by Kit Ehrman
"Isn't that warm?"
"A little."
I made a face, parked my soda on one of the picnic tables, and sat down. The clip-clop of horseshoes echoed off the barn siding, and a mild breeze rustled the canvas above our heads. I took a swig of Coke and rested my elbows on the table. The day had been a long one, just a taste of what lay ahead with the show season right around the corner.
I looked up in time to see one of the new boarders walk past on her way to the barn. Her name was Rachel, and she'd hauled her horse in two weeks earlier. Since she rode in the evenings, I'd been staying at work later and later with each passing day. She looked in our direction and waved. I waved back. Marty, ever observant, took it in.
After she walked out of sight beyond the corner of the barn, he said, "Holy shit. You're alive after all."
"What are you talking about?"
"I was beginning to worry about you Steve, ol' buddy, ol' pal. Is that the new boarder?"
"Yeah."
"How comes I haven't seen her 'til now?"
"She comes in after you leave." I grinned. "She must of heard about you."
He chuckled and, as if proving my point, said, "Man, oh, man. That's the best part of this job. More girls here than flies on shit. Girls and their horses. And the way they move their hips when they're riding, wearin' those tight britches like they do. Man, it's enough to make a guy crazy. What's her name?"
"Rachel."
"She's got a great ass. Must have somethin' to do with all that ridin'. Bet she's good in--" Marty looked at my face, correctly read my expression, and rephrased his statement, "eh . . . a lot of fun. Fun to be with, I mean." He sat on the edge of the table. "I was wondering when you were gonna wake up? You gonna ask her out? After that girl of yours, what's her name . . . Melanie . . ."
"Melissa."
"You haven't gone out since she dumped you, have you? I get dumped all the time. Matter of fact, Jessica dumped my ass the other night. But I don't let it stop me. There's always a honey out there somewhere. You shouldn't let it get to you. I don't."
I fingered my Coke can. "Sorry about Jessica."
Marty shrugged it off.
"And you're wrong," I said. "I didn't let it get to--"
"Yeah, Steve. Right. Anything you say. But I know you."
I picked up my Coke and smeared the ring of wetness across the varnished wood. As much as I hated to admit it, Marty was right. I'd been devastated, though I'd pretended otherwise. Almost believed it. But what really bothered me was that I'd gotten it so wrong. I wasn't going to let that happen again, and yet, here I was, crashing headlong into those old, overwhelming feelings. At least Rachel wasn't attracted to me because she thought I was loaded, like Melissa had been. Being poor had its advantages.
"So. You gonna ask her out, 'cause if you aren't--"
"We already have."
"Have what?"
"Gone out. Three times, in fact." I grinned at him.
"You're shittin' me?"
I shook my head.
"Well, fuck me." He jumped off the table, extended his arms toward me, and wiggled his fingers. "He no longer slumbers," he said with what he hoped was a spooky-scary voice. "He's--"
I threw my empty Coke can at him.
With the party clearly on everyone's mind, the crew wrapped up the day's work in record time. I drove home, shaved and showered, brushed my teeth, then struggled over what to wear. I decided on a striped Oxford that I'd always liked, pulled on a reasonably new pair of jeans, and found a pair of clean socks that actually matched. The nights were still chilly, so I topped everything off with my old leather jacket.
I went back into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My hair was too long. The warmer the weather, the shorter I kept it, and it wasn't behaving. I combed it again, without effect, then leaned over the sink and squinted at the scars on my face. Even though they'd faded since my stay in the hospital, they were still depressingly noticeable.
I thought about Rachel, combed my hair one last time, and grinned at my reflection.
Damn, you're a fool to be liking her so much so soon.
At Foxdale, cars and pickups and even a motorcycle or two were jammed into every conceivable space. I parked on the grass shoulder close to the road and, with an almost forgotten feeling of lightheartedness, walked down the lane and joined the party. The last trace of daylight had seeped from the sky, and the Christmas lights Mrs. Hill had strung in the dogwood saplings beyond the indoor twinkled in the gentle breeze. The sound system was impressive, and the food smelled great. I looked for Rachel. When I couldn't find her, I loaded a plate down with barbecued chicken and steamed shrimp, grabbed an ice-cold Coke, and sat on the grass.
