Fool's Gold

by Sarah Madison

  He just had one stop first.

  It wasn’t necessary to check the hospital directory. He knew exactly where Oncology was located. Standing in front of the double doors leading into the department, he looked around until he found the small bronze plaque he expected to find.

  There were different levels of donors. Most hospitals had a recognition wall or walkway, displaying supporter plaques based on the amount of their donations. These designations ran the gamut of “friends” to “benefactors,” with each level bearing a name that that implied a greater amount of contribution.

  The Darcy Stanford Memorial plaque was on a wall all by itself outside the oncology department. That’s what half a million bought.

  He touched the plaque, trailing his fingers over the raised lettering. He knew Darcy wouldn’t have approved of what he was about to do, but then again, had she lived, he doubted it would have even been an issue. She’d have wanted what was best for their son, anyway.

  He removed his gloves from the pocket of his wool coat and put them on as he walked toward the elevator bank.

  In business, as in life, timing was everything. So was being prepared. Donald Stanford was known for his ability to drive a hard deal because he went into his negotiations fully prepared, having researched the company he planned to take over, finding its strengths and weaknesses. Every company—and every person, for that matter—had their vulnerabilities. It was just a matter of identifying and exploiting them.

  Which is why he waited until Evans was recovering from surgery before he went to see him.

  Evans was in a private room for his recovery, which was another indication that things were running according to plan. When Donald had checked on his location prior to surgery, he was still in a semiprivate ward. Ironically, Jake was just down the corridor, but hopefully not for long. Donald had been informed that Jake would be discharged the next day.

  The door to Evans’s room was partially open. When there was no answer to his perfunctory tap, Donald pushed it aside and entered to get his first good look at Evans since the accident.

  It was almost enough to make him change his mind. Almost. Evans had two black eyes, making the rest of his skin appear ghastly in contrast. In addition to the monitors, he had a pump delivering IV fluids, as well as what appeared to be a constant infusion of pain medication. The bed had been partially elevated, and the guard rails were up. A Call button on a cable was close to his hand. His right leg was propped up on some pillows, the skin blackened and swollen. His ankle had some sort of cage around it, an external fixation device driving heavy metal rods into his leg for stabilization.

  He looked dreadful. Though even if he’d been healthy, Donald couldn’t see the appeal to anyone, let alone Jake. Evans was too thin, despite the muscling that came from controlling seventeen-hundred pounds or so of horseflesh on a daily basis. His features were sharp enough to slice bread, and his nose seemed to go on forever. Tousled, blond curls made him look much younger than his age.

  He also appeared to be asleep. Disappointment warred with the slight niggling feeling that Donald was being offered a reprieve of sorts, a chance to walk away without doing harm.

  No. He knew what was best for his son.

  As though Donald’s thinking of Jake was his cue, the boy stirred. Green eyes met Donald’s calm assessment and then narrowed slightly, no doubt Evans was confused at Donald’s presence in his room.

  Donald knew the instant Evans leapt to the conclusion he was there for the worst of reasons. If he’d been pale before, it was nothing compared to the stark bleaching of his skin, as though Donald had punched a hole in Evans’s heart and watched as the blood left his body. Someone else might have struggled to sit up, but Evans lay perfectly still, like a man who knew he’d been mortally wounded and there was no point in fighting any longer.

  It made Donald feel like a heel, and he wasn’t used to having empathy for someone with whom he was about to negotiate a deal. He opened his mouth to reassure Evans of Jake’s status, but Evans beat him to it.

  “Mr. Stanford.” His voice rusty, as though he hadn’t used it in years. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Is Jake…?”

  The way Evans broke off, his voice catching with fear and concern, again almost made Donald change his mind about what he was going to do.

  Almost.

  “Jake’s fine. He’s going to be released tomorrow afternoon. He got off lucky compared to you. Fractured collarbone and some ribs. Nothing that won’t heal with time. Didn’t you know?”

  “Oh, thank God.” Though he hadn’t moved, the tension oozed out of Evans’s muscles, and he closed his eyes. It might have been Donald’s imagination, but his lashes seemed dark with tears.

  Well, what do you expect from a faggot? It seemed like a good time to remind himself why he was here.

  Again, before he could speak, Evans was ahead of him. “I knew he was all right. I mean, Tom told me that he wasn’t hurt too bad. But then I saw you standing there, and I thought….”

  Ah. He should have expected Tom would have been here already. “Then you know about Mick? And the horses?”

  Evans looked as though his face was melting as he struggled to control his emotions. “Yeah. I knew it was bad. The way the whole side of the truck was caved in. I thought…. Mick wasn’t moving. I heard the horses screaming, and then I must’ve passed out.”

  Donald cleared his throat. “We had Scotland Yard euthanized yesterday. Her injuries were too severe. The other horse might recover with a lengthy rehabilitation period.”

  Evans squeezed his eyes shut. There was no question about the crying now; two tear trails tracked his face.

  Tears prickled at Donald’s own eyes, which startled him. He only cared about the horses in the first place because Darcy had loved them. He’d locked himself in the study and cried like a baby the day they’d had to euthanize Darcy’s former competition horse due to colic. It had been his last tie to her. But horses had ceased to be family and had become an investment a long time ago. Time to move on with the negotiations before he changed his mind.

