by Janet Dailey
"Hello, Dobie." She glanced at the sprinkling of freckles that gave him such a boyish look despite the fact that he had to be, at least, thirty-five. "What's the problem?"
"No problem," he insisted, smiling. "Leastwise, nothing that you need to worry your pretty head about." Then he ducked his head as if regretting the compliment he'd paid her.
More than once since her divorce, Abbie had gotten the impression that, with the least little encouragement from her, Dobie would renew the suit he'd pressed throughout almost her entire senior year of high school, particularly at the Gay Nineties debut party held here at River Bend, the Victorian mansion providing the theme and backdrop. It had been an elaborate bash thrown by her parents. All the invitations, bearing a tintype photograph of Abbie dressed as a Gibson Girl, had been hand-delivered by uniformed messengers wearing flannel trousers, bow ties, and straw skimmers, and riding a bicycle built for two. A carnival had been setup on the grounds, transforming it into Coney Island, complete with a midway—and a kissing booth. Dobie Hix had been very free with his money that day, Abbie recalled, buying up all the tickets when she was selling kisses. Her mother had insisted that they couldn't leave him off the invitation list, when he was their closest neighbor. Truthfully, Abbie hadn't objected—until she had to endure the embarrassment of his monopoly on her kisses, and later his broad hints about their lands adjoining and the advantages of combining them.
Nearly every time she'd gone riding after that, she'd run into him somewhere: down by the river, along the fence line, by the road. She'd had the feeling he hung around and watched for her. He hadn't really given up until she announced her engagement to Christopher Atwell. But she'd never been frightened of him, only irritated by his persistence.
His hands dug into his hat, crumpling the brim. "I saw you at the funeral. I would have come over, but. . . I want you to know how sorry I am about your daddy. He was a fine man."
"Thank you, Dobie."
"If you ever need anything—anything at all—remember, I'm just up the road. You let me know if I can help in any way."
"I appreciate that, but I can't think of anything right now. Ben and I have things fairly well under control, I think."
"I'm sure you do." He glanced at Ben, then hesitantly back at her. "Maybe the next time you're out riding, you can stop by the farm and visit." But he didn't wait for a response to his invitation. "Well, I'd best be gettin' along." With a bob of his head, he moved by her toward the rusty pickup, shoving his hat onto his head as he went.
As the truck rattled out of the yard, Abbie turned to Ben. "What did he want?
"He came about the hay bill. When he delivered the last load, we had not yet paid him for the winter hay."
"Daddy must have overlooked it. Make a note of the amount and send it to Lane so he can make sure it's paid with the rest of the bills." But Abbie frowned, aware this wasn't the first inquiry they had received regarding past-due bills.
"I will see that he receives it."
With that settled, Abbie glanced toward the paddock where her silver-gray filly was kept. "I thought I'd lunge Breeze. She's had it easy this last week."
"It would be good. . . for both of you. You go," Ben prompted gently. "I will bring the halter and line."
She smiled at him, briefly acknowledging his gesture, then headed for the paddock gate. The filly trotted forward to meet her with an effortlessly floating stride—gliding over the ground, all delicacy and grace, head up, neck arched, her silvery tail erect and streaming behind her like a banner in the wind. As Abbie came through the gate, the filly nickered a welcome and impatiently nuzzled her arm.
Laughing softly, Abbie turned and caressed the filly, rubbing her favorite place just above the right eye. The texture of the filly's coat was slick as satin beneath her hand. Here and there, a smoky dark hair was hidden among the dominant white coloring, but beneath, the filly's skin was as black as the haircloth tents of the Bedouins in which her desert-bred ancestors had lived. The mares were prized above all others by the nomad raiders of the sand.
"Lonely, were you?" Abbie crooned, watching the filly's small ears move to catch every inflection of her voice. "And suppose there was no one around to give you any attention. I suppose there was no one around to give you any attention. Well, you don't have to fret anymore. I'm back now."
