by Janet Dailey
When she heard the roar of appreciation from the crowd in the stands, Abbie smiled. "They're yours, Windstorm. Make 'em notice you." He trotted after her, floating over the arena floor as she moved to the outer perimeter of the oval ring. She knew they made an eye-catching pair—a sixteen-hand white stallion and a petite dark-haired woman. And she knew Windstorm loved the noise and attention of the crowd. The more they cheered, the more animated he became, firing up as only an Arabian could.
"Go get 'em, Abbie!" a man yelled to her as they passed his seat. Abbie stopped Windstorm a short distance from the next stallion to wait for the rest of the qualifiers to enter the arena. Officially, the judging didn't begin until the two-minute gate closed. She danced at the section of seats where Ben and Eden were supposed to be sitting. About ten rows up, a small arm waved wildly. Smiling, Abbie started to bring her attention back to Windstorm, but something—a movement or a sound from the seats to her right—distracted her.
With a sense of shock, she discovered MacCrea staring back at her. All the faces around him were a blur. His alone was distinct. What was he doing there? Why had he come back? Half turning in his seat, he looked in the general direction of Ben and Eden's seats. Abbie felt her heart knocking against her ribs.
At that instant, the man sitting beside MacCrea leaned over and claimed his attention. Abbie recognized that distinctive mane of white hair. Lane and Rachel were seated with him.
"The gate is closed," the announcer stated, his voice booming over the public-address system. "The judging of the stallion halter class will begin now. The judges ask that you space your horses along the rail and walk them, please."
On either side of her there was movement. Fighting the sudden attack of nerves, Abbie led an eager, dancing Windstorm in a snug circle, then walked him along the rail, letting him show off his leggy, smooth stride. The stallion was ready to get down to business, but she wasn't.
How many times had Ben told her not to look at the crowd? Don't pay any attention to them, he'd said. It's just you and your horse. Block everything else out. Don't worry about what the other horses are doing or how they're showing or whether the judges are watching you. Make him look his best at all times. Concentrate on the horse.
It began: the walking, the trotting, the posing with all four feet in picture-perfect position, tail up, ears pricked, neck stretched, first en masse, then singly. As always, the class seemed to go on forever, straining nerves and heightening tension.
At last the announcement came. "The judges have made their decisions. You may relax your horses while their scores are compiled."
Immediately Abbie stepped to the stallion's side and absently rubbed a white wither. Her legs were shaking and her stomach was all tied up in knots. Windstorm swung his head around to look at her as if to say, "Are you okay?" She wanted to bury her face against his neck and cry—with hope or relief, she wasn't sure which. Instead she stood there, trying to hide all the anxiety that came from not knowing the judges' result.
Almost unwillingly, she glanced down the line at Rachel's blood-bay stallion. The Arabian surveyed the crowded stands with absolute arrogance. She couldn't help noticing how confident the stallion's trainer looked. She felt better when she saw him nervously moisten his lips. Her own were dry as paper.
The minutes dragged by with agonizing slowness as Abbie and everyone else waited for the judges' scores to be tallied. When the announcer declared he had the results, the crowd noise fell to a murmur. Before he announced the Reserve Champion and Champion Stallion, he began naming the Top Ten Stallions, first explaining that the stallions placing in the top ten were all regarded as equal in status regardless of the order in which they were named.
Seven stallions were called, then eight, each followed by cheers and whistles from the crowd. And after each, Abbie held her breath, wanting the championship too desperately to settle for the honor of Top Ten Stallion.
"Next, number four fifty-seven, Windstorm!" Abbie froze as her number was called, everything inside her screaming no, her heart sinking to the pit of her stomach. "Shown by owner and trainer, Abbie Hix."
In a blur of tears, she led Windstorm out of the line, deaf to the applause and a few boos of disappointment. They had lost. Engulfed by a terrible sense of defeat, she didn't even remember the ribbon presentation and picture-taking ceremony. She didn't hear the Reserve Champion Stallion named. Nothing registered until the Champion Stallion was called.
