“Life in the country has more pleasures than you know,” Devon reassured her.
“Well, I’ve always been a city girl, but I’m willing to go anywhere with Douglas.” Her voice took on a dreamy quality as she said, “I feel as though I’m seventeen again with my first crush. Only I’m old enough to know that what he has to offer is truly something to be cherished. It’s not often someone gives you total, unconditional love.”
Devon put her hand over her friend’s and squeezed it. “You’ll visit us, won’t you? I’d hate to lose touch.”
“Naturally.” Sydney smiled. “You’re my best friend, Devon. And you’re one of a rare breed: a truly good person. You’ve never been catty or underhanded. You’ve never revealed a confidence. Even if we’re far apart, you’ll always be special to me.”
“Stop! You’re making me cry,” Devon said, taking a lace-edged handkerchief from her purse. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”
“You?” Sydney laughed. “You’re one of the strongest, most independent women—people—I know.” Sydney’s face became more serious. “Sometimes I think too independent for your own good.”
“You’re not the first to say so,” Devon said wryly.
“Just watch out for yourself,” Sydney answered softly.
Devon dropped her eyes, twisting the hanky in her hands. “Let’s change the subject,” she said, looking up and putting a wide smile on her face. “Let’s set a date for when we next get together. What about at the Blue Grass Stakes? I’ve got a new colt I’ve been training. He’ll be in it. I’ll save you and Douglas a place in my box.”
“It’s a date,” Sydney replied happily. By then she would be Mrs. Douglas Silverman.
CHAPTER 35
MORGAN leaned against the banister of the second-story veranda and watched her mother mount Skylark.
“Miss Morgan, don’t lean on the railing.” Penny stuck her head out of the glass-enclosed sun room and admonished her. “And it’s too cold for you to be standing out there. Come inside and we’ll play a game.”
“I want to go with Mommy.”
Penny looked at the little girl sympathetically. “I know,” she murmured.
Morgan hung her head and came toward her nanny. Penny closed the door behind them as the child sank into one of the down-filled chairs that made the sun room so inviting.
“I wish I was like Mommy,” Morgan sighed.
“Your mother and father love you just as you are,” Penny reassured her. She sat in a love seat facing the armchair and picked up a piece of sewing.
“But everyone else can ride,” Morgan lamented.
Penny couldn’t argue with that statement, for all Morgan’s friends had ponies and eagerly looked forward to riding them. “Maybe you should try one more time,” Penny suggested. “You really didn’t get hurt last week. Just scared. Right?” She met Morgan’s eyes and held them.
There was a pause. “Right,” Morgan finally admitted.
They had to start all over again. Morgan wouldn’t even consider riding on the trail. But she finally gathered enough courage to ride Frisky in the ring.
“You know, Morgan, I’ve fallen lots of times,” Devon confessed as she stood in the middle of the ring, Frisky’s leading rein in her hand, “and I’ve only really been hurt once. Everyone who rides falls.”
“They do?” Morgan didn’t know this.
“Yes,” Devon said firmly.
“Has Daddy?”
Devon laughed. “Everyone.”
Morgan digested this in silence for a few moments. “I really didn’t get hurt, did I?” she finally asked, remembering her nanny’s words.
“That’s very brave of you to say that!” Devon praised her.
“I want to be brave,” Morgan said vehemently.
“Well, you are. Just being on Frisky now proves that.”
“It does?” Morgan was wide-eyed. “But I’m still scared.”
“Then you’re even braver. Because when you do something that scares you, that’s braver than not being scared at all.”
Morgan grinned in delight at this assessment.
“But even if you decide you don’t want to ride, even if you just want Frisky as a pet, it’s okay.” Devon smiled. “You’ll have lots of chances in life to prove you’re brave. And, darling, you know that I love you no matter what you decide, right?”
Morgan nodded.
“And you know we can do lots of fun things together even if you decide not to ride?”
Morgan thought of their tea parties and their nightly storybook. Mommy was never too busy to play with her. But still, if she could ride, she could go everywhere with her Mommy. She wouldn’t be stuck watching her ride away. And they could have a picnic with chocolate cake.
