The Lavender Field

by Jeanette Baker

  The day was already beginning to warm up. The center was awake. Soft nickers came from the stalls. Two men threw bales of hay into a barn. In one of the rings, a groom lunged a deep-chested warmblood. Driving a golf cart, a trainer in a baseball cap and heavy jacket positioned herself near the show ring and picked up her walkie-talkie. Her student, sitting deep on a delicate gray Arabian with a black mane and tail, trotted into the circle. The animal’s muscles gleamed as he moved to the left and then right, in tune with commands from the cart. His mouth foamed, an indication that he’d already been worked hard.

  In the stalls, horses were nose-deep in buckets of bran, mash and oats. Fragrant straw, a foot deep, carpeted their stalls. Mounted on every door were charts with feeding and exercise schedules.

  Whitney greeted the groom she’d met earlier, a wiry man with a dark complexion. “Good morning, Juan.”

  The groom nodded. “Buenos días, Miss Benedict.” He spoke in the accented English she was beginning to associate with Los Angeles. “You’re up early. Seen enough of the sights?”

  “For a while. I thought you could use me today. I’d like to help.”

  He smiled, revealing a flashing gold tooth. “Always glad of another set of hands.”

  Gabriel checked his watch again. “If you’ll put her to work, Juan, I’ll get to the office.”

  “No problem, boss.” Juan fastened the latch on a stall and checked off a box on the schedule. “Come with me, Miss Benedict, and I’ll show you how to wrap legs.”

  “If wrapping for a show is the same as wrapping for a race, I’ll save you some time because I already know how to do that. Would you mind if I looked around for a bit first?”

  “Not at all. Take your time. When you’re ready to start, let me know.”

  Whitney paused near a pipe stall, admiring a smoke-gray foal nuzzling his mother. Her coat was a pure, unbroken white. So, this was a Lipizzan mare. “Hello, girl.” She spoke softly. “What a pretty baby you have.”

  The mare’s ears twitched. She approached the rail and nickered softly.

  Whitney reached in and massaged her forehead. How different these horses were compared to the touchy hot-bloods she was familiar with. Only her dad and the vet could come within ten feet of a mare who’d recently given birth.

  She looked around. Already the activity around the stalls was fairly heavy. Women, and a few men, in breeches, expensive boots and helmets were saddling horses and riding toward the training rings. Inhaling the familiar smells of hay, mash and horse dung, Whitney walked down the aisles of the first two barns without encountering any questions or unusual looks. Maybe it was normal for strange women to walk through the Mendozas’ stables. In Kentucky, strangers did not have access to the training yards or the barns.

  The third barn was something different entirely. Horses of the purest white filled the pristine stalls. Whitney caught her breath. Here were the famous Siglavy Lipizzaners bred of the stallion, Protocol. She’d done her research. These were horses worth millions of dollars, but more than that, they had a history of their own. They were the aristocrats, the royalty, the light and nimble dancers, aerialists of the equestrian world. Their distant ancestors from the Orient bore Genghis Khan out of the wastes of Asia to conquer much of the then- known world.

  A small, dark-skinned man wearing a baseball cap came up behind her. “May I help you, señorita?”

  “I’m Whitney Benedict. I’m staying with the Mendozas.”

  He nodded. “I’m Alejandro. So, what do you think of our Lipizzaners?”

  “They’re incredible. Where are the stallions?”

  “On the other side of the property. I’ll show you.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “First, we’ll stop at the office. Maybe Gabe isn’t busy. He’s a much better tour guide than I am.”

  They found Gabriel on the phone. He waved them into two chairs in front of his desk while he ended his conversation.

  “Finished already?” he asked.

  “I haven’t really started yet,” Whitney replied.

  “Miss Benedict would like to see the white stallions,” Alejandro explained.

  Gabe grinned. “I’ll be happy to show her. Let me straighten out a few things first. Alejandro can direct you. I’ll join you in about ten minutes.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” she said warmly, “but I don’t want to keep either one of you from your work.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” Alejandro assured her. He held out his arm. “Shall we?”

