by Janet Dailey
"We will drive only at night then," Ben replied, unconcerned.
"I should have thought of that." Abbie smiled ruefully, recognizing that she was mentally as well as physically tired from the long trip.
Four days it had taken them to make the journey from Texas, stopping frequently along the way to avoid putting too much stress on the filly's legs and giving her a chance to rest and graze along the roadside. Except for some stiffness and minor swelling, River Breeze had weathered the trip well so far, better than Abbie had expected. Trailering long distances was hard on any horse and doubly so for a crippled filly like River Breeze.
In retrospect, Abbie was glad now that she hadn't been able to afford the cost of hiring a professional hauler to transport the filly to the stud farm in Scottsdale. He probably wouldn't have made the trip in stages the way she and Ben had, nor would he have taken the extra care they had.
The trip was definitely worth the time and trouble it had taken. No part of it had been easy. Right from the start, she'd had the problem of trying to find a horse trailer she could borrow. She didn't have a trailer hitch on her car, nor the extra money to buy one and pay to have it installed.
When she had tried to talk Dobie into letting her take his new truck, he had refused, then told her she was welcome to take his old one, fully expecting her to turn that down rather than take the risk of the beat-up old truck breaking down on the road somewhere. Out of spite, and sheer stubbornness Abbie had accepted it. She knew he would worry about her, and it served him right. Maybe he'd learn someday that nothing was going to stop her.
After driving since before dawn, they had stopped at a truck stop late that morning so Abbie could shower and change into her last set of clean clothes. Now that she was entering her fifth month of pregnancy, she couldn't squeeze into her regular clothes anymore and only had three maternity outfits to her name. She'd saved the nicest of the three for today, an embroidered tunic top with a pair of matching blue maternity slacks.
As they entered the outskirts of Phoenix, the traffic became heavier. "This is almost as bad as Houston." Abbie felt for the map on the seat and handed it to Ben. "Here's the city map. I've marked the route we need to take to get to Charlie Carstairs's farm. With all this traffic, you're going to have to watch for the signs and tell me where to turn."
Circulating fans whirred, maintaining a constant air flow through the stallion barn. At the far end of the double-wide aisle, a stable hand hosed down the brick floor to further cool the barn.
But all eyes were on the black bay Arab that had been led out of its box stall for their inspection. Rachel watched intently as the stallion arched its swanlike neck and danced on its back legs. Keeping a snug hold on the lead shank, the groom led the stallion around in a circle, then brought the animal to a stop directly before her.
The sight of him was so magnificent it nearly took her breath away. A faint thrill coursed through her veins as she stared at the black fire that burned in the stallion's velvety eyes, then lifted her gaze higher to the small ears, shaped like half-moons, pricked in alertness. Rachel inhaled the strong scent of him, a scent headier than any expensive perfume Lane had ever bought for her.
The large nostrils flared as the dark stallion lifted his small, refined head and trumpeted a call that quivered with longing. When she heard the answering neighs coming from the mares in the nearby barn, Rachel understood, feeling an odd twinge of envy.
Turning to Lane, she smiled faintly. "I think I recognized Simoon whinnying just then. I wonder if she knows she was answering her future lover."
"Somehow I doubt it," he replied dryly, his look one of gentle tolerance and amusement for her fanciful thought.
Rachel knew it was probably a foolish notion, but she wished, just once, he would go along with her. Then she immediately regretted being even faintly critical of him. From the very beginning, Lane had indulged her every whim when it came to horses, regardless of the cost or inconvenience. Just like this trip. Even though he had assured her he had some business to take care of in Phoenix, Rachel knew he was coming along to please her. He gave her so much that often she felt guilty she had so little to give him in return.
"Well? What do you think of Basha 'al-Nazir, Rachel, now that you've seen him close up?" Charlie Carstairs stood with his arms folded across his barrel chest, the large gold nugget he wore on a chain around his neck winking in the light as he angled his shoulders in her direction.
