The air went out of Donald as if he were a balloon that someone had untied. “Thank God.” He hadn’t realized how much of his anger had been fear until that very moment.
Tom had been crying. Donald could tell from the red-rimmed lids and the bleak look behind those gray eyes. A new fear struck him. “He’s not going to be paralyzed or lose a limb, is he?”
A curious expression crossed Tom’s face. Donald was very good at reading people, but he didn’t have time to process it before Tom continued. “No. A concussion, a broken collarbone, and some cracked ribs. They’re concerned about possible head trauma, so they’re going to do a CT scan just to make sure everything’s okay. But I think that’s just a precautionary measure.”
The relief that washed through Donald left him feeling giddy and ill. Jake would be okay. His boy would be okay.
That didn’t explain why Tom looked so shattered.
“What about the others?” Donald asked. He was going to have to call his PR department. They needed to prepare a statement.
“Mick died at the scene.” Grief etched new lines in Tom’s weather-beaten face.
“Oh no.” Even though he’d feared the worst when it came to Jake, he was stunned by this news. Anticipation and confirmation were two different beasts. Mick had worked at the farm for at least ten years, doing everything from fence repair to bailing hay and driving the rigs. And while Donald didn’t exactly feel grief, he did feel loss.
“Rich is in pretty bad shape. They haven’t finished assessing him, and they weren’t going to tell me anything, but he signed some papers so the doctors could tell me what was going on. He has a broken femur, a shattered ankle, and probably a broken pelvis too. Internal bleeding is a big concern.”
Donald pressed his lips shut to avoid saying something regrettable. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about Evans. In fact, if anyone had to die in this accident, it was a pity it hadn’t been Richard Evans. It would have saved him and Jake a lot of trouble.
“That doesn’t sound good for his chances to come back as a competitive rider.”
“No.” There was a hint of dryness to Tom’s tone, as though he knew what Donald was thinking. Was it so very wrong of him to want Rich Evans out of his son’s life? From the standpoint of the boy’s background alone, he was an undesirable friend. But after seeing the two of them together a few weeks ago, something in their body language made him hire a private detective to follow them. His worst fears had been confirmed. The photographs the PI had taken sickened and disgusted him.
This accident was a wake-up call. God’s way of punishing Jake for unnatural acts while allowing him to repent of his sins. Donald wasn’t exactly a religious man, but it felt like Jake was being given a second chance here. If only he could be convinced to take it.
“The important thing,” Donald said coolly, “is that Jake is going to be all right. We can’t let anything get between him and his competition future, right?”
A muscle twitched in Tom’s jaw, and anger bloomed in his eyes. Though his gingery hair was starting to develop silver threads, Donald knew Tom was in excellent shape for a man in his fifties. Life as a horse trainer had meant Tom was more physically fit than Donald himself, despite lunchtime squash matches and running on the treadmill. And for a breath-catching moment, Donald Stanford thought his longtime employee was going to punch him.
But he didn’t. Donald could see the effort it took for Tom to tamp down his temper in the way his lips thinned almost to invisibility and his nostrils flared. He was obviously biting back words he might regret later. Instead, Tom said, “No, sir.”
It might have been his imagination, but Donald thought there was just a little too much emphasis on the word sir.
“What happened?” Donald asked, changing the subject.
“The working students and I were following the rig in my car, the way we normally do. It had been a good day.” Tom smiled briefly, obviously remembering something, and jealousy flared for a hot, murderous instant in Donald’s heart. First Darcy and now Jake. Both of them had spent more time with this horse trainer and those dratted beasts than they’d ever spent with him. Though to be fair, he was afraid of the horses and allergic to hay. Not to mention, running a multimillion dollar empire took a great deal of time and energy. Still, Tom was who Jake looked to for approval. It was Tom who’d practically raised the boy, leaving Donald to pick up the tab.
