Ambition: (The Eventing Series Book 1)

by Natalie Keller Reinert

  Oh, God, I hoped not. I sat down a little deeper, dug down my heels a little deeper, and pushed my hands forward, trying to keep him from feeling too claustrophobic. Forward, I thought desperately. Not up. All I wanted was for him to relax a little, jog around the warm-up ring, and then I’d take him back to the trailer and get both horses home. I’d write off this crappy day. But first I had to find a good note for Mickey to end on. I aimed for the warm-up ring and he pranced in its general direction.

  Then I saw a whole new problem to worry about.

  A friend of my old trainer’s, Breeda Johnson, liked to say hello at events, and she’d left a note at the trailer saying she’d be waiting for me at the dressage arena, as our ride times were close together. Breeda was a respected rider and I’d been looking forward to seeing her and showing her how far I’d come since I was Laurie’s working student.

  I could see Breeda next to the tree where I’d run into Becky earlier, watching us with one hand shading her eyes, and I felt a sinking shame. This was going to get back to Laurie. She and Laurie would have a good laugh about Little Miss Jules who thought she was a big-time rider. I formed a game plan in my head: I’d go past Breeda with a big smile on my face. I’d laugh and call out that this silly baby was putting me through the business on his first time off the farm, but it sure was nice seeing her. I’d play it all off, pretend like Mickey wasn’t actually scaring the shit out of me right now.

  It was a good plan, but unfortunately two things were standing in its way. One, Mickey was scaring the shit out of me, because he’d already proven that he was capable of losing his mind completely, and two, suddenly we weren’t getting any closer to the warm-up ring.

  Was it the little pavilion tent with the judge sitting inside that was freaking him out? Maybe the food truck parked nearby and selling iced coffee to the Pony Clubbers and their tired mothers? Either way, the more I asked for forward motion, the more he responded with vertical motion, until we weren’t going anywhere at all. He was standing still as a statue once again, just as he did when we were tacking him up — his ears pricked, his head so high that I felt like he might smack me in the face with his skull, his body beginning to tense and shake.

  Slowly, I wrapped my fingers in his thick gray mane, preparing my body for anything.

  When he bolted at last, it was a leap worthy of a Lipizzan, or perhaps a deer. Hell, maybe a really athletic tree-frog. First he went straight up, his neck rising in front of me, and then launched forward, putting those glorious hindquarters to good use. I was flung backwards, but didn’t lose my seat and had just enough time to throw myself forward, grabbing hold of his neck, before he hit the ground and promptly did it again. Another rear, another leap — children were shouting, trainers were running towards us, dogs were barking — and as I kicked my feet free of the stirrups and leapt to the ground, hands fisted on the reins, I thought that I’d never been so embarrassed in my entire life.

  And after the rest of this summer, that was really saying something.

  Mickey yanked hard as he tried to throw himself forward again, but I gave a terrible yank on the reins, pulling his head to one side. Mouth gaping, he swung his body around and stood facing me, shaking, the red skin flaring from deep inside his nostrils, the lunatic rings of white sclera showing around his dark eyes. My mind racing, trying to think of what in God’s name to do, I took a cautious step sideways, in case he bolted right over top of me, and jiggled the reins to ask him to move sideways, forwards — anything but that awful stillness he seemed to be withdrawing into.

  He moved — but not forward. He went up, and up and up — I remember watching, in a horrorstruck sort of detachment, his legs pawing somewhere above my head — and then he went backwards and hit the ground with a horrible thud, the stirrup irons clanking. I stared, reins still in my hands. Flipped, twice in ten minutes?

  Breeda Johnson handed her horse off to a convenient Pony Clubber and came running over to us.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, brow furrowed. Mickey looked around, rolled over, and scrambled to his feet. He looked ill, as if he had taken a fever. There was foam on his neck, dripping lather at his mouth, a flooding patch of sweat between his ears soaking the bridle leather and darkening the thin hair where his injury had been.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’ve never seen anything like it. He’s flipping instead of moving forward.”