"This year's Champion Stallion is number three fifty-eight, Sirocco!"
As the announcement was made, Windstorm bounded into the air, nearly jerking the lead out of Abbie's loose grasp. Instinctively she checked his forward motion, forcing the stallion to swing in an arc in front of her. With a raking toss of his head, Windstorm came to a stop, then trumpeted a challenge at the bay stallion trotting proudly in the spotlight, as if disputing the decision.
Her stallion's reaction was almost more than Abbie's nerves could take. As quickly as possible, Abbie exited the arena, unable to acknowledge the congratulations offered her. For some, Top Ten Stallion might be better than nothing, but not to her. . . never to her. All her life, she had lost to Rachel. She hated the taste it left in her mouth.
Blessedly, Abbie had a few minutes alone in the stall with Windstorm to regain her composure before Ben and Eden arrived. No matter how bitter the disappointment was to swallow, she couldn't let her young daughter see how upset she was over Windstorm's placing.
The hardest thing Abbie ever had to do was to look at the tears in Eden's blue eyes and smile. More than anything she wanted to cry with her daughter. "It's about time you two got here. We've been waiting for you."
"I don't care what anybody says. Windstorm is the best horse ever in the whole wide world." Eden's lower lip quivered.
"He's one of the best," Abbie stressed carefully. "And he has a ribbon to prove it. Come on. Help me pin it on his stall so everyone who walks by can see it." As she started to lift Eden out of Ben's arms, she met his glance. For a split second she faltered, knowing that he saw through her charade.
"Remember what I said."
She nodded. "I know. It proves nothing."
"There can be no question of the winner of a horse race. It is the horse what crosses the finish line first. In Poland, it is a stallion's record on the track and his foals that prove his worth as a sire. That is the way it should be here."
I know." Just as she knew that more and more Arabian horse breeders, including some of the big ones, were turning away from the horse-show arenas and to the racetracks to test the worth of their stock, as their counterparts in Europe and the Middle East had been doing for hundreds of years. Gathering Eden into her arms, she gave her the ribbon and helped her to hang it on the front of the stall. "What do you say we all go get something to eat?" she suggested, wiping the last traces of tears off Eden's cheeks.
"I'm not hungry," Eden said, still pouting.
"Not even for a hot-fudge sundae with whipped cream and cherries on top?" Abbie looked at her askance, doubting her daughter's sweet tooth could resist such a temptation.
"A whole one. . . just for me?"
"I think this celebration might call for a whole one."
"Didja hear that, Ben?" Eden turned excitedly to him. "I get to have one all to myself and I don't have to share it."
“It will take a very big girl to eat a whole sundae by herself.”
"But I'm getting bigger every day."
You certainly are," Abbie agreed and set Eden down. "And a big girl like you doesn't need to be carried."
As they left the barn to head for the parking lot, Eden skipped along beside Abbie, swinging her hand as if she didn't have a care in the world, the prospect of a treat banishing all sorrow. Abbie envied that ability to forget and put it all behind her. She'd been like that at Eden's age. Unfortunately she'd outgrown that too many years ago. A special treat couldn't make the hurt go away anymore.
With their path blocked by the crowd milling in fron
t of the stallion barn, Abbie was forced to slow her pace. She paid little attention to the shrieks of joy and late congratulations being exchanged by those around her, intent only on keeping her small party together and not getting separated in the crowd. Suddenly she found herself face-to-face with Rachel.
After an initial look of surprise, Rachel's expression became serenely composed, mannequin-smooth and smug. "Are you leaving already?"
Abbie stiffened at the insinuation she was running off to lick her wounds, angered most of all because it was true. "Yes."
"We're holding a little celebration in the stallion barn. Would you care to join us?"
Abbie was tempted to accept the invitation just to aggravate Rachel, but she resisted the impulse, knowing that Rachel would love the chance to rub her nose in the defeat. "What are you celebrating? Winning a beauty contest?"
"My, but that sounds remarkably like sour grapes," Rachel taunted. "I wonder why I have the feeling you wouldn't call it that if your stallion had won."