"He's truly magnificent." But in her mind she was imagining the foal that would come from this union.
"You can put him back in his stall." Charlie gave the order to the manager of his stud farm, Vince Romaine. With a wave of his hand, the short, thin man passed the order on to the groom holding the stallion, as spare with his words as Charlie was voluble. "Every time I see that stallion I wonder if really want to sell him," Charlie declared with a shake of his head. "But with Radzyn winning the championship here at Scottsdale, I've talked myself into concentrating my breeding program more on Polish-bred Arabians. That seems to be what the market wants today. And Radzyn has a lot of Polish blood in his breeding. As a matter of fact, Patsy and I are planning to go to Poland this fall and attend the sale at Janow. I'd like to pick up some good broodmares there to breed to Radzyn. The horse business is crazy, Lane. Five years from now everyone will probably be wanting Egyptian, and I'll be kicking myself six ways to Sunday for selling Basha. Then again, it may be Spanish-or Russian-bred Arabians."
"Don't ask for my opinion," Lane said, curving an arm around Rachel's shoulders as they all started toward the door leading outside. "Rachel is the expert on horses in our family."
"I just know what I like," she replied.
"And I'm not about to fault your tastes. After all, you picked me for a husband," Lane teased.
"Careful," Charlie warned, "or she's liable to start thinking she's made a mistake."
Even though she knew he was only joking, Rachel felt honor-bound to deny his remark. "I'd never think that. I couldn't."
"That's what she says now, Lane, but wait until some handsome young stud walks by. You mark my words. She'll start wishing she was single. You should have seen my Patsy carry on the other night over that new singer, Ross Tibbs. He's playing at one of the clubs in Phoenix. That's where we met him. Then he came out to the farm to look at the horses. Why, the way Patsy acted, you'd have thought he was God's gift to women."
After an initial start of surprise, Rachel struggled not to react to the news that Ross Tibbs was in town. She cast a furtive glance at Lane out of the corner of her eye, but there was no indication that the singer's name meant anything to him. Why should it? For that matter, why should she let it mean anything to her? He was just someone she'd met—a man who'd made a pass at her. Others had and she'd forgotten them. She would have forgotten him, too, if he hadn't started making a name for himself in the music business, she told herself as they emerged from the shade of the barn into the hot glare of the desert sun.
"What d'ya say we go to the house and have a drink. Patsy makes a mean margarita," Charlie declared, rubbing his hands together in a gesture of anticipation.
"Maybe we should wait." With a nod of his head, Lane indicated the pickup truck with a horse trailer in tow coming up the driveway. "It looks like you have more visitors arriving."
The pickup was an old model that showed its age in the rusted-out fenders and rust-splotched door panels. A thick layer of dust hid its true color, making it impossible for Rachel to tell if it was dark green or dark blue. As it pulled to a stop in front of the adobe building that housed the farm's offices, the battered old truck looked pathetically out of place against the well-manicured backdrop of the horse farm, where even the sandy ground outside the stalls was raked in a herringbone pattern.
"More than likely it's some backyard breeder with a mare to be bred. We get them from all over the country. I've seen them arrive hauling the horse in the back end of a pickup. You should see some of the nags they bring. Ewe-nec
ked, Roman-nosed, and apple-rumped. . . it's a crime to have such animals registered as purebred Arabians," Charlie complained bitterly. "The worst of it is, is that most of them think that by breeding that excuse of an Arabian to one of my stallions, they're going to get a top-quality foal. Once in a while, they'll end up with mediocre foal, maybe even a good one. But those recessive genes are still there, and sooner or later, those bad traits are going to sprout up again. Usually in the next generation. But you can't tell them that. The old plug is probably the only horse they own—the only one they can afford. The backyard breeder may be the backbone of our industry, but, damn, I wish they'd be more selective in what they breed."
Fully aware that a year ago she would have been one of those backyard breeders Charlie was talking about, Rachel kept silent. She could have been the one climbing out of the pickup truck instead of that woman in the blue pants and matching top with her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing sunglasses.
