Heiress

by Janet Dailey

  It had been a long, expensive road just to get this far. But she was well on her way to having the high-quality Arabian breeding operation she'd dreamed of owning. She had leased more land from Dobie, built a new broodmare barn and a stud barn, purchased ten well-bred broodmares, and leased three more plus a stallion. And she'd done it all with money she'd earned herself, either from the thriving party business or from the high prices she had received from the sale of each year's crop of foals. She'd sold them all except Windstorm and a full sister to him foaled last year.

  Abbie remembered all too clearly that trip to Scottsdale six years ago: sleeping in the back of that rusty old pickup truck in sleeping bags, eating cold sandwiches, hauling her crippled mare in a borrowed horse trailer, and watching every penny to be sure they'd have enough left to pay for the gas home. This time, she had a healthy bank account. . . and an Arabian stallion that just might win the championship. And she'd done it all the hard way, with no help from anyone except Ben—not even Dobie.

  Sometimes she suspected Dobie resented that as much as he resented the success she'd had. She knew that secretly he had hoped she would fail. And his pride was hurt, too, by the amount of money she had made from the sale of the foals. He wouldn't let her spend a dime of it on Eden or the house, insisting it was horse money and that he alone would support his family. Abbie didn't argue.

  It had stopped being a marriage a long time ago, if it ever had been one. She and Dobie lived in the same house, shared the same bed, and occasionally used each other to satisfy their physical needs. That's all it was. That's all it ever would be. Sometimes Abbie wished there were more to it, but, as long as she had the horses and Eden, she could manage to forget that something was missing from her life.

  "Come on." She took Eden by the hand as the last of the horses and riders in the native-costume class went by. "Let's go find Ben."

  "Where is Ben?" Eden hurried anxiously ahead, pulling at Abbie's hand. "Do you think he's lost?"

  "I doubt it. He's probably waiting for us in front of the stallion barn."

  Abbie guided Eden through the milling crowd on the showgrounds. The atmosphere was circuslike, with its array of sparkling costumes, brightly colored tents, and fast-food booths, all set against a backdrop of desert blue sky and waving palm trees. Exhibitors, owners, and trainers dressed in riding costumes, tee shirts and jeans, or the latest designer creations mingled with the sightseers: the tourists, curious townspeople, and horse fanciers, old and young, out for an afternoon's outing and a close-up look at the equine descendants from the Arabian desert right here in their own desert country. And a look they got, along with all the glamour and mystique that surrounded the Arabian breed.

  As they approached the first stallion barn, Abbie spied Ben standing in the shade, waiting patiently. Bending down, she pointed him out to Eden. "There he is. See him?"

  In answer, Eden tugged her hand free and ran ahead to meet him, her ponytail bouncing up and down and sideways. Smiling, Abbie watched her young daughter, clad like a miniature adult in riding boots, jodhpurs, and a string tie around the collar of her white blouse. She remembered the times when she had run to Ben with that same eager affection her daughter now showed. And Ben was as patient and gentle with Eden as he had been with her, if slightly more indulgent. There was no doubt about it in Abbie's mind, Eden had him wrapped around her little finger. Her crooked little finger, Abbie remembered, sobering with the thought.

  "Mommy, Ben knew we would come here," Eden declared when Abbie joined them. "Ben knows everything, doesn't he?"

  "Everything." Even the identity of your real father, Abbie thought, recognizing that over the years, he had been the trusted keeper of many secrets.

  She lifted her glance to him and felt the tug of memories, old and new. Always he'd been her rock, square and stalwart, constant as the tides. While everything changed around him, he remained the same. There was hardly any evidence of the. passing years in his craggy face. Abbie conceded that his gray hair had turned a little whiter, and she noticed that when he walked now, his feet shuffled a little, no longer striding out with their former firmness of step. His age was definitely catching up to him. She hated to see it. It was funny the way she could accept her mother's graying hair, but expected Ben to stay young forever.

  "Will I ever know as much as you do, Ben?" Eden frowned.

  "Someday, perhaps." He nodded sagely.

