by Janet Dailey
“She’s in the powder room.” Rob ignored the snide remark as he stretched his neck to scan the room. “Where’s Raul? I saw you with him earlier.”
“Much earlier. He’s already left to rest up for tomorrow’s game.”
“I wanted to introduce him to Luz.” His shoulders sagged in a disappointed slump. “Did he meet her?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“What happened? Did he talk to her about the polo school?”
“I don’t think he had a chance. I doubt if it would have sunk in if he had.”
“Where is she? Do you know?” He looked around the room again. “I think I’ll talk to her and see what he said.”
“She’s upstairs in her room—probably passed out,” she informed him grimly. “She was quite drunk, Rob.”
“No.” His expression turned somber, that troubled moodiness settling over him again. “I’d better go check and see how she is.”
“She’s fine,” Trisha insisted, but Rob didn’t accept her word for it and walked quickly away to see for himself. “At least,” she continued, speaking only to herself, “she was fine an hour ago when I looked in on her.” She lost sight of Rob in the crowd of guests, then saw him going out the large doors into the main foyer.
“Something tall and cold—and nonalcoholic.” Don Town-send gave a mock bow as he stopped beside her and presented a tall glass of soda to her, a wedge of lime floating on top.
“I’ll love you forever for this.”
“Promises, promises.”
CHAPTER XII
The ball took a wild bounce on the cut-up turf and bounded into an open area as the momentum of the players carried them past it. Raul’s inside position blocked his opposite number from any attempt at the ball and gave him the closest angle to the ball. Checking his pony’s speed, he urged it into a tight, fast turn and aimed for the ball, his mallet aloft.
“Leave it!”
The shouted instruction came from a teammate who had a better angle for a shot at the ball than he did. Now his team duty became to block the closest opposition between his teammate and the goal. Only one rider was in that position, already racing his pony to intercept the anticipated flight of the ball and defend against a score.
Instinctively, Raul waited a split second until his chocolate-colored horse had the necessary pivot foot on the ground to change angles before he signaled with legs and reins to alter direction. That fractional hesitation gave a fluidity to the movement, an effortless grace with hardly any break in speed. If he hadn’t waited that pulsebeat, the horse would have attempted to obey the signal, but off-balance, on the wrong lead, it would have appeared lumbering and awkward.
Control was the key. Control of a mind and body other than his own and knowing the exact second to exercise it. And it all had to be reflex. There was no time to consciously check which hoof was down or which lead the pony was on, he had to know. The animal had to be an extension of himself, two highly skilled athletes playing as one.
He heard the clunk of a mallet striking the ball behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, Raul saw the ball flying by him and made a mental note of its path as he bore down on the horse and rider angling toward the ball. He identified Rob Thomas as the rider, but it made little difference beyond knowing the level of skill of his opponent.
Raul closed on the young rider at an acute angle, approaching on Rob’s mallet side. At this speed, anything wider would be not only dangerous, but a foul as well. The distance shortened. And the impact of two tons of horses and riders colliding at a combined speed between fifty and sixty miles an hour was coming. His horse knew it as well as Raul, but the animal didn’t shy from it.
The danger of the collision had to be ignored. Controlled recklessness was an integral part of polo. It was definitely a contact sport, and those who feared it had no business on the field.
Timing and leverage were the dominant factors, and Raul planned both so the impact was made by his horse’s shoulder driving into that of his opponent’s mount. Wham! He felt the bone-jarring hit and saw the sorrel head of Rob’s pony dip down, stumbling, nearly knocked off its feet, but the horse recovered stride and balance.
Still, the collision had given Raul the advantage. His knee was in front of Rob’s—the angle was his—and he kept the weight of his horse leaning into the other galloping animal, successfully riding Rob off the line of the ball and leaving it clear for his own teammate to send it through the now undefended goalposts.
Raul looked back as Hepplewhite made the scoring swing, but he didn’t ease the pressure on the horse and rider running stride for stride with him. Even when the ball went sailing through the air toward the posts, he rode off the opposing player, keeping him away from the ball.