I was thinking about seconds when the crowd shifted. Mrs. Hill was standing under the canopy, talking to a distinguished-looking man with gray hair and a salt-and-pepper mustache. He was wearing an expertly-cut three-piece suit that went a long way toward disguising his bulging middle-aged gut. He bent forward, cupped his hands around the end of his cigar, and struggled to keep his lighter from going out in the breeze. I watched his cheeks work as he puffed on the stogie and idly thought that he shouldn't be smoking so close to the barn. Someone stepped in front of me, blocking my line of sight.
"Hello there." Rachel crossed her arms and grinned down at me. "I was wondering if you were going to show."
I stood up. "Wouldn't have missed it." I ran my fingertips along the corners of my mouth and hoped I didn't have any barbecue sauce on my face.
When she looked over her shoulder and checked out the crowd, I put the opportunity to good use. She'd ridden earlier, so I was surprised to see that she'd changed her clothes. She was wearing a soft-looking sweater and a pair of jeans that were snug enough to get my pulse racing. Her hair was no longer confined in a ponytail and hung well past her shoulders. I wouldn't have minded running my fingers through it. Wouldn't have minded kissing her, either.
She tilted her head back and gazed at the night sky. The line of her neck was immediately stimulating. Long, taught lines. Creamy smooth skin. Form and function blended in such a way that could only be viewed as sexual by an adult male.
"It's turned out to be a nice evening, hasn't it?" she said.
I imagined what it would be like to slide my hand into that sweater of hers. "Um-hum."
"I can't believe how many stars you can see out here. It's beautiful." When I didn't respond, she turned to look at me, and I thought it was a damn good thing she couldn't read my mind.
"Um-hum, beautiful," I mumbled.
She looked at me strangely, and I figured she wouldn't need to be a mind-reader if I kept acting like an idiot.
I cleared my throat. "Have you eaten?"
She nodded. "The food's delicious. How often does Foxdale have these parties?"
"Several times a year. The next one'll be in June, at the start of the four-day A-rated show. Then there's a Halloween party for boarders and students. That one's a blast. It's held in conjunction with a fun-day horse show for the kids. They wear costumes and compete in silly games. Then there's the Christmas party. The boarders' committee plans and organizes that one."
"Very impressive. It must be a lot of work for you."
"Yeah, but it's fun." I ran my fingers through my hair.
We were standing close, the goings-on around us oblivious, at least, to me. Mrs. Hill chose that moment to walk over and say hello. I didn't hear her at first.
". . . Stephen?"
I turned around. "Mrs. Hill?"
"Stephen . . . this is Mr. Ambrose. Mr. Ambrose," she said with a look of amusement in her eyes that I think only I noticed, "Stephen Cline."
Wow. The man himself, and after all this time.
"Hello, Stephen." Ambrose held out his hand, and I shook it. "I've heard a great deal about you from Mrs. Hill. According to her, you're the driving force behind Foxdale's recent success. Well done, young man."
"Eh . . . thank you, sir."
He took a puff
from his cigar and uninhibitedly looked me up and down. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-one, sir."
He grunted. "I don't mind telling you I'm pleased with how the farm is prospering just now. When my wife decided to have it built, I thought it a foolish idea. I continued to think so for a long time, but when she passed away, I held onto it in honor of her memory. Now, it is no longer a burden but an enterprise I don't mind having my name connected with."
I glanced at Mrs. Hill and wished I hadn't. She was grinning at me with what I could only read as motherly pride.
"Well done, young man." Ambrose clapped me on the shoulder.
"Thank you, sir."
He gave me a curt nod, glanced at Rachel, then put his hand on Mrs. Hill's shoulder and steered her toward the parking lot. I heard his voice clearly over the crowd. "Imagine, losing a tax write-off because of a twenty-one-year-old kid."
Chapter 9
When I looked back at Rachel, I realized I'd forgotten to introduce her. I apologized.