  "Shall we go inside and have a look at Rachel's would-be contender for the championship?" Abbie suggested, knowing that if they waited until her daughter ran out of questions, they'd be here a month or more.

  The long exhibition hall was lined with lavish showcase stalls the entire length of the building on both sides. Each farm represented had rented three, four, or more stalls, only one of which was used for the stallion on show. The rest were transformed into extravagant booths, each uniquely furnished and decorated, to promote the breeding farm and its stallions.

  As they passed one that had been draped and roofed in black cloth to resemble the tent of a Bedouin sheikh, Eden tried to drag Abbie inside so she could investigate the plush cushions with the gold-tasseled corners. Another had been turned into a library, complete with rich walnut paneling and shelves of books lining the walls around a mock fireplace. Others were sleekly contemporary in their decor, making use of glitz and glamour to attract the eye of the passerby. The people strolling past the booths looked and marveled at the elaborate displays, but the real stars were still the stallions.

  Halfway down the row, Abbie spotted the large booth that looked like a Victorian parlor, right down to the period antiques and silver tea service, and the dainty canapés offered as refreshments to visitors. Abbie scanned the dozen or so occupants of the River Bend booth, recognizing the farm's manager and several others, but Rachel wasn't among them. With all the big sales and exclusive private parties held in conjunction with Scottsdale, Abbie hadn't expected Rachel to spend much time in the farm's booth.

  Nearly everyone in the River Bend booth sported the scarlet satin jacket emblazoned with the name Sirocco, the stallion Rachel had in the halter competition. Abbie had lost count of the number of people she'd seen on the showgrounds wearing those jackets. The farm was giving them away to anyone who would agree to wear it around the showgrounds. An expensive promotional tool, but a very effective one. The jackets were so plentiful, it was as if a scarlet tide were sweeping through the Scottsdale.

  Rachel was sparing no expense to win the crown for her stallion. For months now, her advertisements of Sirocco had littered every major Arabian publication. The cost of this campaign had to run in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. Abbie couldn't hope to compete against Rachel financially, and she knew it. She wasn't poor by any means, but she didn't have the limitless wealth that Rachel had.

  Abbie skirted the activity in the booth itself and went directly to the whitewashed stall emblazoned with the words River Bend's Nahr Sirocco. A scroll of iron grillwork topped the upper third of the stall. Beyond the curved bars, Abbie caught the gleam of a blood-red coat. Before she could get a closer look at the stallion everyone was predicting to be supreme champion of the show, Eden yanked at her hand.

  "I want to see, Mommy."

  "Come on, short stuff." Bending down, Abbie picked up her daughter and swung her onto her hip, groaning as she did so. "I hope you realize how heavy you're getting."

  "I know. That's 'cause I'm getting big. Ben says someday I'm going to be taller than you are."

  "I wouldn't doubt it," Abbie agreed, inadvertently recalling that MacCrea was a tall man. Determinedly she turned to study the blood-bay stallion in the stall.

  As if aware of his audience, the stallion turned, presenting them with a side view of his magnificence. His long black mane and tail rippled in shiny waves, and the black of his legs glistened like polished ebony. In contrast, the deep red of his satiny coat gleamed like a banked fire. His head was small and fine, held high as he looked on them with disdain.

/>   Previously, Abbie had seen only photographs of the stallion—taken in the winner's circle. In all the competitions Windstorm had won, her stallion had never come up against her archrival's. Rachel had campaigned Sirocco almost exclusively on the West Coast under the skilled tutelage and handling of Tom Marsh, universally considered the best in the business, and who charged his clients accordingly.

  Two other small but successful breeders like herself came up to the stall to view the stallion that was the talk of Scottsdale, even though he had yet to appear in his first class. Abbie eavesdropped intentionally.

  "I have to admit Sirocco is impressive," one said reluctantly. "He has that air that says 'Look at me.'"

  "Oh, he'll win. There isn't much doubt about that," the other replied. "Even if there were a better stallion in the class he'd still walk away with it. Everyone tries to pretend that judges aren't influenced by somebody's money or reputation. Once they see Tom Marsh lead this stallion into the arena with all of Canfield's millions behind him, I say they'll mark the champion on their cards right then."

