Her Winning Ways

by J. M. Bronston

  “I doubt it. No way Keenan will share. But I could ask my mom. I think hers is even better, though I wouldn’t say it out loud around here.” Then he remembered. “There was something else you wanted to ask, wasn’t there?”

  “Yes, there was something else I wanted to ask.” Annie hesitated, because she knew she might be overstepping. But this whole trip had been so full of extra treats, she decided that maybe her good luck hadn’t yet run out. “I’m going to be all tied up tomorrow, and probably the rest of the week, too. I don’t expect we’ll meet again while I’m here, and I was wondering if it’s possible that maybe tonight we could go back to the stables and you could introduce me properly to Lindy. I’d love to take a couple of pictures with him—as a memento of this trip?”

  “Hey, that’s a great idea.” He restrained a satisfied little fist pump. “But I meant what I said about seeing to it that you get a proper tour of this city. And I didn’t mean just tonight. You shouldn’t be wandering alone without a proper escort and I’d like to be your escort for the rest of your time here.”

  Am I pleased? Amused? Irritated? What am I to make of this guy?

  She looked into her shepherd’s pie. What was left of it. She scooped up a forkful of lamb.

  But he is really cute. And I think he means well, even if he is all full of himself. And I do want to see that stable.

  She hit the mental rewind button and went back to where she’d left off.

  “Does that mean you have access at headquarters any time?”

  “Why, sure. I can go in there whenever I’d like. Tonight would be great. It’s quiet. Only the night shift is on. Let’s do it. I’d like you and Lindy to get better acquainted.”

  “Then let’s skip dessert,” she said. “It’s been a couple of really packed days and I have to be up early tomorrow for more of the same.” She finished the last bit of her Guinness, Bart did the same, got his credit card charged, and with a warm good night to Katie, they were heading back across town on the blue motorcycle.

  Chapter Twelve

  Making Friends

  Monday Evening

  Yes, the stables were quiet. Quiet for the moment, at least. Some of the stalls were empty, their usual occupants out on the night shift and not due back until after midnight; those present had been fed, groomed and bedded down for the night, at rest after a days’ good work. But alertness was both bred and trained into these animals, and they all came to attention when Bart switched on a single small light and led Annie to Lindy’s stall. In the soft illumination, all heads turned toward them, all ears pricked up, all eyes scanned the unexpected visitors.

  Annie felt the thrill of being a special guest, with doors being opened just for her. With just a casual nod by Bart to the officer on duty as they passed through the reception area, just a quick, “Hey, there, Morgan,” and a brief explanation, “Taking a friend in to meet Lindy,” and an answering wave of the hand from behind the desk. “No problem, Bart.” And they passed through the big double doors into the stable. Good luck seemed to be following her everywhere on this trip.

  “He’s such a big ham,” Bart said, as Lindy reached into Bart’s shirt pocket, snuffling there to find a treat. “Sorry, fella. Nothing tonight. Just brought a lady to visit you, so remember your manners.” Lindy bowed his head, as though in response, and Annie realized this was one of the tricks he’d been taught.

  “Is it a voice signal, or do you use physical cues?”

  “Both,” Bart said. “He’s a super smart horse and loves to learn new stuff. He catches on faster than any horse I’ve ever worked with. Back on the ranch, before I got him, my cousin, Janice, she was training him in dressage. He was just a yearling and he was already winning blue ribbons in some of the local horse shows.”

  As they talked, Bart had slipped a halter on Lindy, led him out of his stall, and brought him around so Annie could get a good look at him.

  “He has such an intelligent face,” she said.

  Lindy lifted his head and gave his mane a little toss.

  Annie laughed. “You’re a fine-looking animal,” she said to Lindy. “And I see you know when you’re being praised.”

  They were getting to know each other, she and Lindy, becoming friends.

  She didn’t see how Bart was looking at her—and only at her—with an expression so gentle, so tender, she’d have wondered where the bossy, take-charge, macho-man had disappeared to.