"That's all right." Her eyes twinkled with humor. "You were too busy being run over."
I snagged one of the servers, got a beer for myself and wine for Rachel--served in a plastic cup, nonetheless--and said, hoping it didn't sound idiotic, "To the future."
"To the future." She hesitated before taking a sip. The Christmas lights reflected in her dark eyes, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, the future would be an improvement over the past.
We carried our drinks into the barn and checked out the inhabitants. I stopped at the second stall on the right. "This is Jake, one of my favorites."
Rachel grasped one of the bars on the stall door, and the gelding tentatively stretched his neck and nuzzled her fingers with his velvety black nose.
"Yep," I said. "He's as sweet and as docile as a lamb, but boy, can he jump. Jumps like a jackrabbit."
We drifted down one side of the aisle and up the other. Kids were running and squealing in the aisle across the way, turning the barn into a playground. Most of the horses were eating their hay, some were dozing, none seemed disturbed by the activity. When I was satisfied that they were fine with all the commotion, we crossed over to barn B and eventually stopped at her horse's stall. The gelding tilted his head to the side, the way they do when they think they're going to be fed, and tried his damnedest to look cute.
"You're embarrassing. You know that?" Rachel stretched her fingers between the bars and rubbed his nose. He pulled back in annoyance.
Just then, Marty, obviously a shade drunk, strolled into the barn with his arm slung around the shoulders of a tall blonde and a beer dangling from his hand. I had never seen her before, but I wasn't surprised. With Marty's dark good looks and outgoing personality, he was never alone for long. They came to an abrupt halt in front of us. The blonde swayed from the unexpected maneuver. I glanced at my drink and wondered if I'd be driving them home.
"So-o-o, there you are," Marty slurred. "Was wonderin' where you'd got to. Steve, this is Angie." He paused, and I noticed a mischievous glint in his eyes as he added, "Jessica's sister." He gestured with his hand and beer sloshed down his fingers. "Angie, Steve."
So Marty's new honey was his ex's sister. Damn, he didn't worry about anything. I tried to keep a straight face. "Nice to meet you."
Angie pushed a handful of bleached-blond hair out of her eyes and mumbled something indistinct. She was heavy into jewelry and makeup--unappealing to my eyes--but Marty never sweated the details. His only concern, as he frequently lectured me, was the main course. And actually, the main course looked pretty good. She was built a lot like her sister.
Marty gulped some beer, then licked his lips. "Yep, ol' Steve here's the main man. Our hero. Defender of horses everywhere. Yep. Got the crap--"
"Marty!" I cut him off. "Marty, this is Rachel . . . Rachel, Marty. He works here, too."
Marty looked her up and down with evident approval and swayed when he leaned forward to shake her hand. "Nice to meet you." He looked past her and winked at me.
I sighed inwardly. Marty, sober, was not the epitome of tact. Plastered, he was much worse. Pulling his girl along with him, he stepped over to me and hooked his free arm across my shoulders.
"Rachel," he said, "take good care of this guy. I'm happy to see there's life in him after all." He squeezed my shoulder, then let his arm drop to his side. "Come on, Ange." He guided her toward the exit. "See ya later," he yelled over his shoulder.
I leaned back against the stall door, thinking that Marty could be so embarrassing when Rachel said, "What was he going to say when you interrupted him?"
The overhead lights shone like silver in her dark hair. "What?"
"What did he mean by 'defender of horses?'"
Damn Marty and his big mouth. "Nothing," I mumbled. "It's just something silly he likes to say."
She frowned.
Rachel, I saw, was not a girl to put up with evasion. I wondered what I should tell her. If I should tell.
I sighed. "In February . . . some guys stole seven horses from the farm. I ran into them. That's what he was talking about." And damn him.
"Is that what happened to your face?" she said.
"Yes." It came out a whisper.
"It must have been horrible."
"It's history. No big deal." My voice sounded convincing enough, and it was over and done with, but not in the middle of the night. Not in my dreams. Annoyingly, I still dreamt about it. Dreamt about him. And in those dreams he was disturbingly real.