Vaguely Abbie was aware of MacCrea looking on, as well as Lane Canfield and Ross Tibbs, but she was too intent on this confrontation with Rachel to take much notice of them. "You're wrong. I've always regarded the halter class as a beauty contest. It judges a horse's looks, not his athletic ability. Win or lose, I had every intention of racing Windstorm this year. And that's precisely what I'm going to do. But I'm curious what your plans for Sirocco are now."
"I'm taking him home, to River Bend"—she stressed that deliberately—"so he can rest before the National Finals this fall. That's all he has left to win."
"Except a race. It doesn't matter though. I think you've made the right decision." Abbie smiled complacently at the look of surprise that flashed across Rachel's face. "You and I both know your stallion couldn't stand up under the rigors of racing. If I were you, I'd be afraid of him breaking down, too."
"You don't know what you're talking about," she retorted stiffly.
"Don't I? My father had a breeding program very similar to yours. He believed in breeding beautiful horses." Abbie paused, smiling. "I believe in breeding Arabians. Like you, he never did understand the difference."
"That's a lie!" Her voice lifted angrily.
"My mommy doesn't lie," Eden protested.
"Be quiet," Rachel snapped at her.
"You have no right to talk to my daughter that way."
"Then why don't you teach her some manners?" she shouted.
"Don't you yell at my mommy!" Eden tore loose from Abbie's hand and flung herself at Rachel, her arms swinging like a windmill. Before Abbie could grab her and pull her away, MacCrea lifted Eden into his arms. "That's enough." Shifting Eden onto his hip, he took Abbie by the elbow and propelled her ahead of him through the crowd.
"Let go of me!" Abbie struggled to pull free, but his fingers dug deeper, numbing the nerves in her arm and making it tingle painfully.
"Not until I'm damned good and ready," he growled, leaving her in no doubt that he meant exactly what he said. As long as he held Eden, Abbie realized, she didn't have any choice but to go wherever he was taking her. He didn't stop until they were nearly to the parking lot and well clear of the crowd.
The instant MacCrea released her, Abbie whirled around. "I want my daughter. Give her to me."
Staring at her, his eyes cold and angry he continued to hold Eden. "You're two of a kind," he muttered. "I oughta drag both of you over my knee and give you the paddling you deserve."
"I wouldn't try it," Abbie warned.
"Why are you so mad at my mommy?" Eden looked confused and a little frightened.
MacCrea paused and briefly eyed Abbie, then glanced over his shoulder as Ben hurried toward them, puffing slightly. "We'll meet you at the motel, Ben. These two are riding back with me."
"I'm not going anywhere with you, MacCrea, until you give me my daughter," Abbie asserted.
He just smiled. "I'm no fool, Abbie. She's my guarantee that you come with me. I've got a few things to say to you and you're going to listen."
"That's kidnapping."
"Kidnapping, blackmail, call it any damned thing you like. But that's the way it's going to be." He started walking toward the parking lot. Abbie hesitated, then hurried after him.
"All right, you win," she said as she drew level with him.
"I never doubted that for a minute. The tan car in the second row is mine."
When they reached the car, MacCrea set Eden in the backseat. "Can't I sit up front with you and Mommy?"
"Nope. Little girls ride in the backseat." He started the engine.
"Where are we going, Mommy?"
"Back to the motel." At least, she hoped MacCrea would take them straight back. She didn't really trust him.
"What about my sundae? You said I could have one with hot fudge and cherries and everything."
"If you'll sit down and be quiet, short stuff, I'll buy you a giant-sized sundae with nuts on it, too," MacCrea promised.
"You shouldn't bribe her like that," Abbie said angrily as Eden quickly sat back in the seat.
"It can't be any worse than what you're doing." He followed the arrows to the parking-lot exit and accelerated onto the street.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Knowing you, you're probably damned proud of yourself." Anger thickened his low voice. Abbie glanced briefly at him, noticing the ridged muscles in his jaw. "You weren't content until you dragged your daughter into your stupid, jealous feud with Rachel, were you? Teach them to hate while they are young. Isn't that the way it's done?"
