Fool's Gold

by Sarah Madison

  Rich didn’t seem to be paying either one of them any attention. He was searching for something on his laptop.

  “Now, look at this.” Rich found the file he wanted and started it playing. “What about the horse you rode this morning? Do you still call her The Moose?”

  “Yep,” Tom answered when Jake maintained his stony silence.

  “Right then,” Rich continued, as though Jake had been the one to reply. “So, Pegasus, aka The Moose. Let’s look at her objectively, shall we?” The video showed Jake walking the mare outside in a halter via a lead shank. From the background, it looked as though they were at the Horse Center in Lexington. He’d had no idea anyone was even videotaping that day. “Her back is way too long. It’s a wonder you can package her at all.”

  Perversely, Jake was annoyed at the criticism, despite the fact that Kryptonite was the horse he was promoting. “Difficult, but not impossible.”

  “No, indeed.” Rich shot him one of his deliciously wicked smiles, the kind Jake used to say made him look like a demented elf. The kind Jake used to love teasing out of him. “As we’ll see in this next bit, she’s perfectly capable of collection.”

  Off camera, something spooked The Moose, and the bay mare leapt sideways. Jake had quickly gotten her under control, but she snorted and blew as she pranced beside him. The controlled power of her movement was a beautiful sight to behold.

  “Look at that elevation—natural suspension, if I ever saw it. Absolutely fucking gorgeous. Okay, so she has what it takes to be a great dressage horse, despite her conformational flaws. But can she jump?” To answer his own question, Rich called up another video, this time of Jake, wearing his standard red polo, black protector vest, and white breeches, riding The Moose at a trial. On the approach to the cross-country fence, a sturdy-looking table that required the horse to jump both high and wide, the mare hesitated. “There—” Rich pointed again at the screen. “She’s seen it, she’s not sure, and you’re urging her on. What does she do? She goes for it.”

  “And over-jumps it.” Jake was unable to keep the sourness from seeping into his voice. In the video, the mare cantered toward the fence and made a huge leap, so big Jake was thrown up her shoulder and nearly came off on the landing. He gathered himself and the horse together, and they cantered away to the next obstacle.

  “But she jumps it.” Rich paused the footage as Jake and The Moose charged up a long slope toward a bank jump. “Yes, she was a bit green there, but there’s nothing wrong with her heart or spirit. This is the horse you need to take to the Olympics. This is the horse that trusts you. The one that will throw her heart over the fence if you ask her to do so.”

  Jake narrowed his eyes. Such sentiment wasn’t like Rich, not the Rich he remembered. He’s playing you. But why?

  “She’s not ready.”

  “That’s bullshit. You’ve been babying her ever since the accident.”

  Jake involuntarily glanced at Rich’s cane, even as he sucked in his breath sharply. “It was a bad accident, as you well know.”

  How could Rich stand there after all this time and act as though he was discussing some minor fender-bender? Sometimes Jake woke in a cold sweat, feeling again the way the world went upside down the night the rig had flipped over, tumbling his entire life like pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope. When things had finally ground to a halt, his universe had undergone a seismic shift.

  “Better than most.” Rich looked at him with those cool, green eyes. Jake had almost forgotten what it was like to be pinned in their gaze, how incredibly catlike they could be.

  Whatever Jake had lost, Rich had lost more. Jake couldn’t tell that from his expression though. Rich was calm and collected, as if discussing an interesting theory instead of the night everything changed. “And I also know it’s been eight years. The mare is sound. What are you waiting for?”

  “Even if I thought she was ready, which she’s not,” Jake said, neatly avoiding the question, “we can’t get her qualified in time.” He’d been competing her along with Kryptonite, but only at three-star events. Rich was right in one respect; he hadn’t been pushing her.

  “We can, if we enter her in Rolex. If she does well there, then on to Jersey Fresh, Bramhan, and the others. Unless of course, you want to skip Rolex and take her to Badminton instead.”

  “It’s too late for both. The deadline for entries has passed.”