Tom didn’t seem to notice the clenching of Donald’s hands. “A driver in the other lane veered in front of the truck. Mick tried to pull the rig onto the verge, but the car struck the driver’s side head-on. The rig jackknifed and the trailer flipped on its side. Jake was in the passenger’s seat, which is probably what protected him somewhat. Rich was in the back of the truck’s cab, which collapsed when the trailer turned, pinning him in his seat. They had to cut him out.”
Donald realized that Mick’s split-second decision to try to pull off the road out of the way of the reckless driver had probably saved Jake’s life. Bile burned the back of his throat, and he swallowed hard. “What about the horses?”
Tom’s expression went curiously lifeless, the color and animation receding from his features. “Goldie was dead on impact. PJ had to be euthanized inside the trailer. The Moose and Scotty have been shipped to the Equine Medical Center in Leesburg, but the initial word on Scotty isn’t good either.”
It took Donald a moment to connect the barn names with the show names. Scotty had to be Scotland Yard, Jake’s second-string horse. Goldie was self-explanatory as well, being Gold Star, the horse Evans had been riding. He didn’t recognize the name Moose and figured it was a new acquisition. Which meant…. “Cloud Dancer is dead?”
Tom nodded, and the skin around his eyes tightened, as though he was holding back his pain through sheer willpower alone.
Donald digested this bit of news. The horses were insured, of course. Any competition horse of that value was. But he had no idea how this would affect Jake’s chances of going to Beijing. “Will Jake be well enough to compete in the Games this summer?”
“Compete in the Games?” Tom gaped at him as though he’d just said the most stupid thing in the world. “Your son’s been in a serious accident. One of his competition horses is dead; the other might well have to be put down before the night is out. Mick is dead. Rich may be crippled for life. You want to know about the Games?”
Donald waved off these minor concern. His irritation with Tom was mounting. “Horses can be replaced.” Trainers too, if it came down to it. Even ones as good as Tom Banks.
Tom pulled his head back and his nostrils flared again, making him look exactly like one of his beloved horses. “Mr. Stanford, horses of Olympic caliber don’t come along every day. You can’t just swap them out like spare parts on a car.”
“I see,” Donald said, but that didn’t seem to mollify Tom.
In a voice tight with fury, Tom said, “Jake didn’t qualify for the Olympics alone. He and Puddle Jumper were a team.”
“I get it, Banks,” Donald snapped. Jake’s bid for Olympic gold was over, at least for the next four years. If, after this horrific experience, his boy still wanted to ride, Donald could buy him another horse. Hell, Jake was young. He could do anything he wanted. He had his whole future ahead of him.
As long as that future didn’t include Rich Evans. Of that, he was certain.
He’d been planning to tackle Jake about it this weekend. Show him the pictures. Make it clear that if Jake expected Donald to continue financing his riding career, he would have to give up this juvenile infatuation with that deviant and end the relationship once and for all. Now was not the right time, however. If he came down hard on Jake now, with both of them injured and any hopes for Olympic glory dashed, Jake might well choose Rich, thinking it was the noble and romantic thing to do.
Perhaps he should let Jake make his own decision. Surely if he took off to be with Rich, the disparity between their situations would make short work of the relationship, killing it
more effectively than if Donald simply forbade it.
On the other hand, by that time, not only would Jake’s Olympic career probably be over for good, but he might well get sucked into other disagreeable relationships. No, Donald’s instincts were right. He needed to stop this now. Somehow.
In the meantime, he had other concerns.
“I’ve got things covered here now,” he said smoothly, ignoring the way Tom stiffened as though he’d been mortally offended. “You should go see about the horses.”
Tom stood there unmoving, and Donald noted with interest that it was Tom’s turn to clench his fists. As tempting as it was to dismiss Tom out of hand—he was, after all, still just an employee—Donald knew he really cared about Jake. Even though the two of them didn’t see eye to eye about what was best for Jake, Tom’s obvious commitment to the boy had been a major factor in why he was still at Foxden. Well, that and he was one of the best eventing trainers in the country.
