But Annie could hardly pay attention as Mitzi explained the details.
How could she? Exciting noises were coming up from the street, forty-four floors below, construction noises—jack-hammers clattering—and an impatient blare of horns honking at a stalled car, the siren of an emergency vehicle wailing down a nearby avenue as it crawled helplessly through the jammed-up traffic, the heavy-duty engines of buses and trucks, growling loudly through their gears as they started and stopped and started again. It seemed to Annie like an urban symphony, orchestrated just for her, a melody as natural to this place as were the familiar cricket sounds of her Wyoming nighttimes.
It was hard to be patient with Mitzi’s high-energy chatter when all of New York was waiting for her.
Fortunately, Mitzi had arrived at the end of her spiel.
“So that’s it, ladies,” she said as she made some check marks on her clipboard and put her BlackBerry away. “The reception tonight is at five thirty so I’ll have the car service here at five. And I’m back again in the morning at nine fifteen to take you to Lady Fair.” She was already on her way to the door. “See you gals tonight. Till then, take a rest. Room service will bring you whatever you want. Call me if you have any problems. Have fun. Ciao!”
She placed her card on the table near the door and, with another airy wave of her hand, she was gone.
“Will you look at this place?” Annie was doing a quick tour, room to room. “I think they’ve given us the royal suite.”
“Talk about royal. Come in here, Annie. You have to see this bathroom.”
The word “bathroom” was too mundane for the peach-and-cream fantasy of baroque opulence in which Annie joined her sister. Imagine a bathroom with a full-sized gas log fireplace! Imagine filmy pale curtains drawn back to reveal a marble tub set flush into the floor, with a broad ledge all around on which a full supply of bath accessories, lotions, soaps, salts, and creams were arrayed. Imagine a small side table holding a cut crystal vase containing a bouquet of fresh hothouse flowers, and above the room’s center a chandelier of brass and crystal with teardrop prisms and bulbs designed to flicker like candlelight. A long counter with two basins set into it ran the length of one wall, and mounted on the wall’s length was an enormous mirror framed in ornate gilt and rosewood.
Annie stood behind her sister, and together, wide-eyed and silent, they looked back at their reflections in the beautiful mirror. Two young women, recognizably related, both with fine, naturally blond hair, past shoulder length and worn always in simple styles—today, loose and center parted—and bright hazel eyes (Annie’s a little larger, with darker lashes and set a trifle deeper), and healthy complexions (Liz’s a shade more tan, the result of ranch work outdoors each day). But Liz, who was older by seven years, was noticeably more mature, for marriage and motherhood had made their changes.
Annie, on the other hand, had about her a gloss of young innocence, a simple eagerness for life to unfold its special demands, its twists and its surprises. There was something almost angelic about Annie’s face, something so open and sweet and straightforward that a stranger would be surprised to discover what those close to her all knew: Annie Cornell had the strong backbone of her pioneer ancestors. She could be stubborn as a mule once she’d set a course, and there’d be no use trying to make her change. But her stubbornness combined with a strong intelligence, and together these two had worked well for her—together with an unreasonable amount of good luck. Her reflection in the mirror smiled at her. It was the good luck that had brought her to this once-in-a-lifetime fantasy. It was certainly her intelligence that told her how very lucky she was. And she would rely on her stubbornness to not let anything spoil a moment of this great adventure.
She felt bubbly, as though she’d been filled with soda pop, as though the whole wide world was just waiting for her to explore its delights, and nothing in the whole wide world could possibly go wrong.
“And look at my hair,” she said. She fluffed at it happily. “It must be the humidity. “Sudden body! It’s wonderful. Oh, I just love New York. I can’t wait to get outside.”
“Not me,” Liz said. “I’m really tired. I just want to take a long, relaxing bath in that fabulous tub, with all these mirrors and the bubble lotion. Watch a little TV. Maybe take a nap.”
“Good idea,” Annie said. She went into her bedroom. “In the meantime, I’m going to change out of these clothes and go take a little walk. I want to see the neighborhood.” She’d already shed the jacket and was unbuckling her belt.
“Don’t you go getting yourself into any trouble,” Liz called to her. “You hear me, Annie!”
“You’re being bossy again, big sister.” Annie pulled off her boots, stepped out of her jeans and tossed her shirt onto the bed.
“Well, someone has to keep an eye on you. The city can be dangerous, and you’re a stranger here.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine.” She pulled a little sundress out of her suitcase and slipped it on. “It’s broad daylight, I won’t go far, and I didn’t come all this way just to sit in a hotel room.” She stepped into her sandals, grabbed her bag, and headed down the carpeted hallway. “What could happen in the middle of the afternoon? Honestly, Liz!”
Liz called after her. “You just be careful, Annie. I mean it. I don’t want you getting into any trouble. Are you listening to me?”
“Sure. Sure,” Annie murmured as she rang for the elevator. “I won’t get into any trouble.”
As she dropped breathlessly down forty-four floors, she checked out her reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator and smiled approvingly. She flipped her fingers through her hair and decided that New York was already being kind to her. Nothing bad could happen to her here.