  “Yeah, well, about that,” Tom drawled from where he was leaning against the wall, causing both men to look at him suddenly. Jake had almost forgotten Tom was there. “Seems I entered her in Rolex at the same time I sent in the forms on Kryptonite.”

  Rich looked smug—like the King of Smug—the way only someone who had known this information in advance could look.

  “You what? When were you planning to tell me?” Jake couldn’t help sounding wounded; he felt betrayed. Tom gave another infuriating little shrug. Jake turned his anger on Rich. “She doesn’t have enough mileage at the advanced level. She has no international experience whatsoever. We were taking it slow, letting her develop into her full potential without rushing her.”

  Rich’s long fingers tapped on the gleaming wood of the cane’s handle. “She should have been competing at the higher levels two or three years ago, and you know it. If we’re short on time now, well, whose fault is that? You can’t baby her forever. So we’ll season her. Rolex will be a good place to start.”

  “Kryptonite—”

  “Don’t think I don’t know you’re holding Kryptonite together with chewing gum and baling twine, hoping he passes his vet checks and sees you through the Games. I know you had his hocks injected with steroids and took him out of competition last year,” Rich said.

  “He’s sound now. He’ll hold up.” Even as he spoke, Jake doubted his own words. You know Tom thinks half his behavior issues are rooted in pain. Damn it, Jake wasn’t going to let these two browbeat him into pulling Kryptonite from competition when he was doing so well.

  “You know how I know he’s not the right ride for you? You nickname everything. Everyone else called your father’s horse Dancer except you—you called him Puddle Jumper. Pegasus is The Moose to you. Ragtime is Molly. Kryptonite is the only horse you call by his show name. You don’t really like him, do you? He’s a ride, not your partner.”

  I had a partner once, but he told me to get the hell out of his life and never come back.

  “Seeing as you’re riding three horses at Rolex this year, why don’t you wait and see which does the best before you decide who your mount for the Games should be?” Tom’s voice was soothingly bland. “The choice might be out of your hands.”

  “It certainly feels that way already,” Jake snarled. “How long have you two been planning this?”

  Tom looked genuinely surprised. “Planning? I just called Richard last night, when I got the word I had to start chemo next week.”

  Jake pointed at the laptop. “Then how is it that he has all this footage of me?”

  The two men looked at Rich, who turned an interesting shade of red. “I keep tabs on the competition. Doesn’t everyone?” Despite the flush of embarrassment, he lifted his chin, practically daring Jake to challenge his statement.

  “Including noncompetition video of The Moose.”

  Rich flushed even redder. Tom said nothing.

  Jake was just about to tell Rich his expertise wasn’t needed when he saw that flash of hurt again. He hesitated, afraid that no matter what he said, Rich would take it the wrong way. Even the hesitation proved problematic.

  “What’s the matter?” The sneer on Rich’s face was painful to see, so out of character with the man Jake remembered. What had happened to the guy who’d had a witty comeback and a wicked smile for almost every situation? Jake was pretty sure he knew, yet he had no idea how to deal with it. “Don’t think I’m good enough for you?”

  Jake clenched his fists at his sides, pissed he’d been placed in this position. He was damned either way. If he accepted Rich�
�s assistance, he would have to take everything that went with that, including riding The Moose at Rolex. If he refused? Well, he didn’t want to see that look of defiant pain on Rich’s face again and know it was somehow his fault. “I never said that. I think you’re wrong, that’s all.”

  “Prove it.” The words were a challenge.

  “You’re on.” Jake never could resist a dare.

  It struck him as they were leaving the trophy room that Tom looked extraordinarily pleased with himself.

  Rich conducted an inspection of sorts that lasted most of the afternoon. Tom had bailed after a while, claiming the need to get some paperwork ready for Rich to sign to make him Jake’s official coach. Tom was obviously worn out. Rich, on the other hand, was like a bright, inquisitive magpie, bending over to run a hand down a horse’s foreleg, stopping the Angels to ask them unexpected questions, and then moving on to the next item on his agenda.