With that thought in mind that she allowed her mother to lead her back to the bridle trail again, provided that Devon held Frisky with the leading rein. Once she knew that it was all right to be scared, she was able to do the thing that scared her most.
“Try to stay out of the mud this time.” Devon dimpled at her daughter.
The child giggled at this as the groom lifted her onto Frisky’s saddle.
It was a typically bitter February day and Devon saw mist coming from Skylark’s nostrils with every breath.
As they entered the canopy of trees, Devon turned in her saddle. “Are you warm enough?” Morgan nodded. Her stomach was all butterflies, yet she was not quite as frightened as she had been the first time.
Devon unconsciously shook her head from side to side at the tense expression on her daughter’s face. “Morgan, let go of Frisky’s mane and hold on to the bridle.” If only she could relax! “See, I’m holding on to Frisky, so he can’t trot. We’re just going to walk along slowly.” A few seconds later, Devon remembered another piece of advice. “And don’t forget to duck when you see a branch!”
They continued on for almost half an hour, in silence except for the breathing of the horses and the rustle of leaves.
Devon turned every few seconds to check on her daughter, and each time she did so, she saw Morgan hastily remove her hands from Frisky’s mane. Devon smiled to herself, but didn’t comment on the child’s surreptitious breach of form. It was enough that Morgan had summoned the courage to join her on the bridle trail. Devon was proud of her for trying to overcome her fear. She wondered if her daughter would ever come to love riding as she did. Not that it matters, she told herself, she may never grow to like it. Still, it would be nice…
As they ventured farther, Devon noticed that the wind was beginning to rise. Branches, dark and scraggly against the white sky, swayed and groaned, while whirlpools of leaves rose up and floated through the air. Devon looked up. Gray clouds lumbered overhead, threatening snow.
“Mommy, I’m getting cold!” Morgan cried.
Devon turned. “It is getting cold,” she admitted. “We should head back.” As if on cue, minuscule flakes of snow began to sprinkle down on them. Devon looked up again. She enjoyed riding in the snow, and had she been alone, she would have continued, the cold notwithstanding, but she knew that Morgan had had enough for one day. “Darling, we’re going to go forward for about two more minutes, but then cut back at the fork up ahead. We just need room to turn around safely. We should be home in half an hour.” It would actually take longer at their pace, but Devon knew that to say so would only upset Morgan.
“Half an hour!” Morgan moaned.
“It’s the quickest way,” Devon said, facing forward and commanding her horse to go on. Morgan’s discomfort gave her a sense of urgency.
“But I—ouch!” Morgan’s pained voice pierced the still air.
Devon whirled about in her saddle to see Morgan holding her mouth. “Are you all right?”
“A branch hit me.” Morgan started to sob.
“Oh, no! Darling, you have to be careful to duck!” Devon slid out of her saddle and tethered her horse to a nearby tree. She hurried to her daughter’s side. “Let me see.”
“Morgan,” Devon said firmly, “I want to see if you’re bleeding.”
Reluctantly, Morgan lowered her hand, but her sobbing continued unabated. A red welt slashed across a portion of her cheek and her upper lip was swelling. But there was no blood, Devon was relieved to see. “Come here, sweetheart,” said Devon, lifting the child out of the saddle. The little girl wrapped her legs and arms around her mother and clung to her, her sobs growing louder. “Morgan, are you really hurt?” Devon asked gently.
“I don’t know!” the child admitted tearfully, rubbing her eyes.
“Well, you can ride with me. And when we get back we’ll have a nice hot chocolate.”
Morgan sniffled, but looked up at this last. “With marshmallows?” she asked, her voice still mournful.
“With marshmallows.” Devon winked at her. “Now, come on.”
Devon lifted Morgan onto Skylark’s saddle, then mounted behind her. She handed Frisky’s leading rein to Morgan. “Now hold this, just like last time.”
Morgan looped the leather around her hand and gripped it tightly. She snuggled against her mother, feeling more secure already despite the increasing wind.