  Her face was softly shadowed by the single light and to Bart, she was so lovely, so sweet and vulnerable and innocent—a strand of her hair shadowed the curve of her jaw and neck, the shadow of her eyelashes fell on the smooth curve of her cheek, and there were delicious shadows in the slight parting of her lips as she talked to the horse—he wanted to reach out his hand to touch that hair, that face, that soft mouth—

  But instead, he said, “If you’d like to walk him around—”

  And he offered her the halter.

  Annie understood the etiquette of his offer. Without Bart’s permission, she would not have touched the horse, not even to stroke his mane or the soft side of his cheek. But now, as she took the halter from Bart, she put her free hand against the horse’s neck, then ran it down his shoulder, feeling the animal’s strength, his controlled power, and his quick responsiveness. She understood, too, and was pleased, that with the offer came Bart’s vote of confidence.

  “He’ll let me?”

  “As long as he knows it’s okay with me.” He was being careful. “Just take him along the stalls here.”

  So Annie led Lindy the length of the stalls and back again and Bart saw how she observed Lindy’s moves, how she talked to him, how comfortably she handled him. And saw, too, that Lindy was comfortable with her; he knew that Lindy would never let anyone lead him like that unless he knew he was in experienced hands.

  “Take him over to the training ring,” Bart said. “I’ll let him show off for you, show you some of his tricks.”

  Bart was doing her a very special favor, having his horse perform for a private audience—for just her alone.

  As they stepped into the ring, she said, “Oh, I’d completely forgot.” She took the packet of wrapped-up carrot sticks from her jacket pocket. “I’ve had these all afternoon—forgot all about them. They were left over from lunch.” They were a bit dried out and soft, but still edible. “Is he allowed a treat?”

  “Sure.” To Lindy, Bart said, “Say hello to the nice lady, Lindy. She has some carrots for you. If you mind your manners, she may give you one.”

  Lindy made a small toss of his head and then bowed it toward Annie and placed his right hoof forward on the floor of the ring.

  “And hello to you, too,” she said, and let Lindy have one of the carrot sticks.

  “He has a whole bag of tricks. His favorite is a sort of dancing thing he does. The show people, from the Broadway musicals, get him to do it to the songs from their shows. Only, he’ll only do it for the one who taught him the song. So if you have a favorite, you just sing it for him and he’ll do his dance. But it’ll be just your song; he won’t do it for anyone else. Go ahead and sing something.”

  “Oh, you don’t want to hear me sing. I’m absolutely tone deaf.” Annie knew even a horse would stop up his ears if she started singing. It was an old joke in the family. “But I can whistle,” she said. “I don’t know why—but I could always whistle.”

  “Go ahead, then. Pick a tune. It’ll be just yours.”

  She thought a minute—and then said, “Okay, here’s one that’s special for a Wyoming horse.”

  She puckered up and whistled the last few bars of Wyoming U’s traditional fight song. Lindy wasn’t accustomed to his music being whistled, but he heard something song-like and made a tentative swinging motion of his front quarters.

  “What you’re whistling,” Bart said. “That sounds familiar.”

  “Oh, sure. Everyone knows that old western song. That’s ‘Ragtime Cowboy Joe.’ The words got changed a bit for our team.
But our football players are the Wyoming Cowboys, and our team mascot, Pistol Pete, is a ‘highfalutin, rootin’- tootin’, son-of-a-gun from ole Wyoming . . .’ just changed the song a little bit. And now maybe Broadway Lindy can join in the song, too.”

  While holding the halter firmly in her left hand, she leaned down and, with her right hand, she stroked down Lindy’s shoulder, down his off front leg down past his knee to the cannon bone, and stopped a couple of inches above his hoof.

  She heard a tiny gasp of alarm from Bart and smiled to herself. She knew she was scaring him.

  So what! Let him be scared, the big macho-man.

  “Now, pay attention, Lindy,” she said softly.

  And while she whistled the first bars of the song’s chorus, she grasped the cannon bone firmly, putting just a gentle pressure with her thumb below his knee and—just enough pressure to hold his attention—lifted his leg and made him make a pawing motion, making him tap the floor firmly a couple of times in time to the music. Then she stopped, stood up, looked him in the eye, and said, “Do you get it, Lindy? Are you that smart?”