"Go take care of them, Vince," Charlie ordered.
"Right." Separating himself from them, the stud manager walked swiftly toward the parked truck and trailer.
Rachel watched as the woman took a step toward them, then stopped and waited for Vince Romaine to come to her. The woman handed the manager some papers from her purse, but she was too far away for Rachel to hear what was being said. It was easy to imagine herself in the woman's place. There was even a slight resemblance between them, Rachel thought. Then the woman turned, presenting her with a side view that made her pregnant state obvious.
As the silvery mare was led out of the trailer, Charlie said in disgust, "Look at that mare. She's crippled in front. What did I tell you? We see everything here."
Rachel barely had a chance to look at the horse before Lane called her attention to the stocky, square-shouldered man holding the lead rope. "That old man. . . doesn't he remind you of Ben Jablonski?"
In that instant, everything clicked into place: the old man, the crippled filly, the dilapidated pickup, and the dark-haired woman. It was Abbie. As the realization shot through her, it was like a scab being torn off a newly healing wound and the sore stinging afresh. She glared at the woman who had always been the bane of her life.
"What is she doing here?" Rachel protested under her breath.
But Charlie heard her and turned sharply. "Do you know them?"
She was spared from answering as Vince Romaine came walking back. "They've brought a young mare they want bred to Radzyn, and they've got cash money to pay the stud fee. They didn't book in advance. So I thought. I'd better check and see what you wanted me to do," he said.
"Did she give her name?" Lane asked.
"She said it was Hix," the manager replied. "She claims she knows you.”
"I thought so." When Charlie glanced inquiringly at Lane, he explained, "She's Dean Lawson's daughter."
"You're kidding." He stared at the pregnant woman standing next to the battered truck. "I didn't realize she was having such a hard time."
"Maybe it's what she deserves." The retort was out before Rachel even realized she'd spoken. She could guess how heartless she must have sounded to her host, but she wasn't about to retract the statement. As far as she was concerned, it was the truth. "Excuse me, please. I'm going to the house."
As she walked away without waiting for a response, she heard Charlie say, "Find an empty stall for the mare."
Shock gave way to cold disbelief when Abbie noticed the silver-haired man standing next to the tall, heavy-set Charlie Carstairs. It didn't seem possible it could be Lane Canfield—not here. At this distance, she couldn't make out his facial features clearly, but there was a definite resemblance. And that mane of white hair was so distinctive she didn't see how it could be anyone else. That had to be Rachel with him. Instinctively Abbie knew she was right.
When Charlie Carstairs turned to confer with Lane and Rachel, Abbie braced herself for a fight. She knew if Rachel could find a way to deprive her of something she wanted—like having River Breeze bred to Charlie Carstairs's stallion Radzyn—she'd do it.
Abruptly Rachel split away from the others and started walking toward the large adobe ranch house. Abbie wasn't sure if it meant she had succeeded in her attempt or failed. Then Vince Romaine approached her again, and Abbie was forced to divide her attention between the stud manager and Rachel.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Romaine?" she demanded before he could say anything.
"No. Bring your mare and I'll show you where to put her. We keep all outside mares isolated from our home herd. Less chance of spreading disease that way."
Abbie didn't like the possibility that had just occurred to her. She started moving away from the short, thin man. "Excuse me. Ben, take Breeze and go with Mr. Romaine. I'll be right there," Abbie promised over her shoulder, then moved quickly to intercept Rachel.
But Rachel saw her coming and stopped. "What do you want?
"Nothing," Abbie snapped, just as crisply. "I'm leaving my mare here to be bred. And if anything happens to her, I'll know you're responsible."
She'd invested more in the filly than just money. There was all the heartache and worry, all the hopes and dreams tied up in her, too. Abbie knew she couldn't stay and guard the young mare, protect her from Rachel. Rachel had taken or destroyed everything else that had ever belonged to her. River Breeze represented the future. She couldn't let anything happen to her.