She embraced the filly, hugging her neck, feeling the affection returned, the warmth of another body. The sense of being wanted—needed—was strong. Abbie responded to it, talking, sharing, and never minding how silly it might sound, not until the filly alerted Abbie to Ben's presence at the fence.
“I think she's happy to see me." She took the halter from him and slipped it on the young horse.
"She missed you."
"I missed her." She buckled the throatlatch and snapped on the lead rope as Ben opened the gate.
The silver-gray horse came prancing through the opening behind Abbie, animation and eagerness in every line, yet, for all the show of spirit, there was still slack in the lead rope Abbie held. Ben studied the filly with a critical eye, looking for any faults or imperfections.
"She reminds me of Wielki Szlem. What a magnificent stride he had."
"That's when you were at Janow?" Janow Podlaski was the famed state-run. Arabian stud farm in Poland where so many of the great Arabian stallions had stood: Skowronek Witraz, Comet, Negatiw, and Bask.
Ben nodded affirmatively as a faraway look came into his eyes. "I was fifteen when they hired me to work at Janow." He'd been talking about the past more and more of late, Abbie noticed. "That was before the war with Germany, when many of Janow's grooms were drafted into the army."
Many times Abbie had heard the story of his experiences in Poland during World War II: the dramatic flight to evacuate the valuable stallions and broodmares in advance of the invading German army, only to be turned back by Russian forces; the horses that were left at farms along the way; the ones confiscated by the Russians, including the great Ofir, sire of Wielki Szlem; the years of occupation by the Germans; the horrors of the Dresden bombings that claimed the lives of twenty-one prized horses; the valuable bloodlines that died out; the maneuvering that had enabled the Janow stud to come under British jurisdiction immediately after the war; and Ben's eventual immigration to the United States entrusted with the care of a stallion that subsequently died of colic on the long sea voyage. As a child, Abbie had thrilled to his tales. Even now, when she thought of him leading a horse through Dresden in the midst of an air raid, with bombs exploding all around, it raised chillbumps.
From the stud pen an elegant bay stallion, an inbred son of Nahr El Kedar, nickered shrilly at the gray filly Abbie led. Ben cast a contemptuous glance in the stallion's direction. "Racing, that is the test of a stallion. It is not how pretty he looks. Look at that one. Does he have heart? Does he have courage? Does he possess the stamina and disposition to endure the rigors of training and competing on the racetrack? Will he pass it on to his get? Who knows?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Many times I argued with your father on this, but never would he listen to me. The horse has a pretty head. That was all he cared about.”
"I know." Just as she knew that Benedykt Jablonski based his opinions on the breeding practices in Poland, where racing played a vital role in the selection process of breeding stock. And Abbie had agreed with him even though it put her at odds with her father.
Ben had always disapproved of her father's practice of close inbreeding. "Incest breeding," he called it when Dean bred father to daughter or brother to half-sister. It set the good traits—the big eye, the dished profile or long neck—but it often exaggerated the faults—slightly sickle-hocked hind legs became severe, or a hint of calf knees became decidedly such. Abbie didn't like it either, especially when she saw that the overall quality of the River Bend Arabians had declined because of it.
She led the young filly into the work arena. Inside the solidly fenced area, she switched the lead rope for a lunge line and took the whip Ben hand
ed her, then walked the horse to the center.
Having been raised on the farm, surrounded by horses, with no neighbor children her age living nearby, Abbie had naturally turned to horses as friends. They had become her companions, her playmates, and her confidants. But more than loneliness had drawn her. Any affection or loyalty shown by them was genuine. Unlike humans, they weren't capable of pretense, and they'd never betray her trust.
Most of the other girls Abbie knew had gone through a horse phase sometime in their early years, but hers had carried over into adulthood. When she was with horses, she felt good about herself. That had never changed.
After Abbie had succeeded in getting the filly to relax and trot smoothly in a counterclockwise circle around her, she saw Ben Jablonski leave the arena fence and head in the direction of the barns. She smiled faintly while keeping her attention focused on the filly. Once Ben would never have allowed her to work a young horse unsupervised. Compliments from him were rare, and when they came, they were invariably stated by his actions, as now.