"I didn't start it. Rachel was the one who wouldn't leave Eden out of it."
"None of it would have happened if you hadn't been looking for a fight. And don't deny that you goaded Rachel deliberately. I was there."
"That's right. Defend poor little Rachel," Abbie retorted sarcastically, fighting to suppress the sobs of frustration that caught in her throat.
"I'm not defending her."
"What do you call it then?" But she didn't care to hear his explanation. "I don't even know why I'm talking to you. How I raise my daughter is none of your business."
"Maybe it isn't, but every time I look at her, Abbie, I see you—the way you must have been before you were warped by this jealousy and your heart got all twisted with hate. Do you honestly want your daughter to grow up with the bitterness and hatred you feel?"
"No!" She was stunned that he would even think that.
"Then you'd better wake up and look at what you're doing to her," he warned. "Your jealousy is going to destroy her the same way it destroyed us."
Abbie started to remind MacCrea that he had been the one who betrayed her, but what was the point? It was over. He hadn't understood then, and he certainly wouldn't understand now. If anything, the years in between had proved she couldn't trust him.
At the same time, she couldn't argue with him about Eden. Someday she would have to tell her daughter who Rachel was. If she didn't, Eden would hear the whole sordid story from someone else. But MacCrea was right; she shouldn't let her bitterness and hurt color it.
Eden leaned over the middle of the seat back. "Are you talking about that lady that yelled at you? I didn't like her. She wasn't very nice."
Abbie caught the I-told-you-so look MacCrea threw at her. "You shouldn't say things like that, Eden," she insisted tautly.
"Why? You didn't like her either, did you, Mommy?" She frowned.
"Get out of that one if you can, Abbie," MacCrea challenged. She couldn't—and he knew it.
"Look! There's our motel." Eden pointed at the sign ahead of them.
Abbie nearly sighed with relief as MacCrea slowed the car and turned into the driveway. No longer did she have to wonder whether he truly intended to bring them straight here. The instant he stopped the car, parking it in an empty space near the lobby entrance, Abbie climbed out of the front seat and opened the rear door to claim Eden. She resisted the urge to gather Eden into her arms and run away from him into the motel. Ins
tead, she walked Eden to the sidewalk that ran alongside the building, holding her firmly by the hand. There, she paused to wait for MacCrea.
"Tell Mr. Wilder good night and thank him for the ride." She tried to act normal even though every nerve in her body was screaming for her to get Eden out of his sight.
"But what about my sundae?" It was all Abbie could do to keep from shaking her.
"That's right. I promised I'd buy you the biggest sundae in town if you were good, didn't I?" MacCrea said.
"I wouldn't worry about it. The coffee shop is still open. I can buy her one there. After all, you do have a party to attend, and we don't want to keep you from it."
"What gave you that idea?"
"You were with her. You know she expects you." Her voice vibrated with the anger she tried to contain.
"Maybe so, but believe me, I won't be missed," he replied, then smiled at Eden. "Besides, I'd much rather buy a little girl some ice cream than drink champagne toasts to some horse."
"And I'd rather you didn't."
"Anyone would get the impression you're trying to get rid of me."
"I am." She tightened her hold on Eden's hand.
"Do you want me to leave, Eden?"
"Don't bring her into this," she protested angrily.
"Why not? She's the one I invited."
"I don't care!"
Eden pulled on her hand, demanding Abbie's attention. "Mommy, why don't you like him?"
"Yes, 'Mommy,' tell her why you don't like me. I'd be interested to hear how you'd answer that," he said dryly.
Frustrated by his stubborn persistence, Abbie couldn't even begin to try. The reasons were all too tangled. "Why are you doing this? Why can't you just leave us alone?"
MacCrea paused, as if her question had suddenly made him examine his motives. "I don't know." He shrugged faintly. "Maybe because you want it so badly."
Was she too anxious? Had she aroused his suspicion? Did he wonder if it was something more on her part than just a desire not to have anything more to do with a former lover? She couldn't risk learning the answers.