“Better?” Devon leaned forward and kissed Morgan’s cheek.
“Uh-huh,” Morgan said, content now that she no longer had to concentrate on riding Frisky. “Can I take off my hat?”
“No,” Devon replied firmly.
Devon squeezed her legs against Skylark’s sides, urging him to pick up the pace.
“Don’t trot, Mommy,” Morgan said.
“Don’t you want to hurry?” It’s so cold!”
“It’s too bouncy,” Morgan complained. She had a hard time holding on to the leading rein when she was bouncing up and down. She made another loop in the leather thong around her hand for safe measure.
Devon, complying with Morgan’s wishes, pulled on the bridle of the powerful gelding and Skylark immediately slowed.
But the little pony behind them didn’t respond quickly enough to the change of pace. He drew too close to Skylark’s rear and, suddenly, the big horse kicked out its hooves in a violent bucking motion.
Frisky squealed with pain as Skylark’s hooves hit him in the chest. The pony reared away from his attacker, and his motion jerked the leading rein Morgan was grasping. Her arm snapped backward, pulling her body along with its momentum. Morgan broke through the enclosure formed by Devon’s arms as the leather loop tightened around her wrist and pulled her from the saddle. Devon, horrified, felt the little girl being wrenched from her.
“Mommy!” Morgan screamed as Devon tried in vain to grab her. The child desperately searched for something to hold on to with her free hand—her mother, the saddle, anything—but Skylark’s bucking motion caused both mother and daughter to miss. And as Devon tried to bring Skylark to a halt, she had a split-second impression of Morgan hitting the ground.
Even before the gelding stopped, Devon leapt off, anxious to reach her daughter. She tripped over something as she landed. Without giving it a thought, she kicked Morgan’s riding helmet out of her way and hurried toward the child.
But a movement by Frisky immediately claimed her attention. He was rearing on his hind legs and his action caused Morgan’s arm to jerk upward. Devon let out a cry of distress as she realized that Morgan’s limb was still entangled in the leading rein. Devon had to free her before the pony bolted, dragging Morgan behind! Devon ran toward Morgan, placing her own body between the pony and her daughter. She hastily grabbed Frisky’s bridle and unhooked the leading rein, releasing the pony’s hold on Morgan. Then Devon kneeled next to her daughter, who lay in a pile of leaves. She lifted Morgan’s limp arm and quickly disentangled it from the leather thong, cursing herself for not noticing earlier Morgan’s dangerous method of holding the rein.
Thank God the leaves broke her fall, Devon thought. She turned her attention to her daughter’s face. Why was she so still? “Morgan, did you have the wind knocked out of you, sweetheart?”
No response. Morgan lay motionless. Devon slipped her hand under the child’s head to rouse her—and gasped in shock when she felt the wetness there. Afraid of what she would see, she slowly withdrew her hand from beneath Morgan’s tumbled black locks. It was covered in blood, and she stared at it in stupefaction. She was pierced by fear so acute, so all-encompassing that she was utterly paralyzed.
Then, instinctively, Devon lowered her head to Morgan’s chest, searching for a heartbeat. And there it was! So faint that she had to be completely still in order to hear it. But it meant that Morgan was alive! Dizzying relief washed over her.
“Morgan?” she said, hoping that her daughter would open her eyes and speak to her. Still no response. “Morgan!” She said the word sharply, an edge of hysteria in her voice. Devon had to suppress the urge to keep yelling her daughter’s name over and over in an irrational attempt to force her awake.
She sat stock-still, lost in indecision. Then, a miraculous surge of adrenaline made her move automatically. She slid her arms under Morgan and gently pulled her to a sitting position. Devon looked at where her daughter had been lying. Jutting from the leaves were the lethal edges of a boulder, its pale quartz surface covered in blood. Devon held Morgan’s upper body steady then scrambled on her knees until she was behind her.
What she saw made her gag. She clamped her eyes shut and choked back the contents of her stomach. Somewhere deep inside her a voice commanded her to regain control. She forced her eyes open and stared at the obscene mess before her. Morgan’s skull was smashed inward, her hair forced into a huge gash at the base of her cranium.
