trailed behind her out of the main doors and caught up with her as she headed towards the station exit.

  “Done for the day, Patricia?” He deliberately made his voice as hard and cold as he could as he stepped up beside her and took her arm. “No, don’t struggle. You and I are going to have a little talk.”

  He spun her around and pushed her down on a bench, then planted a booted foot beside her on the edge of the seat and rested his arm across his thigh. He’d succeeded in pinning her in place without actually touching her. He saw with satisfaction the alarm in her eyes as she shrank away from him. He crowded her so that she pressed back against the bench as far as she could then he leaned in so only she could hear him.

  “I saw your interview,” he hissed from between clenched teeth. “That was a bad move on your part, Patricia, really bad.”

  She licked her lips nervously. Good. He had her right where he wanted her and continued to glare at her.

  “I told you I couldn’t swing anything for you,” she stammered. “The interview was the only way I could think of making that clear to you.”

  “Oh, you made that very clear. But I’m not finished with you yet.” He straightened up very slightly, enough to not attract attention from passersby, not that anyone appeared to be interested in them but still, he couldn’t be too careful. He smiled at her, as if they were having nothing more than a pleasant conversation. “You wouldn’t want anything to happen to your boyfriend’s horse, would you?”