  Lindy turned an attentive eye to her, and Bart could have sworn they were talking to each other.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s try it again.” And she repeated the whole combination, whistling and stroking and lifting Lindy’s leg, making his hoof tap the floor three times in time to the music.

  “Are you kidding?” Bart said.

  She stood up straight and brushed her hands off on her jeans. “Well, you told me he does tricks. I bet he can pick this one up easily enough. Let’s see if the third time is the charm.”

  Once more she went through the routine and this time, she could feel the horse was helping her, understanding what was wanted.

  By George, I think he’s got it!

  She stood back, giving Lindy a chance to let it all sink in. Then, without touching him, she whistled the song again, clearly and firmly, and sure enough, Lindy lifted his leg and made one pawing motion, three times against the ground.

  “Oh, you really are a wonderful horse,” she said, and got another carrot stick out of her pocket. He nibbled it out of her hand; she saw that he understood perfectly. He looked at her with an expression that clearly said, “That was fun. Let’s do it again.”

  And again she whistled, and this time he responded right along with the ragtime rhythm of the song and pawed the ground firmly, making a good solid clop-clop on the floor. Four more tries, four more carrot sticks, and Annie and Lindy were working together like an old vaudeville team.

  “That’s amazing,” Bart said. “I swear. It’s like you two were talking English to each other.”

  “Well, some horses are very musical. You see it all the time. I figured Lindy was a likely candidate for a musical trick, from what you said.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re lucky he didn’t stomp you, bending down like that in front of him, picking up his leg in your bare hand when he hardly knows you.”

  “He wouldn’t stomp me. He knows we’re friends.” She nuzzled her face against Lindy’s cheek. “Don’t you, Lindy?” And Lindy nuzzled her right back. She handed the halter back to Bart and the three of them walked back to Lindy’s stall. “I was pretty sure he’d be quiet, as long as you were standing by. He’d seen you hand me the halter, so he knew I had your approval. And something else—my jeans and jacket have spent plenty of time around horses and cattle. I probably smelled right to him.”

  “Yeah,” Bart said very quietly. “I guess you do smell just right.”

  Annie didn’t turn, but she felt Bart lean in close, taking in the scent of her hair.

  Thank you, Cartier, she thought.

  Now Bart did reach his hand to her hair, a shy touch, just a cautious lift of a strand away from her cheek as she turned toward him.

  “You have such pretty hair,” he said.

  Omigod, he’s going to kiss me!

  And he would have kissed her, right then, but suddenly a bright light went on, startling them both.

  “Hey, you guys. You finished up in here?” It was Officer Morgan, looking in at the stable door. “Just want to let you know, I’m going off duty now. My replacement’s here.”

  Bart looked quickly away from Annie.

  “Yeah, we’re on our way out now.”

  From the closing of the stable doors as they left the precinct until they pulled up in front of the entrance, neither one was willing to speak. In front of the hotel, Annie got off the motorcycle, handed the helmet back to Bart, and paused as she smoothed her hair into place.

  Bart looked into her eyes and saw the question there.

  “You’re going to be seeing me again,” he said quietly.

  And he made a quick U-turn and zoomed away into the crosstown traffic.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ribbon-Cutting

  Tuesday Morning

  Sunny skies, gentle breezes, birds singing—the day was shaping up to be a winner all around. Bart’s face revealed nothing, but he was pretty sure the gods were smiling on him. Captain Simon’s morning assignments had just detailed his unit to the event over on Fifth Avenue, the grand opening of Galliard’s, that new store from Paris. Annie would be surprised—he’d get a chance to show off a little, and maybe have the opportunity to set up a date. As the men headed for the stables, Bart hung back, preoccupied with his good fortune.

  “Hey Bart.” His buddy, Max, had been trying to get Bart’s attention. “You off in dreamland?”

  “Sorry about that, Max. Just thinking. Nothing special. Just thinking it looks like it’s going to be a nice day. That’s all.”