Still, it had been a hard night for everyone. Donald let his voice soften. “You know it’s for the best, Tom.” He squeezed the other man’s shoulder briefly. “I’m useless when it comes to the horses, and there’s no one I trust more than you when it comes to making decisions about their well-being. Don’t worry about getting in touch with me if something needs to be done or a decision needs to be made—just do it. Meanwhile, I’ll stay here and see to Jake. I’ll call you if anything changes.”
It took just a second longer for Tom to thaw, but he finally relaxed and nodded. “I’m sure Jake will be just fine, sir. He never lost consciousness, and he was lucid and attempting to help the others, despite his own injuries, when I got out of the car.”
A fierce burst of pride blossomed in Donald’s chest. That was his boy. Lionhearted. “Thank you,” he said, sincerely.
Tom shifted, looking uncomfortable for a moment. “I called Rich’s mother. Didn’t get an answer. I left a message on her machine.”
Donald had long practice in maintaining a neutral expression in the face of unwelcome news. It had served him well in the boardroom, and it didn’t fail him now. “I’ll deal with her if she bothers to show up.”
Tom hesitated, as though he might have said more, but his shoulders slumped, and Donald recognized that he’d won this round. “Very good, sir.”
He watched as Tom walked away without another word. Donald turned back to the nurses’ station again and placed both hands on the counter. “I want to see my son now.”
The tight-lipped nurse walked him to room 646. An old man in the first bed lay with his eyes closed and his mouth open, an oxygen cannula stuffed up his nose. On the other side of the curtain, Donald heard the low murmur of voices. He stepped around the curtain to see another nurse and an orderly, each on either side of Jake’s bed.
A small overhead light shined down on his head, highlighting the tousled, black hair that had been Darcy’s legacy. Jake’s eyes were closed and his skin ghost-white, paler than Donald could ever remember. His features still looked unformed, immature, even at twenty. And yet Donald could see the handsomeness that was to come, when Jake finally grew into his promise. At that moment, however, he was still Donald’s little boy, and his breath caught at his son’s stillness.
“Is he okay?” The words blurted out before he could stop them. The staff attending Jake looked up, but it was the nurse that spoke.
“We’ve given him something for the pain, and we’re taking him for a CT scan now. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until he gets back to see him.”
“I’ll wait here,” Donald said, determined to stake a claim before someone tried to throw him out.
The nurse who had escorted him to the room left him there. He sensed she’d exchanged glances with the people attending Jake, a private indication of his likelihood of being a pain in the ass, no doubt. He didn’t care. All that mattered was Jake. The nurse and orderly attending Jake expertly shifted him to a gurney and strapped him in. Donald pressed back against the wall to make room for them to pass, but as the gurney came abreast of him, Jake opened his eyes.
“Dad.” He reached for Donald, only to gasp with the abortive gesture.
“It’s all right, son.” Jake never called him dad.
“Now, now, Mr. Stanford. You just rest easy,” the nurse said. “We’re taking you down to radiology. You can talk to your father when you get back.”
“Just a sec, please.”
It would have taken a heart of steel to refuse Jake’s request, especially when he lifted the hand with the catheter attached a bare millimeter in supplication.
The orderly stopped pushing the gurney so the two of them could speak. Donald took Jake’s fingers and held on for dear life.
“Dad.”
The intensity with which his son looked up at him hurt Donald as much as a stab to the heart. He didn’t know what to say. The hand lying within his own squeezed suddenly, and Donald knew without a doubt what Jake wanted to know.
He wanted to know if Rich Evans was still alive.
Donald met the nurse’s gaze, but her impassive face gave him no guidelines on how to answer. In the end, he did what came naturally to him. He lied. “I don’t know anything about the others. I just got here. I’ll find out though. You go with these people, and I’ll be here when you get back.”
Jake’s hand slipped from his grasp as the gurney began moving again. Donald sat down heavily in the chair beside Jake’s bed, holding his head in his hands.
Jake had to be all right. Had to.
Sometime between midnight and dawn, the solution came to Donald. Jake had returned from radiology, and the report had been good: no evidence of cranial bleeding. He was going to be in a lot of pain for a while, and would need physical therapy if he ever hoped to compete again, but Jake was going to be all right. A full recovery was expected.