There was always the chance of a wild bounce, a freak ricochet that could stop it short of the goalposts. Raul didn’t let up until both had gone over the endline. Only then did he pull up to go back, prepared to give further assistance, but it wasn’t needed. The ground judge waved the flag over his head, indicating a point scored, and Raul reined his horse in.
Rob’s sorrel acted up, wildly tossing its head and fighting the restraining pressure on the bit. Such misbehavior wasn’t normal in a horse of the sorrel’s caliber of training and game experience. Instinctively, Raul’s horseman’s eye attempted to locate the reason as Rob forced the sorrel alongside to return to the center of the playing field. His glance fell immediately on the blood-flecked foam at the corners of the horse’s mouth. He looked back at Rob, ignoring his mixed expression of grudging respect and resentment over being ridden off the play.
“His mouth is cut,” he said bluntly, leaving the choice to Rob whether he should play out the final minute of the chukkar on a pony suffering pain. If Rob took the precious time to change horses, he would leave his teammates one man short when play resumed with the throw-in. In Raul’s opinion, fair play did not include giving advice to the opposing side.
A second later, Rob swung his horse away and spurred it toward the picket line. Raul doubted if the young rider would have made that choice six months ago. His absence on the field for a few seconds of playing time would not be as harmful to his team as a full minute of play on a disobedient pony.
His horse pushed at the bit, and Raul gave it more rein. Its chocolate head bobbed low as the horse blew out a rolling snort, clearing its distended nostrils. Absently, he listened to the familiar noises of the horse as he posted back to midfield at the regulation trot.
It was four against three in the ensuing throw-in. Raul’s side got control of the ball and drove quickly for the goal. On a fresh horse, Rob raced onto the field, but he was too late to even out the numbers and prevent the scoring of a goal.
As the two teams regrouped in the center of the field, Raul heard Sherbourne berating Rob for his decision. “What the hell did you think you were doing? There was less than a minute! Why didn’t you wait until the damned chukkar was over to change horses?”
Raul smiled humorlessly at Rob’s initiation in playing for someone else. Regardless of how wrong he was, the team owner or captain was always right. The desire to win was fierce. And having two quick goals scored on them in succession was hard for a man like Sherbourne to accept. Rob, indirectly involved in both plays, suffered the brunt of his sour temper. It was an unpleasant by-product of the game, like fatigue and injuries.
Before the umpire had a chance to bowl the ball between the staggered line of riders, the bell rang to end the chukkar, with Raul’s side ahead by three points and only one period left to play. He rode to the picket line and dismounted. The groom, a chunky young girl, took the reins from him and led the sweating horse away.
Pulling off his helmet, Raul breathed in tiredly and temporarily laid his mallet, crop, and helmet across the armrests of a lawn chair. There wasn’t time between chukkars to grab more than a few seconds of rest before he had to check the saddle and equipment on a fresh mount. There was a soreness in the thigh muscle of his right
leg, the result of being accidentally hit by a stick early in the match. It showed signs of stiffening if he didn’t keep moving.
Raul fought off the exhaustion that pushed him toward the chair seat and reached for the wet towel draped over the back. He wiped the sweat from his face and ran it over his damp hair, then let it cool the back of his neck. Blood had dried along a cut on his arm, although he didn’t remember how he got it. It wasn’t hurting him, so he didn’t bother to clean it.
Someone handed him a drink. He lifted it to his parched mouth and downed half of it before pausing to walk again and keep that leg muscle from tightening up on him. The groom came back, leading a saddled horse. He’d saved the black so he could use its lightning speed in the final period. Raul walked to the horse rather than wait for the female groom to bring the animal to him.
As he rechecked the tightness of the saddle girth and the length of the martingale, Hepplewhite rode over, already mounted on a fresh pony. The tiredness in the team captain’s face was overshadowed by the gleam of a victory within reach.