Rachel slowed her car as she approached the entrance to River Bend, marked by a white signboard, the name written in black scrolled letters with the black silhouette of an Arabian horse below them. She stared at the horses grazing beneath the huge, moss-draped trees in the pasture, none of them close enough for her to see clearly.
She had driven here straight from the airport, returning to Houston a day earlier than she had planned. During the short time she'd spent in Los Angeles, she'd managed to quit her job, pack and store everything she didn't bring with her, and sublet her apartment to one of her co-workers. Everything had gone so smoothly that Rachel was even more convinced that her decision to move to Texas was the right one. As soon as she found a place to live, she would have her horses shipped from California. Except for them, that life was behind her, a part of the past.
Flexing her grip on the steering wheel, Rachel hesitated, then turned the car onto the narrow lane and followed its winding path through the trees. Ever since Dean had given her Simoon, she had wanted to see the filly's sire and dam in person, not just pictures of them. And she wanted to look over the facilities at River Bend that she had read so much about.
As the car neared the heart of River Bend, the trees parted—like an honor guard before their ruler—and revealed the towering mansion with its gables and turrets, its skirting veranda and parapet. It was a stately, elegant home. Yes, home was the word, Rachel realized. There was nothing cold or austere about it for all its grandness. It looked like a place filled with hidden delights and wrapped in a warm invitation to come and explore.
Staring at it, Rachel remembered the spare apartments of her childhood, cluttered with her mother's paintings and permeated with the smell of paints and thinners. This home could have been hers. The thought swelled inside her—a bitter, choking thing.
Almost unwillingly, Rachel recalled when her mother had died, so suddenly, so unexpectedly. She'd come home from school and gone upstairs to the studio loft—and found her mother lying on the floor in front of an unfinished painting. When she had failed to get her mother to respond, Rachel ran to a neighbor's for help. After that, everything was a blur. She remembered being at the hospital and some man in green telling her that her mother was dead. She no longer knew whether Dean had arrived that night or the next day. But he had come. And she had cried and cried and cried in his arms.
At some point, either before the funeral or after, Rachel wasn't sure now, she had asked, "What's going to happen to me?" She'd been seventeen at the time, but she'd felt like seven—left alone and frightened.
"I've made arrangements for you to stay with Myria Holmes," he'd said, mentioning one of her mother's artist friends. "She offered and—"
"I don't want to live with her!" She had almost cried, "I want to live with you," but she'd stopped herself before the words came out. It had been so painful to realize she had secretly hoped all along that Dean would take her back to Texas with him; that he wouldn't be able to bear the thought of leaving her here alone, with no one; that he loved her too much to go away without her. She had been crushed to learn that she wasn't going to be leaving with him.
"It won't be for long," he'd hurried to assure her. "Next year you'll be going to college and living on campus with your friends."
But he'd never understood that she didn't have any friends, not really. They'd come in and out of her life, some staying longer than others, letting her believe that maybe this time she had a best friend she could trust, but each time she'd been disillusioned. Now that her mother was gone, no one loved her or wanted her around all the time—not even her own father.
God, how she longed to be wanted and loved—and feared it would never be. Her horses, that was all she had. And she told herself they were all she needed. Their affection, their companionship was enough.
Just ahead, a lofty oak tree split the lane into two branches, one leading to the white mansion and the other veering off to the huge stable complex. Rachel swung the car to the right—to the horses.
After a twenty-minute workout, Abbie led the silver-gray filly out of the work arena, the perimeter of which was solidly boarded to eliminate outside distractions. Snorting and blowing, the filly paced alertly beside her. As they approached the stables, Abbie felt a tug on the lead rope. Mistaking the pull for a show of eagerness to reach her stall and receive her evening measure of grain, Abbie glanced sideways at the filly, chiding, "Worked up an appetite, did you?"