  "You're probably right."

  "I know I am. They're never going to let a stallion from some small farm win. And I don't care how great the horse is either."

  As the pair moved away, Abbie tried to convince herself that all their talk was just so much sour grapes. Windstorm had as good a chance of winning as Sirocco. It took a lot of money to show a horse, but money still couldn't buy a victory. A loss didn't necessarily mean the better horse had won. Usually it was a matter of opinion. Some judges put emphasis on different things.

  "I don't like him," Eden decided, the corners of her mouth turning down. "He looks snooty, don't he, Mommy?"

  "Doesn't he," Abbie corrected her grammar automatically.

  "Doesn't he?"

  "A little, I suppose." But she found it difficult to fault the stallion's look of arrogance. In its own way, it was very compelling, although she much preferred Windstorm's look of noble pride—that rare "look of eagles" that evoked a sense of both power and gentleness.

  "Windstorm will beat him, won't he, Mom?" As far as Eden was concerned, Windstorm was a wonder horse. It was understandable in a way. She'd been around the stallion all her young life, hiding behind his legs to play peek-a-boo as a toddler and riding on his back at the age of three whenever Abbie led the stallion to and from the pasture. Abbie even had a snapshot of Eden curled up asleep using Windstorm as a pillow.

  "We'll see," Abbie said and turned to Ben, seeking a less prejudiced opinion. "What do you think of him?"

  "Handsome, proud, the classic head, flat croup, well-set tail. He would be many people's ideal Arabian."

  "Yours?" Abbie didn't want to hear praise for the stallion.

  Ben gave a faint, negative shake of his head. "For me, his neck is too long. With it, he may look pretty, but it makes his balance not good. Too, he is a little sickle-hocked and the bone, it is weak. He could break down easy, I think. But, a man who knows what he is doing could disguise that in the show ring so the leg would not look so straight."

  "How does he stack up against Windstorm?" She was beginning to feel the strain of her daughter's weight on her arm and hip. She swung her to the ground to relieve the pressure. "Just stand here for a while," she told Eden when she started to protest.

  "Some will think his neck is too short." Ben shrugged. "Others will think sixteen hands is too tall for an Arabian. Some will not like Windstorm because he is a gray."

  "I know." Abbie sighed. In the end, it all boiled down to opinion. And nobody knew whose was right.

  "Mommy, can I go watch television over there?" Eden pointed to a booth across the way where a television was playing back a tape of that particular farm's stallion.

  Abbie hesitated, then decided there wouldn't be any harm in it. Eden would be close enough that she could keep an eye on her. Besides, it might keep her active daughter entertained for a little while. "All right, you may go over there and watch it. But no farther, do you understand? And don't bother anybody, either."

  "Yes, Mommy," she promised solemnly, then took off at a run.

  Abbie watched to make sure Eden did exactly as she had promised. Once Eden had plunked herself down on the carpeted floor in front of the television set, Abbie felt sufficiently assured that she turned back to Ben, dividing her attention between him and the blood-bay stallion in the stall.

  "I've heard Sirocco's disposition isn't all that good." Abbie knew that anyone who'd seen how gently Windstorm behaved with Eden, a five-year-old child, couldn't question her stallion's temperament.

  "I wonder what this one knows about being a horse. What has his world been? Horse trailers, stalls, lunging at the end of a rope, and being paraded around an arena with people all around him whistling and shouting. When do you suppose he ran free in a pasture the way Windstorm does when he is home? Or when has anyone ridden him across the country just for the fun of it, the way you do with Windstorm? Always for him, it is shows and training. Would you not get sour, too?" Again Ben shook his head. "I do not blame the horse for being ill-tempered. I have never yet seen a show horse that was not a little bit crazy in the head."

  "That's true." Although she didn't have Ben's years of experience, Abbie had seen some horses, mostly fillies, that had come off of successful careers in the show arena. They'd been around people so much they couldn't relate at all to other horses. Some had even been terrified when they were turned loose in a pasture with other horses.

  "Somewhere is that stallion they imported from Russia this winter. I want to see him, too." Ben turned to survey the other booths down the line.