  She was looking at me with an assessing gaze, and I was waiting for that maternal tone, that implication that I didn’t know much, hadn’t been around long enough, wasn’t good enough to be on my own, which never failed to outrage me, but instead she just shrugged and shook her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it either.”

  A familiar face suddenly appeared behind Breeda. My stomach flipped over, but Peter Morrison looked neither patronizing nor amused, just concerned. “You might want to tranq him before you try to move him again.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said. “There’s a vial in my tack box…” I’d been wondering how I was going to move him again, even if was just to get him back into the trailer. A quick sedative was just the ticket. “The tack room door is unlocked —”

  But Peter was already on the job, long legs flying across the drying grass, and I could see him rummaging through my tack trunk until he found the vial of tranquilizer, plus a syringe and needle in a plastic package.

  “Just enough to take the edge off,” he said, pulling a dose from the upside-down bottle as he walked back, and without pause stepped up to Mickey, grabbed a hunk of flesh from the horse’s neck, and stabbed the needle straight into the muscle before the horse could object. By the time he had pulled the needle out, leaving a little drop of red blood to well up from the wound, Mickey was stepping sideways, looking prepared to panic again, but Breeda and I both placed placating hands on his sweat-darkened neck, feeling the standing veins beneath the taut flesh and the slamming of his heart deep within his chest, and he stood quietly beneath our hands. Minutes passed, long and tense, but at last his eyes started to blink and his head began to hang lower.

  “I think you can try walking him now,” Breeda suggested, stepping back. I looked over at Peter for a second opinion, and he nodded, face tense.

  It was a slow walk back to the trailer, our footsteps dogged by Breeda and Peter, who were quietly discussing the various equine temper tantrums they’d seen in the past. I wished they’d just go away. The blush on my cheeks wasn’t from the heat, and I couldn’t quite keep my hands from trembling.

  But Peter was in no hurry to leave, stripping the saddle from Mickey’s back without being asked and slopping a bucket of tepid water over his back. Breeda, evidently thinking I was in safe hands, excused herself and headed back to her waiting horse; she had a test to ride. I was left alone with Peter, who was handling my doped horse with practiced hands.

  “We’re going to have to team up to get him up that ramp,” he announced, handing me the lead shank. “You lead and I’ll push.”

  I bit back an angry retort; he was right. I couldn’t get the horse in the trailer alone, and God only knew where Lacey and Dynamo had wandered off to in their search for shade and cool water. It was galling, but I needed Peter Morrison’s help.

  We managed to shove and pull Mickey’s inebriated frame into the trailer and I slammed the stall divider into place, giving him four walls to lean upon. It was easily above ninety degrees, and I knew how hot the trailer would get without air moving through it. “I better get him home,” I said to Peter’s back. He was in my tack room, sliding away my old dressage saddle, which was already so beat up that it didn’t look any worse for wear despite being flipped over on… twice. “Let me just text my working student… she has my other horse.”

  He turned back and gave me a studying look, as if he was trying to assess how capable I was of dealing with any future emergencies. It was hard to remember to dislike him when he looked at me like this, equal measures of concern and respect in his blue eyes. It was h
ard to think at all.

  “Are you going to be okay with him at home?” he asked seriously.

  My anti-man defenses kicked in, eliminating the one-sided sexual tension that had been in control of my brain. I hated to be little-lady’d.

  “We’ll be fine,” I announced airily, turning away from him and busying myself picking up a few bandages that had fallen out of the tack room. “Thanks for your help. I’ll get him home just fine.”

  “I’d hate to think he’d pull a number on you when you get home. Are you far away? The Ace will wear off pretty quickly. It’s a weak drug.”

  Like I didn’t know how Ace worked. What did he think, I was new to this game? Just bought a horsey with my trust fund? “We’re about an hour away, but I have my working student with me… we’ll be fine.”