But the dainty ears and huge dark eyes were trained on the car parked near the stables' office annex. Abbie didn't recognize the late-model car. One of the grooms approached from the direction of the annex.
"Who does the car belong to, Miguel?" she asked curiously, not immediately seeing any stranger in the vicinity. "Is it just someone wanting to look at the horses?" Visitors—some prospective buyers, some not—frequently stopped at River Bend to look at their Arabians.
"Si. She wanted to see El Kedar. I pointed out his pen to her. I was just going to get Señor Jablonski."
By then Abbie had already seen the tall, dark-haired woman crossing to the reinforced stallion run. She was nondescriptly dressed in a natural gauze blouse and tight-legged jeans minus any distinctive label, her long hair worn straight, sweeping past her shoulders. Rachel. Abbie recognized her immediately, and every muscle in her body suddenly grew taut.
"Never mind getting Ben," she told the groom. "I'll handle this one." She pushed the lunge line, lead rope, and whip into his hands. "Take Breeze to her stall and see that she gets a good rubdown before she's fed."
Without waiting for an acknowledgment, Abbie set off for the stud barn and its adjacent runs. Somehow she wasn't surprised that Rachel was here, but she seriously doubted that Rachel had come to look at the inheritance she was giving up. It was probably just the opposite.
Rachel stood pressed against the heavy rails, gazing admiringly at the aging bay stallion on the far side of the paddock, who was suspiciously testing the air to catch the scent of this stranger. At first she wasn't even aware that Abbie had joined her, Then she darted a quick glance at her and self-consciously drew back from the fence.
"He's magnificent," she said, a slightly nervous edge to her voice as she turned her attention back to El Kedar.
"My father thought so." Abbie wasn't sure why she'd said that, except in some way, she knew she wanted to challenge Rachel and assert her claim to him—to River Bend, to everything that she had once thought of as solely hers.
"At his age, I expected him to be heavier. . . thicker-necked, maybe, and stoutly muscled. But he looks lean and fit.”
"We've always had trouble putting weight on him, especially during the breeding season. He was born and raised in Egypt. They don't believe in putting flesh on them. He was a three-year-old when he finally arrived here at River Bend—practically skin and bones after the long sea voyage and the quarantine. He'd never seen a blade of grass, let alone walked on it or ate it. And he'd never had
room to run free." In a paddock separated from El Kedar's, a bay stallion similarly marked trotted boldly up to the fence and whistled a challenge to his older rival. "That's Nahr Ibn Kedar, his son."
"He doesn't have El Kedar's presence, does he?"
Abbie was briefly surprised by Rachel's observation. She hadn't suspected that she was so knowledgeable about Arabians. "No. El Kedar has never reproduced himself." Abbie paused, fighting a tension and an anger she couldn't quite understand. "Exactly why have you come here?"
Again she noticed Rachel's hesitation, that trace of uncertainty and nervousness in her expression. "I've only seen pictures of El Kedar. I've wanted to see him in person ever since Dean gave me his daughter, Nahr Simoon, out of Nahr Riih."
Abbie stiffened, remembering the filly, one of the best of El Kedar's daughters—the filly her father had supposedly sold. But that was yet another lie he'd told. She couldn't admit that, certainly not to Rachel.
"You called him by his first name?" she said instead.
"Yes. It was my mother's idea. She thought it would create fewer questions than if I called him Father or Daddy." Just for an instant, a wryness, faintly sardonic, crept into her voice and expression. But it was gone when Rachel turned from the fence and swept the stable area with a glance. "I was hoping I might tour the facilities here."
"Why?" Abbie wondered. To appraise its worth?
"I. . . I just wanted to see it. I've heard so much about it."
"I'm sure you'll understand that a tour isn't possible." Pushed by some territorial compulsion, Abbie wanted only to get her away from there, off of River Bend, now. Rachel had no right here, none at all. "River Bend isn't open to the public. And it won't be again until the estate is settled."