"I have no intention of going anywhere near your mare. That's something you would do," Rachel stated coldly, then stared at her contemptuously. "The smartest thing MacCrea ever did was to walk out on you."
Abbie struck out blindly, slapping her hard across the face. For a split second she thought Rachel was going to react in kind. Abbie wished she would.
But Rachel didn't retaliate. Instead, she turned away and walked briskly toward the ranch house. Abbie watched her go, the anger draining.
Rachel had it all wrong about MacCrea. She had been the one to walk out on him. Yet it had hurt to hear Rachel speak his name. The very fact that Rachel had referred to him with such familiarity was proof of all her suspicions.
That evening, Rachel sat in front of the vanity mirror in Charlie's guest bedroom, raking the brush through her hair until her scalp tingled. She still smarted from Abbie's insinuation that she would harm her mare to get even for the fire.
She heard a shoe hit the floor and glanced at Lane's reflection in the mirror. He sat on the side of the bed, one leg crossed while he untied the laces of his other shoe. His expression was thoughtful as he looked up, meeting her glance in the mirror.
"You never did tell me what caused that scene with Abbie this afternoon."
After faltering for an instant, Rachel roughly pulled the brush through her hair again. "She was just being spiteful. I'd really rather not talk about it, if you don't mind."
"I wouldn't be too upset about it, if I were you. Women in her condition tend to be quicker to. . . take offense, shall we say?" He dropped the other shoe on the floor. "I must admit, though, I had no idea until I saw her today that she was expecting a baby. Did you?"
"No, I didn't. But as sudden as that wedding of hers was to Dobie Hix, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she had to get married." She knew that was a catty thing to say. She also knew Lane didn't like to hear her talk that way. When she sought his reflection in the mirror, she was surprised to see he was smiling. She turned sideways to look at him. "Did I say something amusing, Lane?"
"What?" For a moment, the sound of her voice seemed to startle him, then he recovered. "No, not really." He started unbuttoning his shirt.
But it had been something. . . something to do with Abbie. Rachel was positive of that. She had to find out why thinking about Abbie would make him smile like that. "Why were you smiling just then?"
"I was thinking about her husband—how proud and thrilled he must have been when he found out he was going to be a father."
His tone of voice was very calm and matter of fact, yet Rachel thought s
he had detected something wistful in it. Was it possible that he envied Abbie's husband? With a start, she realized that in all the months they'd been married, they'd never once talked about having children, not even when they were going over the new plans for the house. The extra bedrooms had always been referred to as guest rooms.
Somehow she'd had the impression that Lane didn't want children. It was nothing he'd said. She had simply assumed he didn't want any.
Truthfully, she'd never examined her own feelings on the subject. She supposed that, in the back of her mind, she'd always thought she'd have children someday just like any other person. But her dreams, her desires, had always centered on raising prize Arabian horses. Getting pregnant and having a baby was something she'd never tried to imagine. She shied away from the picture in her mind of Abbie, her figure all distorted by her pregnancy, her belly swollen almost to the size of a watermelon, and her breasts large and heavy.
But her feelings weren't important. It was Lane's she wondered about. "Would you like it if we had a baby?"
He paused in the act of pulling his shirttail free from his pants and stared at her with sudden alertness. "Are you trying to tell me something?"
"No." She laughed self-consciously and turned back to face the dressing table, certain she hadn't imagined that bright glint in his eye. "I was just wondering if it would bother you. You've always been so sensitive about the difference in our ages that I thought maybe it might."
Slowly he walked over to stand behind her chair. Rachel watched him in the mirror as he gently and caressingly placed his hands on her shoulders. When he lifted his glance to study her reflection in the mirror, his expression was impassive and unreadable.
"Would you like to have a baby, Rachel?"
"Only if you would." She couldn't honestly say she did. At this point, she was happy with things the way they were. But if it would please Lane. . . if he wanted a child. . . after all he'd given her, she owed him that. "If you wouldn't be happy about it—"