She adjusted the strap of the white straw bag on her shoulder.
But remember to hang on to your bag.
There had been warnings galore from all her Wyoming well-wishers about the dangers of the city streets.
Keep your eyes open, they’d said. But don’t make eye contact with anyone. Remember, anything left untended is a donation to the public. Be careful of the traffic. If anyone tries to steal your money, let them.
She laughed at all the warnings, made one last quick inspection in the mirror and gave an approving nod to the summery look of her cotton dress. Even her hair—usually a palest shade of blond—had turned platinum under the elevator’s bright, overhead lighting. She liked how she looked.
The elevator arrived at the lobby floor. She winked brightly at her reflection and stepped out. In a moment, she had crossed the busy lobby and was out on the street.
Like any good tourist, Annie’s gaze was turned upward as she walked through the tall canyons of glass and steel skyscrapers that glinted in the afternoon sun. With one hand shading her eyes against the glare, her attention was focused skyward. Maybe that’s why she didn’t notice what was happening right around her until she turned a corner and someone tromped on her sandaled foot—hard!
“Hey! Watch it!” she yelped. “That’s my foot!”
She was hopping about, rubbing the offended toe while glaring at the back of a big, lumbering fellow who had pushed her out of his way. But he’d already hurried on to join a crowd that was forming down the street. Even as she stood there, awkwardly poised on one foot, she was bumped again and she practically fell on her face. Her attention came down quickly from the skies above and focused on the events around her.
“What’s going on?” she asked aloud.
She got no answer. No one was listening to her. She’d been overtaken by a throng of noisy, hurrying men, all chattering and gesticulating. They streamed around her, sweeping her along in their momentum. They were all dressed alike, in plain dark pants and white shirts, open collars, the sleeves rolled up. And each man wore an unusual cap made of some stiff black fabric, embroidered in a complex design of bright colors, and adorned on the right side with a kind of cockade made of small red-and-white feathers. In the midst of the confusion, Annie ca
ught sight of the crudely hand-lettered banners and signs they carried. “Independence Now For Buljornia!” and “Free Buljornia Now!”
Buljornia? The name was new to her. What—or who—was Buljornia?
Even as she struggled to place the name, she was being carried down the broad avenue by the obstreperous crowd. Like a leaf twisting in the flow of a mountain stream, she was caught in the current that swirled her about in tiny eddies of excited, noisy demonstrators. Every now and then they would give her a momentary spin before dragging her farther along their course.
“You big gorillas! Watch out!”
That did her no good. The growing mob pushed and pulled her, and she was struggling—while dutifully remembering that she was supposed to hang on to her handbag and avoid making eye contact—to stay upright on her own feet. In a growing confusion, she was swept across Forty-fifth Street, past the United Nations building and its long array of national flags flying in the breeze. She caught a glimpse at the corner of a small booth marked “Police,” and just beyond, the United States Mission to the United Nations. A miniature park, bright with fenced-off patches of greenery and flowers nestled up against a tall, ivy-covered wall and at its center, a tall monument rose up. It was in this tiny bit of green that the crowd was gathering, clumping together into a tight mass. The men filled the little park and climbed around the monument, exhorting the world to free Buljornia, and holding their banners high for the benefit of the television trucks that were positioned nearby to cover the event for the local evening news.
Emotion was boiling up in the dense little crowd and panic was beginning to shiver up Annie’s spine; she could feel the chill down her arms. Her pulse was racing, she was confused, and she was hanging on to that handbag as though it were her only link back to a familiar world.
I’m all turned around!
Her disorientation was intensified by the growing hysteria of the demonstrators and the increasing menace in their tone.
I’ve got to get out of here.
Men were spilling out around the edges of the park, and Annie was an island in the center of a bubbling mass of waving arms and clenched fists.
I have to get out of here! Now!
She looked frantically up the broad avenue, desperate for a safe way out. The city traffic continued to fly by as though nothing unusual were happening, and there were no openings between the stream of cars and taxis to let her slip through. Burly men pressed up against her, their chests and shoulders shoved at her, their fists thrust beyond her at the cameras, as they kept shouting their steady chant.
“Freedom for Buljornia!”
The crowd surged out into the street, carrying her along in its shoving, yelling mass. A fat face, glistening with sweat and excitement, breathed unfamiliar spices at her.
“Free Buljornia now!”
Their tone was growing more fierce. This was definitely not the adventure she wanted.
Suddenly, behind her, a single voice resounded over the heads of the mob, a calm voice, masculine, firm, and full of authority.
“All right, everyone. Let’s just back it up there.” Steady and clear above the racket. “Everyone back from the curb. We don’t want anyone getting hurt.”