Rich Evans, on the other hand, was a different matter.
Donald sat in the chair beside Jake’s bed, watching his son’s chest rise and fall as he slept. The bed was set at an incline, and Jake was wearing a sling to prevent him from moving his arm and disturbing the fractured collarbone. His ribs were taped now, and since the CT scan was clean, Jake was receiving strong painkillers at last. The monitor beside the bed indicated that Jake’s O2 levels were good and his heartbeat rhythmic, if a trifle fast. His blood pressure was slightly elevated as well, though the nurse said that was a function of the pain he was in and would subside as the meds kicked in.
Jake looked so young as he lay sleeping. A heavy lock of dark hair flopped over his forehead; as long as Donald could remember, Jake was perpetually in need of a haircut. Donald brushed it back from his face. The resemblance to Darcy seemed more pronounced than usual. Donald would have recognized those high cheekbones and full lips anywhere. What Jake got from the Stanford side of the family was the slow progression into maturity. The Stanford men only got better-looking with age. Tonight Jake seemed like a gangly colt. Someday, though, he would turn heads. Jake had “heartbreaker” stamped all over his features.
That was just it. Jake was hardly more than a schoolboy. He had his whole life ahead of him. And he didn’t need Rich Evans hanging about his neck like a rotting albatross. The more Donald thought about it, the angrier he got. Evans was taking advantage of his son, obviously. A classic poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks, he probably saw Jake as his meal ticket. As for Jake imagining himself to be gay, that was ludicrous. Donald remembered what it was like at that age. A swat on the ass from your teammate when you scored, rough-and-tumble wrestling that got a bit more physical…. It was a phase, for God’s sake. Something randy young men went through before finding a nice young woman and settling down. Especially if they were worried about getting a girl pregnant.
Evans was a different story. He might only be a year or so older than Jake, but Donald knew the type. Coarsened by a hard life, the Evans boy had no doubt grown up fast. His mother, favoring clothing too loud and too tight, probably played a part in why Evans turned out the w
ay he had. Maybe she’d brought home a boyfriend who’d abused him. Donald could be magnanimous in assigning blame. But that didn’t mean he was going to let Evans practice his perversions on Jake.
The longer he sat beside Jake’s bed, listening to the sound of his monitor and the gasping snores from the patient on the other side of the curtain, the more livid he became. It was his job to protect Jake, damn it. Tom had failed to do just that; after all, it was Tom who’d taken on Evans as a working student. Not only had he failed to see the danger in Evans, Tom seemed to actually encourage the two. If Donald hadn’t been so tied up in his latest business acquisition, he’d probably have noticed the unnatural attraction before now. To think he’d initially been pleased that Jake might have a male friend to spend time with. The nature of competition was such that one had little time for a social life outside the stables.
The fact his son was sleeping with another boy was so outside of the realm of anything Donald had imagined that he’d been unable to determine the best course of action. Sleeping with one of the working students he could understand. After all, the majority of them were female, and there was nothing wrong with young people having a healthy sexual appetite. Donald had long prepared a substantial fund to take care of any potential problems that should arise if some young, inappropriate woman imagined herself as the future Mrs. Stanford.
He’d been completely blindsided by the Evans boy.
This was his chance to set things right. In one single move, he could free his son from a disastrous entanglement, which was more than Tom Banks could do. Jake would get over it; after all, it was nothing more than a juvenile phase. Without the easy temptation, Jake would put all this foolishness behind him.
The first pink streaks of dawn were lighting the dull gray skies when Donald left his sleeping son. Standing in the corridor, he stretched his shoulders. He knew what he wanted to do, but he’d have to check some things out first. It would be a mistake to act without enough information. The people he needed to talk to wouldn’t be available for hours. Rather than drink any more of the hospital’s unpalatable coffee, he’d treat himself to breakfast and a decent espresso before making some phone calls.
Fool's Gold Page 3