  He led her out of the office toward the stud barn, pointing out various landmarks in the distance.

  “How did you get into the horse business?” Whitney asked.

  He chuckled. “I was born on horseback. My father was a vaquero on the estate of the descendants of the last Mexican governor, Pio Pico. He had me in the saddle before I could walk. I’ve never done anything else.”

  “I don’t know much about California history,” Whitney admitted, “but surely the last time California had a Mexican governor was over a hundred years ago.”

  His eyes twinkled. “I’m older than I look, Miss Benedict.”

  “Whitney,” she said automatically. “Please, call me Whitney. You can’t be that old.”

  “The descendants of the early dons are sprinkled throughout Alta California. They’ve lost much of their land, but not their skills. I was apprenticed on their land.” He ushered her into another meticulously kept barn. “Here are the masters, the heirs of the infamous Protocol.”

  “Did you know him?”

  Alejandro nodded. “I was a boy when Franz hired me, but never has a horse left such an impression with me. These are magnificent animals, but none are like Protocol.”

  Gabriel spoke from behind them. “Don’t tell her that. She’ll tell her client and Austria will withdraw the offer.”

  Whitney turned. “Have you decided to sell?”

  Gabe nodded at Alejandro. “I’ll take it from here.”

  The groom touched the bill of his hat. “It’s been a pleasure, señorita. Enjoy your tour.”

  “I will. Thank you.” She waited until he left the barn. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, Gabriel.”

  “You didn’t, but I would like my family to be the first to know.”

  “I understand.” She gestured toward the muscular stallion in the first stall. “He’s an albino, isn’t he?”

  “Right. They’re rare, even among Lipizzaners. His name is Macbeth. So far, he hasn’t sired any like him.

  White foals are rare among Lipizzaners. Usually they’re born black and change slowly through a period of six to ten years, eventually reaching their pure white color. We call the white ones grays. In the days of the Hapsburgs, white foals were chosen to draw the royal equipages. Macbeth, here, was always white with blue eyes. Every one of his foals has been coal black.”

  “He’s gorgeous.”

  “I think so.”

  “What about the other two?”

  Gabe walked beside her to the next stall, where another massive stallion stood with his nose in a feeding pail. His eyes were liquid black, and when he lifted his head, Whitney saw the smoke-gray color of his nostrils. He snorted and began pacing back and forth in his limited space.

  “This is Othello,” Gabriel explained. “He’s the most sensitive of the three. One of the grooms usually turns him out if I can’t get to him. Eric helps me with the others, but he’s not up to Othello yet. His temperament requires careful handling.”

  “And the last one?”

  “I’ll show you.” He led her to the end of the bam where a powerful stallion stood, head erect, ears pricked, tail high. “This is Romeo. We’re standing him to stud today. He’s our best breeder.”

  “They’re mostly Shakespearean names. Why is that?”

  Gabriel shrugged. “No reason, other than I appreciate the classics.”

  “Really?” Whitney couldn’t imagine her father appreciating any such thing.

&nbs
p; “Does that surprise you?”

  “Yes,” she said honestly. “I’m curious. How does a man who reads Shakespeare end up in this line of work?”

  “People don’t always end up working in their fields of study.”

  “Was English your field of study?”

  “Yes.”

  Surely she’d misunderstood him. “You have a degree in English?”

  “Yes.”

  She stepped back to study him. “You’re more than meets the eye, Gabriel.”

  “Are you suggesting that in the horse business in Kentucky, no one has a degree in the humanities?”

  “I can’t think of any right offhand, certainly no one who works in the barns.”

  “Do your parents work the barns?”

  “My father does.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Only when absolutely necessary, but neither has a degree in English. For that matter, they aren’t even college graduates. My mother didn’t finish and Daddy never started.”

  Gabriel frowned. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

  “I’m interested in what makes you tick.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Why do you think?”