  Just watching him made Jake tired. Jake was hot and sweaty too. He’d missed lunch, and he desperately wanted a cool shower and some food.

  “How is it you can drop everything to be here just now?” Jake asked, by way of self-defense. “Don’t you have your own barn to run?”

  An odd look passed over Rich’s face, there and gone before Jake had a grasp on it. If he didn’t know better, he’d have called it hunger, though he’d be damned if he knew what was behind it. “No one in my barn is prepping for the Olympics, and you know it. This could be a big boost for me.”

  “I see.” Jake’s pulse began to pound so hard it practically rang in his ears. The intensity of his anger surprised him. “So this is what? A good career move for you?”

  They had been walking toward Rich’s car in the parking area outside the barn. Rich stopped dead at Jake’s words, his cane crunching in the gravel with the force he applied to it.

  “That and I’m doing Tom a favor. I’d do anything for Tom.”

  Jake’s face did a slow burn in shame. “Yeah, I know.” He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed that he’d sniped at Rich. Embarrassed that he’d assumed the worst. Even worse, guilty that he had completely healed from the accident, but Rich had not.

  What a clusterfuck this was going to be.

  Rich held his gaze for a long, piercing moment before he continued toward the car in his halting fashion. Jake followed and watched in silence at the laborious process by which Rich levered himself into the driver’s seat of the Forrester. It was a smaller vehicle than Jake expected Rich to drive. Trainers and horse people in general tended to have big SUVs; something that would go in mud and snow, serve as a secondary utility vehicle for the odd bale of hay or half a dozen saddles, and in a pinch could pull a trailer. As he watched Rich get into the car, the lower threshold made sense. Rich had to grasp his right leg by the pants and swing it into the car. When he was settled in and had shut the door behind him, he spoke again. “I’ll be out here tomorrow morning. I expect you to be ready to ride by seven a.m.”

  “Kryptonite and I will be waiting,” Jake said, knowing Rich would roll his eyes at that one.

  Jake smiled when he did.

  “Whatever.” Rich started the engine. He peeled out of the driveway too quickly for someone used to working around horses.

  Jake let out a deep sigh when Rich was out of sight. Finally, he could go get something to eat and cool off. His shoulder ached in the way that meant he might need more than just ibuprofen and a shower to get some relief, and he tried not to blame his awareness of the old injury on seeing Rich today. Rich had far worse to deal with on a daily basis. Jake could just suck it up and take it.

  He walked across the lawn to the mausoleum of a house his father had called a home when Jake was growing up. Though Donald Stanford still technically owned it, he hadn’t stayed there for years, preferring to live closer to his work. When he wasn’t serving as CEO to one of his many companies, he was ingratiating himself with the movers and shakers of the Beltway. Jake knew he was feeling his way toward running for Senate in 2018. It would be nice to think his dad was proud of his achievements outside how they would appear to the press and further his campaign. Something more than just my son, Olympic athlete—vote here.

  Jake felt ridiculous living alone in the huge house, save for the staff needed to maintain it. It held few happy memories for him. The only sense of home he’d ever had at Foxden was out in the barn. He’d often thought of taking a small apartment better suited to his needs, but that was just silly. It made no sense to pay rent and drive in from town when everything he needed was just outside his door.

  Well, almost everything.

  It got a bit lonely at times. Fortunately, by the time he was done training three to five horses, he usually wanted nothing more than a hot shower, some food, and bed. To sleep. Alone.

  Long ago he’d learned the hard way not to invite any of the Angels to the house for pizza and a movie unless he invited all of them. It was all too easy for the act to be misinterpreted as a desire for more than just some company for the evening. He hated awkward conversations where he had to explain that he simply wasn’t interested. And not since Rich had there been a male Angel.

  In the mudroom off the back door, he took off his tall boots with the help of a bootjack and walked in stocking feet into the main part of the house. He bypassed the staff, slipping along the cool tiled corridors until he reached the main staircase, and then up to his rooms on the second floor. He peeled off his clothes with relief, dropping them on the floor on his way to the shower. Normally he hated making more work for Martha, the housekeeper, but today he didn’t care. He needed a long shower in the worst way. And in his current mood, theoretically, the colder the better.