"You're strong," she said softly.
I snorted. If she only knew. There was compassion in her eyes, I thought, and understanding. We were standing close. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her against me.
As I'd been ignoring Foxdale's policy of non-fraternization with the boarders, a policy no one paid attention to anyway, I said, "I know you get up early, but would you like to go to dinner and the movies" . . . and bed . . . "Thursday evening?"
She looked at my face, her dark eyes serious. "Sure."
I kissed her on the lips and thought the evening couldn't get any better.
We walked back outside to the party, or what was left of it. The caterer's wagon had been locked up tight, and many of the guests had gone home. As we crossed the grass, I heard someone shouting above the music. His back was toward us, his muscles rigid with tension, and he was flailing his arms. I groaned when I saw his target.
Of all people, he had to be arguing with Mr. Sanders, who was so anxious to get away from the guy, he was practically squirming. His face was red from embarrassment or anger. I couldn't tell which. It hadn't taken him long to replace Steel, though I imagined the twenty-thousand dollar insurance claim had helped considerably. A week after the theft, he'd purchased a large blood-bay hunter with an ugly head and surly disposition. The new horse didn't take well to mistakes or roughness from his rider and was teaching Sanders a thing or two about finesse and tact, having bucked him off whenever Sander's aids weren't precise.
I asked Rachel to stay where she was, then walked down the alleyway between the barn and canopy. The troublemaker was waving a beer bottle in the air and shouting increasingly vulgar obscenities. Sanders backed up, reminding me of a horse ready to bolt.
I stepped closer. "Excuse me."
The troublemaker wheeled around and lurched sideways. "What the fuck do you want?"
I was surprised because I knew him. He drove Harrison's hay truck more often than not, and he hadn't been invited to the party. I thought about the bale he'd slammed into my back and wondered what his problem was.
"You'll have to leave," I said.
In a low, menacing voice, he said, "Make me, you little boot-licking, cock-sucking, creepy bastard."
Conscious of the attention we were attracting, I stood very still, knowing full well that my lack of reaction was pissing him off.
I should have seen it coming . . . stupid, really, that I didn't. I had started to turn, to make sure Rachel hadn't followed, when he punched
me in the face. I crashed backward against the barn siding. I was still scrambling to get my footing when he swung the beer bottle at my head.
I ducked it . . . just. The bottle exploded against the ridged metal siding, inches above my head.
He now held in his hand a jagged, lethal-looking piece of glass which he held close to my face.
I didn't move . . . didn't dare.
He couldn't be stupid enough to use it in front of all these people, could he? But he was drunk. "Drunk and disorderly" came to mind as I looked in his eyes. Nothing reassuring there. Nothing at all.
I couldn't think of a way out. I was afraid to move. Was sure he'd use it if I did.
"Hey!" a loud voice boomed. Marty.
The driver looked at Marty. I didn't. When his gaze was off me, I hit his arm hard. The glass flew out of his hand and bounced across the grass.
He spun back around. His eyes had the glazed-over look of the truly inebriated and were wild with hate. An ugly vein that ran across his temple had become distended and throbbed visibly. I rammed my fist into his ear with a fierceness that surprised me. He yelped and cupped his hand over his ear.
I tackled him, and we crashed into a picnic table. He hit the wooden edge hard. The momentum carried us across the top, scattering paper plates and half-filled cups.
When we landed on the grass, I got to my knees fast and rolled him onto his back. I straddled him and slammed my fist into his face. My knuckles connected solidly with his nose, and I felt the cartilage give. I got in two more swings before he got his arms up and covered his face. I punched him in the solar plexus, then swung my arm back for another go.
Someone grabbed my wrist and hauled me to my feet. I whirled around.
"Jesus Christ," Marty yelled. "What's the matter with you?" He glanced down at the driver, who was rolling over onto his hands and knees, and pulled me across the grass. "What'n the hell do you think you're doin'?"
"Get off me." I yanked my arm free and spun around. The driver was staggering between a table and half-empty tub of soda on his way to the parking lot. I started after him.