  He shook his head and chuckled. “You never give a man a straight answer, do you? You know, you have a great deal in common with my mother.”

  “I’m taking that as the highest compliment.”

  He laughed. “Was it my imagination or did you volunteer to help out this morning?”

  “You didn’t imagine it. I’m ready.”

  “Good girl.” They walked into another barn. “You can start here with Intrigue. Wrap her legs and then move on to Top Gun next door. They’re showing today, but not till later.” He checked out her clothing approvingly. “If you’re up for riding, I have a few that need exercise. You’ll have to use the farthest ring because contestants will be taking up the others. Has it been a long time since you’ve been on a horse?”

  “Not too long. My father usually gets me up on one when I go home.”

  “Good for him. I won’t worry about you. There are saddles in the tack rooms. Use any that are marked with an M.”

  Whitney watched him walk away. Then she turned her attention to the horse. Intrigue was a classic Andalusian, a gray with dark markings around the eyes and nostrils. Her forehead was smooth, her eyes widely set and intelligent, and her temperament gentle. Before even attempting her task, Whitney spent a good ten minutes speaking softly, clucking and rubbing her forehead, sides and legs. When she was certain the horse was comfortable, she pulled up a stool and began to unwind cotton from the skein. Beginning with the front legs, she worked quickly and competently, her fingers finding their rhythm in a task she’d done more times than she could count.

  She repeated the routine with Top Gun, a gelding. After rubbing the animal’s forehead, she latched the stall. The sun had burned off the morning chill. It was almost too warm. She hung her jacket on a peg in the tack room and went in search of Alejandro.

  While she worked, the lot had filled with silver trailers. Men and women in breeches, boots, dark jackets, top hats and gloves milled around the stalls. Most were silent, concentrating on the events to come. Whitney remembered the nail-biting, preperformance twitchiness, the mental exercises and rehearsals that came before a show, and breathed a sigh of relief, grateful it was no longer a part of her life. High school track and swim meets were one thing, controlling a thousand-pound animal was another.

  Outside the main traffic areas, she slowed her pace. The weather was incredible. She lifted her face and felt the sun warm her skin. A slight, dry wind rustled the grass and a minty, herbal smell wafted from the eucalyptus trees. The deep blue of the heat-stunned, cloudless sky relaxed her. It was like summer in Kentucky, without the humidity and the clouds of black flies that hovered around swimming holes, walking paths and bass streams, waiting to attack unprotected skin. She could see why residents of California looked beyond their crowds and freeways.

  She found herself in front of the exercise ring. A young girl, no more than twelve, was riding a medium bay. Whitney could see that her mount was trying his best to correct his stride, but his weight was on his forehand because of his young rider’s flawed seat. She would lose points if her error wasn’t brought to her attention.

  Whitney ducked under the fence. “Pull him in,” she ordered.

  The rider, responding to the authoritative voice, slowed the horse to a stop.

  Whitney approached the pair, reaching out to grip the bridle. “You’re not sitting deep enough in the saddle. Pull up the reins and straighten your back. You have to feel the leather on both sides of your bottom.”

  The child’s dark eyes widened. Her face looked pinched and pale.

  “Are you all right?” Whitney asked.

  She nodded. “Just a little nervous. I’m up in fifteen minutes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Debbie Arnold.”

  “Do you know how to do what I asked you?”

  She nodded. “I think so.”

  Whitney took another long look at the little girl. “I’ll tell you what,” she said gently. “I’ll cross your stirrups and you try to balance without them. It’s all in the balance. How about it?”

  “Will it work?”

  “Every time,” Whitney promised.

  The child smiled shyly and slipped her feet out of the stirrups. “Okay.”

  Whitney flipped the stirrups back out of the way. “Now, give it a try.”

  Debbie clucked lightly and the horse moved forward. Instinctively, the little girl straightened, tucking in her seat and throwing back her shoulders. Like magic, the horse’s stride changed. He moved into position and found his rhythm.