  “Oh… your working student, of course,” he said mysteriously.

  I narrowed my eyes, wondering what Becky had told him about me.

  Lacey appeared suddenly, walking a lop-eared Dynamo. His coat was dry but his eyes were still dull and tired. “We getting out of here?” she asked, ignoring Peter. Good girl. I nodded, and she walked the chestnut horse up the ramp and into the back stall without another word.

  Peter watched the duo with that damned quirked eyebrow of his, then turned back to me with a questioning look. “Your horse okay?”

  I ignored him. There was a reason I didn’t get involved with horse trainers, and this guy’s clear lack of faith in my horsemanship was a galling reminder. I might not be able to stop myself from feeling physically attracted to him, but I could stop myself from acting upon it. Sure, Dr. Em had been right to think she could set us up — he was gorgeous and devoted to horses and yes I felt a connection to him that was tingling and thrilling and utterly arousing… but none of these things had any place in my life right now. “Well, thank you for your help… I better get this boy home and checked out, though.” I helped Lacey close up the back ramp and slam the bolts home.

  “Where’s your farm?” he persisted, following me around the trailer.

  I sighed. “Williston. Green Winter Farm. I didn’t name it… the sign was already up for years and everyone knew it by that name.”

  “Really?” Peter looked surprised. “I heard a story about that place… before they numbered all the roads, 145th Avenue was called Green Winter Road.”

  “You’re kidding. Why would they do that?” I stopped and looked at him, interested despite myself.

  “It was like, five hundred acres. Cattle, citrus, racehorses.”

  “Five hundred! I guess I just have a little chunk.” I imagined my farm, times fifty. “How do you know about that?”

  “My grandfather’s from here,” he said, smiling a little at some memory. “He told me lots of old Ocala stories before he passed. How many acres do you have of it?”

  “Ten,” I admitted. “And the sign, I guess. That’s something.”

  Peter grinned. “I think there were like ten signs. One for each driveway.”

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  “Listen — you want me to stop by later? I could bring some dinner, we could chat, maybe figure out what set your horse off…”

  “I gotta go,” I said shortly. “But thanks.”

  Peter nodded as if he’d figured I’d say that. “See you soon, I hope,” he said, stepping back and raising his hand. And as I started the truck and pulled out, slowly, so as not to jostle the two miserable horses in the back, I was wondering what on earth he meant by that. Was he still going to keep inviting himself into my life?

  Did I mind?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “What’s the matter? You look sick.” Lacey had just come inside from rinsing off the last horse of the morning. Now she wrinkled her nose at me as if already sensing contagious germs in her presence. Neither of us, for obvious reasons, were allowed to get sick. A barn full of horses waited for no man, rain or shine, sick or not.

  I slid the phone across the kitchen table and tapped my fingers on the wood. “Sheila Burns is dropping me as her trainer,” I admitted, not meeting Lacey’s eyes. “And wants me to deliver The Twins to the new trainer.”

  Lacey went for the fridge to start our Diet Coke therapy. “She wants you to deliver them after she takes them from you? Bitch! What is she thinking? You told her no way, right?”

  “Of course not, Lacey. She’s going to pay me. I can’t turn down work. Especially when I’m losing two clients in one.”

  Lacey smacked an open Diet Coke in front of me, ignoring the fizz that spilled over the lid. I sighed and swiped at it before the soda could make more of a mess of the old table. “That’s insane. You can pass up a hundred bucks. That’s just a public shaming, to have to take them to the new barn.”

  I shook my head. I’d run the numbers in my head, over and over. Turning down a hundred bucks wasn’t an option. Turning down twenty bucks wasn’t an option, at this point. “Things are not great, Lacey. And losing two trainees just makes it worse. We’re delivering the horses tomorrow.”

  “To who?”

  “She said she’d text me the address.”

  We sipped Coke and stared at the phone morosely.