  How odd. Donald had the perfect opening to launch his plan, yet he was strangely reluctant. What the hell was wrong with him? He ate companies for breakfast. A little gay gold-digger should be a piece of cake.

  “Have you heard from your mother?”

  Astonishing. The grief on Evans’s face shut down as though a switch had been flipped. The tears stopped, and his face took on a curiously masklike expression. “What day is it? Monday? She probably hasn’t checked her messages from the weekend.”

  Donald fought back the tiny amount of admiration for Evans’s self-containment. “I’d have thought she would have been here by now. Your injuries are quite extensive, aren’t they? An unstable pelvic fracture that had to be plated, a femur fracture requiring pinning, and a shattered ankle.”

  The harsh, derisive snort almost made Donald wince. “I’m an old hand at painful injuries. This isn’t my first rodeo. Besides”—Evans flicked a finger in the direction of the infusion pump—“they’ve got me on the good stuff.” The glitter in his eyes and the flush upon his cheeks were the only indications Evans was in worse pain than he’d been letting on.

  “Your riding career is over.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact.

  “At least as far as competition is concerned, probably. At any rate, I won’t be getting on a horse anytime soon.”

  The manner in which he took the destruction of his dreams once again caused a little stirring of empathy in Donald.

  Then he remembered this boy was sleeping with his son. His son, who still had a future.

  Still, there was always the possibility he was wrong in his assumptions about Evans. He had to know for sure before he made his proposal.

  “Doesn’t your mother have to sign some papers before you can have surgery? I mean, I know you’re of legal age, but aren’t you on her insurance policy? Or do you have insurance of your own?”

  D
onald hadn’t thought Evan’s face could get any more devoid of expression than when he’d mentioned the mother, but something about him now was colder and bleaker than before.

  “Insurance? Ah, no. She doesn’t have any. Neither do I.”

  “Oh.” Donald let the word hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “I see. That’s too bad. If you even have a hope of riding again, you’ll need top-notch care. I know doctors claim they treat everyone equally, regardless of their ability to pay. In reality? They’re not as likely to recommend certain procedures if there’s a question of payment. Not to mention you’re probably looking at months of physical therapy. Then too, there’s the matter of how will you live? Pay your bills? You know, I think I’m going to have to insist in the future that working students carry some form of health insurance.”

  The silence extended for so long, Donald began to wonder if the drugs were having more of an effect that he thought. Evans just stared at him as though he was unable to process what Donald was saying. Finally, with a lopsided smile, he said very slowly, “I guess it’s easier with horses. You could just take me out back and shoot me then.”

  Donald held his gaze for three long heartbeats. He was on familiar ground now; he’d had many such confrontations in the board room, and this was how it was done. Smiles and polite exchanges, even though each person knew exactly what the other thought of him. Evans had his measure now, and still he was remarkably calm.

  It had to be the drugs talking.

  Donald cleared his throat. “I’ve been talking with the hospital administrator, who’s a personal friend of mine. Your medical expenses….” Donald shook his head sadly. “Even if you had insurance, this would be the sort of medical crisis that’s hard to recover from. Without insurance, it will cripple you in more ways than one.” He paused to let that sink in a moment, and then continued. “The hospital might allow you to pay it off a little at a time, but you’ll be out of work for months and the bills will just keep mounting. You’d never get out from under it. What do you plan to do for work later on? Do you have any skills outside of riding horses?”

  Evans lay perfectly still. Donald couldn’t decide if it was because he was in pain or because he had that much self-control. “Not really. I always thought there’d be time later to go back to school. Didn’t the other driver have insurance? Shouldn’t his company pick up at least part of the tab?”

  That had been one of the major sticking points, the one thing Donald wouldn’t have been able to control. But the driver had a history of DUIs, and not only had he been driving without a license, but his insurance had been cancelled and he hadn’t found new coverage before he killed himself in the wreck.

  “Sadly, no. I’m sure the hospital will explore all options, however.” That Donald could influence. A meeting with the hospital administrator—and the implication he wanted to make a philanthropic gesture on the boy’s behalf, along with a generous donation to the hospital again—and social services would fail to inform Evans he could apply for Medicaid.

  Evans began picking at the thin cotton blanket covering him. It was the first indication Donald had that Evans wasn’t as calm as he appeared.

  “Your situation really concerns me.” Long practice kept the contempt out of his voice. He wanted Evans to take the bait. He’d be more likely to do so if Evans wasn’t angry and defensive. “I’d like to help you out.”

  At Donald’s words, his hand stilled and Evans flicked his gaze up sharply. “You do?”

  Unlike Donald, Evans wasn’t as skilled at the art of negotiation. The slight note of hope was evident in his voice.

  “I do. The way I see it, you’ll need coverage of your surgery and hospital stay, as well as extensive physical therapy. You’ll need money until you can get back on your feet again as well. After that, it’s up to you, but at least you’ll have a fighting chance to make something of yourself without having these bills weigh you down for years to come. Instead of paying off this debt, you can start fresh and make another career for yourself.”