  Whitney nodded approvingly as Debbie gained confidence and put her horse through his paces, walking, trotting, cantering. Finally, she pulled up and reached down to pat the animal’s neck. Her cheeks glowed. “I did it. He’s doing everything right, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Thank you so much. Are you a trainer?”

  Whitney laughed. “I’m a lawyer. But I know something about horses. Good luck with your event.”

  “I’m okay with it now. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She turned to follow Debbie and her horse out of the gate.

  Gabriel leaned against the fence, watching. He’d taken off his jacket and his shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow. Dark glasses hid his eyes. He nodded at Debbie and waited for Whitney to reach the gate.

  “Nice job,” he said. “You have good instincts.”

  “Thanks. It was easy enough to correct.”

  “Maybe so, but her trainer didn’t think of it.”

  Whitney touched the part on her head. It was tender. She pulled the elastic from her ponytail and shook out her hair. “I’m getting sunburned.”

  Gabe studied her. “You’re changing the subject.”

  “I thought we were finished with it.”

  “Why does it make you uncomfortable when people compliment you for having a talent with horses?”

  “Does it seem that way?”

  “I’m sure you’re a very good lawyer.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because of the noncommittal way you answer questions when you don’t want to disagree.”

  “That sounds like a politician more than a lawyer.”

  “You did it again.”

  She turned on him, facing him squarely. A muscle flickered at the corner of her mouth. Her voice was low and controlled. “What is it that you want me to admit, Gabriel?”

  He looked at her for a long minute. “You’re unusual, Whitney Benedict,” he said softly. “I apologize if I’ve offended you.”

  The tension in her shoulders eased. She drew a long breath. “No offense taken,” she replied.

  Ten

  Gabriel clawed himself out of the thick foggy sleep that weighed hi
m down, pressing him into the comforting warmth of the mattress. Beneath closed lids, his eyes burned with fatigue and his throat felt raw and scraped, as if he’d swallowed a ball of steel wool. It was always this way after a show, exhaustion coupled with aching limbs.

  God, what was that sound? It couldn’t be the alarm. Not more than an hour had passed since his head hit the pillow.

  Once again the piercing ring assaulted him. It was the phone, not the alarm. He blinked, forcing his eyes open. The digital clock read 3:00 a.m. Groggily, he reached for the receiver, fumbling in the dark bedroom, hoping it wouldn’t wake the kids. “Hello,” he said tersely.

  “Gabriel, it’s Lynne.”

  Her voice, like a shot of adrenaline, cleared his cobwebs instantly. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Emma. The police have her at the Ventura station. They called me. She was driving without a license. The policewoman said she’d been drinking.”

  Gabe was already shrugging into his shirt and jeans. “I’ll be there right away.”

  “I won’t have this, Gabriel. The girl is out of control. What is she doing out at this time of the morning?”

  “We’ll discuss it later.”

  “Gabriel—”

  He hung up and turned on the light. It blinded him. Hesitating for a minute, he stumbled across the room to his closet, found his Nikes, grabbed a jacket and ran downstairs in his bare feet. “Damn you, Emma,” he cursed softly. “Damn your spoiled little ass.”

  Inside the truck, his hands shook as he slid the key into the ignition and turned it over. Nothing. Again he tried turning the key, flicking his wrist back and forth several times. The familiar, empty click signaling a dead battery was the only sound in the cold cab.

  Rage and fear warred in his chest. He rested his head on the steering wheel. Emma was in police custody. Emma with her flirty smile and her smoke-rimmed Madonna blue eyes and her indecently cut jeans. Christ. She must be terrified. Once again, Gabriel tried the engine, willing it into life. Still nothing.

  He was still barefoot. The simple act of putting on his shoes, pulling back the tongue, sliding his feet in and tying the laces steadied him. All right. His battery was dead. He could wake his mother and take her car, but he wasn’t up to his mother tonight. He glanced at the white Impala parked beside him and made up his mind.