  Outside, thunder rumbled. Another afternoon beginning. September was slightly drier than August, although no cooler.

  “Already?” Lacey grumbled. “This lunch hour rainstorm bullshit is getting old real fast, Mother Nature.”

  The phone buzzed its way across the table. I picked it up and studied the message. My heart sank to my toes. I swallowed hard and tried to ignore the prickling behind my eyes. I had to be a professional about this. There was no personal vendetta, there was definitely no voodoo curse.

  “Where to?” Lacey demanded, leaning forward.

  “Peter Morrison’s.”

  There was quiet for a moment. Thunder growled again, closer this time.

  “I thought you hit it off with him,” Lacey said eventually.

  “What made you think that?”

  “You smiled at him.” She shrugged. “You never smile at anybody.”

  “I smile at you.”

  “Not that much, anymore.”

  “They loaded nicely,” Lacey offered, voice uncertain. Who could blame her? What do you say to break the silence, when your boss has to give up two clients because of her own spectacularly poor decisions?

  I’d made a fool of myself at Lochloosa in front of God and the entire Florida eventing community, and word had gotten around. It had only been a week, but an hour was all anyone had really needed. I had no doubt that there were entire websites devoted to my dunder-headed move with Mickey the Magnificent Flipping Horse, or Dynamo’s evident heat exhaustion as I shoved him around the dressage ring.

  I ignored Lacey’s attempt at levity. I ignored a lot of things lately, there was really no other way to deal with things. And I had to concentrate on the road, besides — perfectly good excuse for my rude silence, I was sure.

  We were driving the truck and trailer around a particularly torturous turn of the county highway, where all the engineering of man couldn’t compete with the deep blue sinkhole spring that blocked the the road’s originally intended path. The sign for the spring, with its walking trails and scuba diving, had been the victim of so many hit-and-runs over the years that it was permanently twisted on its steel legs, the arrow to the parking lot pointing straight to the heavens.

  This was Northwest Marion County — limestone-rich ground, rolling hills like little Floridian mountains, with water gushing out of barn hoses so crisp and pure you could bottle and sell it — this was where the millionaires raised their blue-blooded horses. Movie stars bought hobby farms here, and Saudi princes built winter homes. The great Kentucky breeding farms had their southern training farms along these winding roads, lavish barns resting atop the live-oak scattered hills, hand-carved signs at their driveways, wrought-iron gates to keep out the sight-seers.

  I had been holding tight to the notion that if I played my cards right an
d worked incessantly, unceasingly, relentlessly, I might one day be able to afford an unattractive corner of land up here, something down two unpaved roads and on the far side of a swamp, perhaps, or something backed up to the Interstate, by the time I hit forty.

  Peter Morrison, damn him, was already here, and the knowledge rankled.

  He was a few years older than me, I reflected. He might have gotten it all by working ceaselessly since he was a teenager, as I was attempting to do.

  But I doubted it. I was so used to dealing with people whose riches were handed to them, I had a hard time accepting that anyone else had ever worked for anything. I was worn out with the privileged classes I had been toiling to keep up with for so long, and now that I’d seen his mailing address, Peter Morrison definitely fell under that heading. The only question was, why had he shown up at ACE, and entered my life, in the first place? If he was the lord of the manor at some Millionaire Mile equestrian center, what had he been doing at the poor kids’ convention, competing for that grant and sponsorship? Unless he was working out of some tiny ramshackle barn shoehorned in between one of the Thoroughbred palaces out here, leftover from before the boom years…

  The road straightened out and I shook the strain out of my shoulders. This was never an easy drive. It was a million times worse with my two lost clients in the back of the trailer.

  “Of course they loaded well,” I burst out suddenly. “How long did I spend teaching them to load in the trailer? Remember when they got here? So drugged they could barely stand? I fixed that.” I shook my head, sick at the thought. All that work, all those hours lost. Morrison would get all of the gain, and I would be left with nothing.