  "I think it's on the other side, about three down. I'll get Eden and meet you there."

  But Eden wasn't ready to leave. Before Abbie could insist on it, a couple who had purchased one of River Breeze's foals saw her and stopped to show her the latest pictures of the filly, now a classy-looking two-year-old, entered in the Futurity Filly class at the show. It was a proud moment for Abbie, since it meant two of her mare's offspring would be competing at Scottsdale: Windstorm and this filly, Silver Lining.

  "Where's Ben?" Eden wanted to know.

  "I thought you were watching television." Abbie frowned, surprised to find Eden at her side.

  "Ahh, it's a rerun," she complained.

  "Do you remember my daughter, Eden? These are the Holquists, Eden. They bought that filly you used to call Pepper, remember?"

  "Yeah. Hi. Where's Ben?"

  "He's looking at another horse."

  "Can I go find him?"

  "No. You stay right here." Abbie ignored the face Eden made to protest the order and resumed her conversation with the Holquists, knowing their success with this filly made them likely candidates for the purchase of a future foal. "I'm planning to have her bred again this spring. We tentatively have her booked with a son of Bask, but Ben wants to look at that new Russian stallion they've imported before we commit ourselves."

  "There's Ben. I'm gonna go see him." Eden dashed off before Abbie could grab her.

  "I don't know if it was such a good idea to bring her along or not," Abbie sighed as she watched her daughter disappear in the crowd, not altogether certain that Eden had seen Ben, but trusting that she had. "She's been like this ever since we arrived."

  "There's so much excitement and so many things to see, you can hardly blame her," Mrs. Holquist replied.

  "I suppose not. There's one consolation in all this, though. She will go right to sleep tonight."

  The woman laughed. "She probably will. I just wish I had half her energy."

  "Me, too." Abbie thought she recognized Ben at the far end of the row, but with so many people wandering about, she couldn't get a long enough look at him to be sure. "I'd better go after my daughter. We'll catch you later, maybe when we come by to see your filly."

  "Good luck."

  "Thanks. Same to you," She hurried off to search for her elusive daughter and Ben.

  MacCrea walked into the long b
arn and paused to look around. Idly he started down the wide corridor, joining the meandering flow of people that hesitated here and stopped there. Oddly, MacCrea felt in no hurry to reach the booth and find Lane Canfield. He wondered at the impulse that had brought him here. His meeting with Lane hadn't been dictated by necessity. He could have postponed it for a couple of weeks, even a month with no harm done, but that would have meant meeting Lane in Houston. Maybe that was what he had wanted to avoid. It had been nearly three years now since he'd been back. Sometimes it seemed a lot longer—and sometimes it didn't seem long enough.

  Someone bumped against his shoulder. "Sorry."

  "It's okay." MacCrea paused, but the man walked on. He felt something pull at the pant leg of his jeans. Glancing down, he saw a little girl looking up at him. Her eyes were big and blue. . . and held the faintest shimmer of tears.

  "Mister, can you see my mommy?"

  "Your mommy." MacCrea was surprised by the question.

  "Yes. You see, I'm afraid she's lost," the little girl explained with a worried look.

  "It's your mother who's lost. For a minute there, I thought it was you," MacCrea said, amused by her unusual view of the situation.

  "No. I left her over there when I went to see Ben." The little girl pointed to her left. "Only I couldn't find Ben, and when I went back, Mommy wasn't there. Can you help me find her?" Again she tilted her head way back and turned those round blue eyes on him.

  Of all the people walking around, MacCrea wondered why on earth this kid had picked him to help her. What he knew about kids wouldn't fill the container for a core sample. But he couldn't resist the appeal of those beguiling blue eyes. He crouched down to her level and tipped his hat to the back of his head.

  "Sure, I'll help. I always was a sucker for blue eyes." Smiling, he tweaked the end of her button nose, then scooped her into the crook of his arm and straightened, lifting her up with him. "We'll see if we can't find someone to make an announcement over the loudspeaker. How does that sound, midget?" He looked at her, conscious of the small hand that rested on his shoulder. She gazed back at him solemnly.