  Theory didn’t last very long in the face of reality, however. He stepped into the stinging spray and shuddered at the chilly cascade of water, adjusting the temperature until warmth flowed over muscles he hadn’t realized were sore. With a blissful sigh, he bowed his head under the nozzle, letting the water pound on the back of his neck and shoulders. He could feel the beginning of one of his bad headaches there, and he made a mental note to see when his next visit with Rowan, his massage therapist, was scheduled.

  He never used to have headaches. Not before the accident. What kind of residual pain did Rich have to deal with? He was almost afraid to know.

  Frowning, he considered Rich and his plans for The Moose. Jake was going to have to stop him somehow. He wasn’t going to be railroaded into competing The Moose past her current level of ability. Unbidden, the night of the accident came back to him—the blaring of the horn, the crunch of the impact, the sound of shearing metal and the screaming of horses pinned in the wreckage—the metallic smell of blood, sharp and bright in his nostrils, as he tried to reach Rich to make sure he was still alive.

  Jake shook his head, taking a sharp breath when the movement sent a bolt of pain up his neck and into the base of his skull. He stood for several long minutes with his neck bowed under the hot water before rubbing it carefully. Goddamn it. He was going to have to ice it when he got out of the shower. Hopefully, he still had some tramadol left from the last time he’d been injured. The ache in his shoulder caused him to rub his fingers over the old knot where his collarbone had been broken. Despite the bone having remodeled over time, he could still feel where the seat belt had caught him the night of the accident.

  The image of Rich hoisting his uncooperative leg into the car seemed to be burned onto Jake’s retinas. Even with his eyes closed, he could see the difficulty Rich had getting into the car.

  I got off lucky.

  He wouldn’t think about the accident. He didn’t want to remember Mick’s blank stare or the pallor of Rich’s skin and the stench of blood as Jake begged him to hang on. It had seemed like hours before the rescue teams had freed him. He’d insisted they get Rich out first, and since he was unresponsive, they’d made Rich their first priority. Jake had been forced to wait until they could get to him, all the while listening to the groans of injured and dying
horses. His horses.

  No. I won’t think about that now.

  These were thoughts he frequently had to force out of his mind. Less so these days, though he sometimes still had nightmares.

  Cane aside, Rich looked good. He’d done well for himself, or as well as anyone can do in the horse business without major sponsors. Without his father’s support, Jake knew there’d be no riding career, no shot at the Olympics. And even if he’d never discovered horses, his father would have sent him to an Ivy League school and he’d have landed a cushy job in one of the family businesses. Luck, in the form of money, paved the way for more luck, whereas people like Rich just seemed to get one kick in the teeth after another. Jake was glad to see Rich had made something of himself as a trainer.

  There was no use in crying over the fact he’d done it alone, though.

  Most people who chose a career in horses struggled to make ends meet. If his clothing was anything to go by, Rich, at least, looked as though he was successful at his change in careers. In many ways, Rich looked better than he had eight years ago. Time had smoothed the sharp planes of his face and darkened his sun-bleached hair. He’d matured, in both feature and manner, even if he did look more like a sleek professional and less like the boy Jake had loved.

  He had loved Rich. It was hard, even now, to admit that.

  Why had Rich shut him out after the accident? Jake didn’t know. All Jake had known back then was that he had a broken collarbone and Puddle Jumper and Scotty were dead. PJ hadn’t just been his ticket to Beijing; he’d been the horse whose breeding he’d planned with his mother and whom he’d raised from a foal. PJ and the other horses had been family.

  So had Mick. And Rich. The Moose was the only horse that survived the wreck. They were survivors together, him and The Moose.

  Jake had gone to see Rich in the hospital as soon as they’d let him, only to meet a stranger. The young man lying in bed bore no resemblance to the Rich Evans he’d known.