“Speed, didn’t I tell you that was the key?” he declared. “Every time the tempo picked up we got control. Sherbourne’s style of play is steady and deliberate. A fast pace rattles him. This period, you and that black horse have to run their legs off. You do what I say and, by damn, we’ll win this trophy.”
Raul nodded, fully aware the pressure was on him more than the others. He was the professional in their midst. He was getting paid to play, so results were expected. And the only result that counted was winning. The invisible pressure was always there, sometimes wearing on him. But polo was his profession and Hepplewhite’s avocation. Excellence was expected—demanded—from him, and little leeway allowed for the bad days everyone had sometimes.
“I will need the longer stick,” he told the groom as he walked to the lawn chair and retrieved his helmet and whip.
After he was in the saddle, she handed him the alternate mallet. The black horse was taller than the brown pony he’d ridden before. To compensate for the difference in their heights, he used a longer stick so he wouldn’t have to adjust the reach or rhythm of his swing. Holding the mallet upright, like a warrior’s lance, he reined the black horse toward the long, wide field of green.
“Good luck,” the groom called.
From the sidelines, Luz watched the play resume. Last night’s champagne had left her with a miserable hangover, and the supposed stimulation contained in the gallons of caffeine-rich coffee she’d consumed this morning hadn’t improved her condition. She still felt rotten. Her head felt heavy, in need of support, and there was a dull pounding in her temples. Despite the shade of her hat and dark glasses, the brilliant sunlight hurt her eyes. Everything jarred her senses—sounds, smells, movements.
Part of the dullness came, too, from Drew’s telegram informing them of his marriage to Claudia. This morning, she had given it to Trisha and Rob. Typically, Rob had said nothing and walked out of the room. Trisha had been equally subdued, murmuring something about buying them a wedding present.
Luz tried not to think about it and watched the game instead. The action on the playing field happened too fast for her to follow all of it, so Luz concentrated on keeping track of Rob. She wasn’t altogether successful at that, frequently losing sight of him amid the flashing sticks and galloping ponies. At the moment, he was racing at the head of a charging line of players, chasing a ball toward the goal line. Luz was fairly certain it was the opponents’ goal, although she might have missed a change of ends.
“Go, Rob! Go!” Trisha urged him on.
Luz winced at the encouraging shout, wishing her daughter wouldn’t yell so loudly. A black horse came streaking out of the following pack after Rob. The rider leaned way forward over the horse’s neck, stretching in his stirrups and reaching with his mallet. When Rob swung at the ball his mallet head hooked the other man’s stick, and he had no chance to hit the ball through the posts.
“Damn him,” Trisha swore.
“Who was it?” With her slowed comprehension, it was all Luz could do to identify her own son.
“Raul Buchanan. Who else?” Trisha muttered while she looked through the binoculars.
“Who else,” Luz agreed dryly—and quietly. The Argentine had been Rob’s nemesis the last time they’d played against each other, and today appeared to be a repeat.
“If looks could kill, Rob just buried him. Wanta see?” Trisha offered her the binoculars.
“No.” It was all she could do to hold her head up, and those field glasses were heavy. Besides, she doubted if she’d be able to see any better through them anyway.
And she had already guessed which one he was. Even at a distance he had looked familiar to her, so she had identified him from the start of the game. These last couple of days, Rob had talked about Raul Buchanan incessantly. Supposedly she had met him at last night’s party, or so Rob claimed at breakfast this morning, but Luz didn’t remember that.
Most of last night was a haze to her, although she had a vague, lingering sense that she’d made a fool of herself. She had seen and talked to a lot of people, mostly English lords and gentry, but no Latins that she recalled. Actually, she was grateful Rob had let the matter of her memory lapse drop. Maybe he knew she’d had too much to drink, but she hadn’t wanted to admit that to him.
The game moved swiftly with none of the fouls that had so frequently halted the action in the first half of play. Privately, Luz was glad it wasn’t dragging out, although for Rob’s sake she was sorry time ran out while his side was still behind.
“Poor Henry.” Fiona sighed. “He won’t be fit to live with for a week.”
“I suppose we should go console Rob,” Trisha said.