Annie turned and looked up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. A bit of sandy-colored hair curled out from under a light blue helmet—the helmet of a New York City mounted policeman. He was astride a beautiful, powerful, big quarter horse. As he wheeled the animal into position, Annie, pressed up close to the horse’s side, caught a glimpse of blue riding pants with a yellow stripe, the Glock holstered at the rider’s belt, and knee-high, close-fitting riding boots. Without spurs. He directed the troop of mounted police into crowd-control positions along the curb, and Annie, who knew a thing or two about quarter horses, had a nano-moment to admire the New York police horse at work: steady, unflappable, efficient—and very good looking. But it was only a moment caught in the midst of her panic. The crowd surged forward, pressing her helplessly still tighter against the big bay’s chest and she felt her feet sliding out from under her. She grabbed, instinctively, for the horse’s bridle near her head. The horse braced, giving her something to hold on to and for a moment, pressed against his shoulder, she was glad of the familiar smell of horseflesh and leather as she began to fall.
“Easy there, ma’am.” The deep, steady voice stroked down toward her and she felt a strong arm reach around her waist, holding her firmly upright. “Let’s get you out of here.”
The rider, leaning way forward in the saddle, held Annie solidly in his encircling arm and lifted her right up off her feet, out of the clutch of protesters, holding her tight up against the animal’s body, turning her breathless. He turned his horse away from the crowd, clearing a path for her toward the barricades the patrolmen were setting up in the street. When, at last, her feet touched the ground, her breath came back, and she was about to wave a thank-you up at him.
“Omigod! I’ve lost my bag!”
Annie clutched at her bare shoulder, looking back helplessly at the melee of flailing arms and shouting, angry faces where the demonstrators were being squeezed back into the little park by the police horses. “Somewhere in there—” She pointed frantically at the ground beneath a hundred milling feet.
“Can’t help you now, ma’am.” He turned his mount back toward the crowd. “You’d best get away from here.” He called over his shoulder as he went back to work. “If we find it, you can pick it up at headquarters, Troop B.”
For a few entranced moments, Annie stood alone in the space he’d cleared and watched man and horse work together, a perfectly coordinated team. And she whispered to herself, her words lost in the demonstrators’ noise.
I can’t believe it.
Bemused, she turned and headed back to the hotel.
He actually swept me off my feet!
And behind her, as his horse blocked the crowd’s surge forward, Sergeant Bart Hardin turned in his saddle for one brief moment to watch the slim figure in the little flowery sundress as she disappeared up the street.
Wow! She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen!
Chapter Three
Whew!
Sunday Afternoon
She wasn’t used to elevators and she teetered a bit as it began to rise.
Forty-four floors! The tallest building back home is only twelve stories. And that’s the tallest building in all Wyoming! This whole day has been a jolt. Never saw anything like this city. How do people live like this? How are they not all crashing into each other? Big and noisy, and everything so fast! And what am I going to do about my bag? Here in New York, without my wallet, my ID. What a mess! Maybe Mitzi can help. Glitzi Mitzi! I’ve never seen energy like that. And that insane street scene—what was that all about? And now Liz is going to scold me. “I told you so!” I’ll never hear the end.
The elevator arrived. She stepped off into a long hallway, thick-carpeted and silent.
I was really scared. If it hadn’t been for that cute cop—it was like magic, how he just came out of nowhere. And on a horse, of all things! Never expected to see that, in New York City. And what a horse! He really knew his business—the way he worked that crowd—I‘ve seen cutting horses couldn’t handle a herd any better than that horse right there on a crowded city street. A good looking horse, he was. Really good looking.
The cop was kinda cute, too!
So her head was a jumble of visions, but no way was she prepared for the one that waited for her when she opened the door to her suite. There was Liz, standing stock-still in the middle of the living room, caught in midstride. Her hands were frozen in the act of removing curlers from her hair, and her eyes were riveted to the flickering television, to a report of breaking news. Her mouth was open in astonishment and she didn’t even turn as Annie came through the door.
“Come quick!” she squealed. “Come quick! Omigod! It’s you! Annie, that’s you!”
Sure enough, there on the TV, big as television life,
her very own self was looking back at her, being scooped efficiently out of danger by a handsome mounted policeman. The reporter’s voice was explaining the action:
“—and New York’s finest were on hand to quell the demonstration. Here we see a passerby as she is plucked from the crowd by police Sergeant Bart Hardin. New Yorkers will recognize Sergeant Hardin and his horse, the legendary and highly popular Lindy. It was just last February that Sergeant Hardin was honored by Mayor Walter Gideon for his bravery in the daring rescue of four children when their apartment on West 38th Street was engulfed in the flames and choking smoke of a three-alarm fire.”
Here, the TV image switched to file footage of the sergeant smiling as the grateful children placed a garland of flowers around the horse’s neck and presented him with an extra bag of oats.
“Lindy is well known around Times Square. Theater people there say they consider him one of their own and claim to be his greatest fans. This horsey veteran of New York’s Great White Way has been a crowd pleaser for years, and his repertoire of tricks together with his raffish charm have made him a favorite of New Yorkers and visitors to the Big Apple ever since the days when Sergeant Hardin’s father, Lieutenant Des Hardin, rode him.”
Her Winning Ways Page 2