Devon wanted to scream and scream and never stop. She stared at her daughter, willing it not to be so. She looked helplessly at the gaping wound. She had to do something. If only she could stop the bleeding. Then maybe she could see the extent of the injury. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it seemed.
Devon yanked a wool scarf she was wearing off her neck and, with trembling hands, dabbed at Morgan’s head with it. Gingerly, she applied pressure to the wound, hoping to staunch the flow of blood. But it was no use. Her scarf was quickly soaked through. Devon had to get help, and quickly.
How long would it take to get back to the stables? If Devon took Skylark at a gallop, maybe twenty minutes. But the trail was narrow and it was impossible to gallop over the entire course of it. And then, once home, what sort of rescue equipment could she and the others bring onto the trail? They could devise a litter. But how long would that take? Meanwhile, Morgan would be lying alone, bleeding. How long did it take to bleed to death? Devon couldn’t leave her daughter to die alone in the snow. She sobbed in despair at her helplessness. But she couldn’t be helpless—she had to help Morgan.
Devon tied her scarf around Morgan’s head like a bandage. She made it as tight as she could, hoping to slow the bleeding. Then, tentatively, she picked up her daughter. She took a few unsteady steps. She looked down at Morgan. The child’s eyelids fluttered. Devon’s heart surged with hope. If only she could get help in time.
Could she put Morgan on the horse with her? Of course not, she chided herself. How would she balance her on the saddle and guide the horse at the same time? And if she tried to hurry Skylark, there was no telling what the motion would do to Morgan’s wounds. Tears of frustration coursed down Devon’s face. She had to move. Morgan was bleeding!
Devon held the child tightly against her and started down the path toward home. How long would it take on foot? An hour? She wanted to sit down and sob. Wanted someone to rescue them. But they were all alone.
She tried to gather her thoughts. It was snowing harder and the wind was biting. Making little grunts of exertion and distress, she plodded down the path, her load feeling heavier with each step. She was in agony wondering if her lurching movements were further harming her daughter.
She looked down at the little face. The blood had soaked the arm of Devon’s wool coat, and
the sweater beneath. She could feel the clammy dampness of it on her skin. She wondered if Morgan was still bleeding as profusely as before. She didn’t dare stop to look. Snow landed on Morgan’s face. It outraged Devon to have to expose Morgan to the snow and cold, but what could she do?
A long sob escaped her.
Morgan’s lids fluttered open. She was conscious! There was hope!
“Oh, Morgan, you’re going to be fine. I love you, honey. I’m getting help for you,” Devon cried as she surged forward on a new burst of adrenaline. It made Devon frantic to know that there was nothing she could do to ease her daughter’s pain. “Hang on, Morgan. We’ll get help in a minute.”
Morgan’s eyes closed slowly.
“That’s right. Just rest, darling.” Devon’s voice was an eerie chant. “Just sleep. Just rest. You’ll be okay. Please, God, let her be okay. Please, God… Please, God…” She was unaware of what she was saying, unaware of even speaking aloud. And she continued to chant as she staggered on, faster than she would have believed possible yet still excruciatingly slow.
Suddenly, in the distance, she saw the stables. “Morgan, we’re there! Oh, thank God, we’re going to make it!” she cried. She did not know where the strength came from, but she found herself moving even faster. Forward, forward. She was panting and each breath was a trial for her. She had no more strength, yet she tramped forward. She reached the outer perimeter of the racetrack that marked the edge of the developed portion of Willowbrook.
“Morgan, darling, we’re home,” she gasped. Devon struggled up the long hill. It seemed to go on forever. Her breath was coming in great rasping moans now, but she went on. Because at the end there was help. That thought kept her going. And as she approached the barn, she saw two stable hands working outside. She started yelling for help at the top of her lungs. Yelling and yelling like a woman possessed.
The two workers rushed toward the woman and child. Devon’s face was bright red from cold, and blood spotted her cheek. Her nose was running unheeded. Her hair was plastered to her skull, hanging in strings to her shoulders.
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