Luz would have preferred to go straight back to Seven Oak and lie down with an ice pack on her forehead, but she knew Rob would expect her to come by. Before the game, he had said he wanted her to meet Raul Buchanan. Now that the Argentine player had beaten him again, he might have changed his mind about that. God, she hoped so. She wasn’t sure if she was up to meeting the man who was fast becoming Rob’s polo idol.
“We’ll be back shortly,” she promised Fiona Sherbourne, and carefully pushed out of the chair.
Together, Luz and Trisha proceeded up the sidelines toward the picket area. Luz kept her head down so that the brim of her hat could shield her from as much of the glaring sun as possible. Silently, she wished for some of that notoriously foul English weather—some heavy thick clouds would be nice.
They skirted the spectators, most of them there in hopes of catching a glimpse of some member of the Royal Family, either playing in the game or observing the action. Passing the parked horse trailers, mainly the old-fashioned horse boxes instead of the goose-necked kind so common in the States, they approached the riders’ pony lines. They had to watch where they were going and avoid the piles of horse droppings that dotted the rear area.
“There’s Rob.” Trisha pointed.
Luz glanced in the direction she indicated. Rob was in the company of another man whose back was to them, the polo helmet tucked under his arm to reveal dark, rumpled hair. The color of his sweat-darkened shirt identified him as a member of the opposing team, obviously being congratulated by Rob on their victory.
“Hey, Luz!” Rob called to her, his expression seeming unusually earnest in the face of his loss. A second later, Luz recognized the black horse standing to one side of the rider, and it all made sense. That was Raul Buchanan with him. “You’ve met my mother, haven’t; you?” he said to him as she walked up, Trisha lagging slightly behind her.
When the man turned, shock rippled through her. That face belonged to the man she had danced with at the party. The clothes were wrong—the dirt-smudged white breeches, the tight-fitting polo shirt, and boots. In black evening suit, she would never have guessed that he played polo for a living—that he was Argentine.
A second thought hit Luz with sickening force. She’d been so drunk. The impression she mu
st have made on him was sobering. She looked at his level blue eyes, deeply lined at the corners. He probably saw her as a bitter, self-pitying divorcee, afraid of growing old alone. That wasn’t really who she was. And she wouldn’t have him looking down at her.
“Yes, I’ve met Mrs. Thomas,” he said.
“You have the advantage on me, Mr. Buchanan,” Luz asserted coolly. “Last evening you only identified yourself as the lord of nothing.’ A memorable title—and a curious one under the circumstances.”
“It seemed appropriate at the time. The phrase was once used to describe the gaucho—the cowboy of my country. Señor de nada, lord of nothing. As you said, Mrs. Thomas, it’s memorable although the humor may be weak.” The explanation was smooth and aloofly made.
“Part of the fault for this mix-up may be mine.” Trisha stepped forward. “You see, the other evening, Luz, I likened Raul to a modern-day gaucho.”
A combination of things registered simultaneously on Luz—Trisha’s familiar use of his given name, the way she looked at him, and the memory that her daughter had been with him when Luz first saw him. The nearly twenty-year age difference came last, but Drew had proved to her how irrelevant that was to a man. Luz shuddered inwardly when she recalled how very close she had come to making an utter fool of herself and indulging in absurd fantasies. The dark glasses she wore were a blessing.
“Well, señor de nada—or should I call you Mr. Buchanan? I don’t know which you prefer.” Her brittle, forced laugh, like her smile, had a trace of sarcasm that mocked whatever nobly romantic notions he had about himself.
“Mr. Buchanan—or simply Raul.”
Luz suspected the latter familiarity was offered because he had already given the privilege to her daughter. “My son has spoken at length about you, Mr. Buchanan.” Belatedly, she realized that Rob probably called him by his given name, too, but she preferred to keep this new distance. “Naturally he talked about your polo school.”
“He is a good player. With training, he could improve his handicap rating. I admit I would like to see him enroll in the program. I think he would benefit greatly from it.’