  The manner in which Evans stared at him was a little unnerving. Inexperienced or not, Donald suspected with time and seasoning, Evans would make a good businessman someday.

  “What’s the catch?” Evans asked at last.

  “Catch?” Donald pretended not to understand.

  Evans gave him that crooked smile again, and for a split second, Donald could see why someone might consider him attractive. “The catch. There’s always a catch.”

  “I want you to stop seeing my son.” The words snapped out, stark and ugly. “Jake has a future, but not with you hanging around his neck, weighing him down. I’ll clear your hospital bills and see you get the best of medical care, along with paying you a stipend until you’re released from PT. But only on the condition that you end this so-called relationship you have with my son, and you agree to never see him again, or tell him why.”

  “No, of course. I must swear to secrecy.” The crooked smile turned spiteful and nasty, making Donald feel small and dirty somehow. “We can’t have Jake finding out what an utter asshole his father is.”

  Barely controlled fury made Donald’s nostrils widen. “Then I take it you’re accepting my offer?” That didn’t take much. There was a certain bitter satisfaction in knowing Evans was indeed a simple gold-digger.

  “No.” The cold, hard glitter in his eyes made Evans look older than his years. “Fuck you. I don’t need your money. And while I know you barely understand the meaning of the word, Jake and I love each other.”

  “I see. Will love pay the bills? And where exactly will the two of you live? In your apartment? Because if you continue seeing my son, I will cut him off. No money, no horses, no Olympic glory. Your dreams may be over, but are you willing to make him sacrifice his as well?”

  “He’ll find another sponsor,” Evans retorted.

  It was a possibility Donald hadn’t considered, but Evans was right, damn him. “You’ll only wind up resenting each other. You because Jake can still ride, and Jake because you cost him everything, including his best chance at the Olympics. Is that what you want? Living in squalor in your fleabag apartment, fighting over money and both of you knowing Jake sacrificed everything to be with you?”

  Had he thought Evans looked mature beyond his years a moment before? He was wrong. Evans suddenly looked as though someone had told him Santa wasn’t real at the same time as informing him his puppy had been hit by a car. The hardened look in his eyes faded, only to be replaced with utter loss. The muscles in his face tightened and twitched, pulling the corners of his mouth down, even as his lower lip quivered.

  Ruthlessly, Donald pressed his advantage home. “You’re going to lose him either way. Accept my offer, and at least you have a chance of some sort of future.”

  “Fuck you.” Evans closed his eyes. “And get the hell out of my room.”

  Donald paused at the door on his way out. “Think about what I’ve said, Evans. We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars here. You could easily wind up owing close to half a million.”

  The estimate staggered Evans; the shock was evident on his face in the way that his mouth fell partly open and his color leached out again, leaving only his cheekbones flushed, as though he were running a fever.

  “Think about it,” Donald repeated. “But not too long. This is a limited-time offer. I’ll be back for your answer in the morning.”

  March 2016

  Jake Stanford left the big bay mare standing in the crossties as he lifted the saddle off her sweaty back and carried it to the tack room. He hung the Stübben in its proper place on the saddle rack and tossed the saddle pad in the basket of items to go to the laundry. The brushing boots and the protective gel pad were hung so they could air-dry before tomorrow’s use.

  On the radio in the tack room, the country music station was playing a popular song about persevering despite having everything go wrong, and Jake found himself humming along as he went back to his horse. The mare tried to n
uzzle him as he ducked under one of the ties into the wash rack. He pushed her head away, kindly but firmly. “I don’t have any treats for you yet. Bath first, treats later, Mooseling.”

  The saddle had left her mahogany coat dark with sweat, and there were sweat marks along her neck and chest too. Not for the first time, he wished he could afford to move the horse operation farther north in the summer. Though it was only early March, Virginia sweltered in a freak heat wave, with oppressively humid days and temperatures in the upper eighties. He hated to think what August would be like. Smiling to himself, he realized that if things went as planned, he’d be in Brazil in August, and the weather would seem temperate by comparison.

  Though he hated the summers, Virginia really wasn’t so bad. He didn’t have to move the horses south to Florida for the winter, the way most eventers and show jumpers did. It was nice to have one home base, despite all the travel necessary for international competition. If Jake’s father hadn’t created Foxden for his wife’s riding pleasure back before Jake was born, Jake would no doubt be working his passage at one of the big event barns in the South. Or he might not ever have discovered his passion for horses at all. It was odd to think that.

  At any rate, Tom believed a serious competitor rode rain or shine, summer’s heat or winter’s cold. In sickness or in health, ’til death do us part. Jake smiled. In many ways, that’s what competitive riding was like. A marriage to the sport.

  Once Jake had asked his dad why he’d continued to finance the stable after Jake’s mother had died.

  His father had looked at him with without cracking a smile and said, “It’s cheaper than a cocaine habit.”

  He couldn’t tell if his father had been joking or not. That’s how it was with his dad. Jake knew he enjoyed the prestige of owning top-level show horses. It probably didn’t hurt that he could write them off for tax purposes either.