  “Yeah, well you have a funny look—like you just won the lottery.”

  “Nope. Nothing like that. Just feeling like all’s right with the world. Ever have days like that, Max?”

  “Not often enough,” Max said. “Anyway. We need to get going. Time to get over to Fifth Avenue.”

  They were heading for the stalls to saddle up for the day, just as Captain Simon stepped out of his office.

  “Hey, Bart, can I see you a minute.” It was not a question. He pointed his chin toward his office. “In here,” he said.

  In his office, behind the glass-paneled door, the captain walked around his desk and sat down. His moves were quick, a busy man with a busy day ahead of him. In his hand he held a ragged piece of paper which he scanned quickly to refresh his memory, and then handed to Bart.

  “Do you know what this cockamamie thing means? Someone shoved it under the door last night.”

  Bart frowned at the paper.

  He read the message a couple of times.

  Bart put his trained eye on the paper; he fingered it expertly. Pale green paper, lined, cheap quality, torn from an ordinary spiral steno notepad, with a faint red line printed down the center. The handwriting was recognizably foreign, all in thick pencil. Irregular torn edges curled like snaggle teeth along the top of the paper. He held it up to the light looking for a watermark. He didn’t expect to find one and of course there wasn’t any. Could have come from any one of tens of thousands of cheap notebooks, easily available in any one of thousands of stores, anywhere in the country.

  “The handwriting looks foreign.”

  “What does it mean?” Simon repeated.

  “Beats me. Sounds like some loony-toon.”

  “Yeah. Well, maybe. Probably just some goofball who saw you on the TV the other day—that kind of publicity always brings out the kooks. But just so you know to keep your eyes open. And we’ll go ahead and process it anyway. Leave it with me.” He took the paper back from Bart. “Go on, now. Get out of here. I’m busy.”

  Bart headed for the door.

  “Hey, Bart,” the captain called after him. Bart paused as he was about the close the door behind him. “You watch yourself, you hear?”

  “You bet, Captain. I’ll keep an eye out.”

  Some loony-toon, he thought. They all come out in the spring.

  Max was already up on Hip Hop and
he waited while Bart brought Lindy out of his stall. By eight thirty on this perfect morning, the unit was headed up Twelfth Avenue, on their way to their morning assignment on the East side.

  And while Bart was feeling pretty satisfied with the way the day was shaping up, Annie was approaching her big event with nerves she wasn’t accustomed to. There’d be cameras and TV coverage and she’d have to be the center of more attention than she’d ever faced before.

  What to wear? What to wear?

  “Oh, Liz. Help me. What should I wear? I don’t know what to wear.”

  “Honey, I’ve never seen you so dithery. This isn’t like you.”

  “I know. I didn’t expect to feel this way—sort of intimidated. Now I feel like I don’t look sophisticated enough for New York.”

  “Oh, that’s silly. That blazer is very attractive and you brought a skirt, didn’t you? And what about—” The phone interrupted her and she paused to answer it. “Here, honey,” Liz said, handing her the phone. “It’s Mitzi, calling for you.”

  “Oh, Mitzi. Just in time! I don’t know what to wear. Do I go casual—I have a simple sundress with me—or pants and a blazer, a little more dressy—”

  Mitzi didn’t skip a beat. “Oh, jeans, Annie. Absolutely. And boots. That whole super outfit you had on yesterday. With that great leather jacket and the belt with the silver buckle. God! I would kill for that jacket. The cameras will love that western look. So authentic. Girl from Laramie dazzles the big bad city. Trust me. New Yorkers will eat it up. I’ll have the car at your hotel in half an hour. Ciao.” And there was silence.

  Annie stared at the phone.

  “Liz, these people are so weird. What is it about the jeans and leather jacket? What they call the ‘western look’? They all wear black, like it’s a uniform, and they want me to dress up like a cartoon character? Honestly! I’ll feel like a cardboard cutout.”

  But Mitzi’s advice helped calm her down. Jeans and the leather jacket were everyday wear for Annie, so for sure she’d feel more comfortable.