The knowledge that sooner or later Donald Stanford would discover Rich was coaching Jake made the acid in Rich’s stomach churn. Rumors were that Stanford was planning a Senate run in the future. Based on a strongly conservative, and no doubt homophobic, platform.
Eight years was a long time. Maybe Stanford would recognize these were special circumstances. That Rich wasn’t making a bid to get back into Jake’s bed.
Yeah, and maybe pigs can fly.
Later that evening, with food, meds, and a hot soak behind him, Rich dozed off during his usual recap of the day’s equestrian competitions recorded from the all-horse television network. He clicked off the TV with the remote but sat unmoving, too sleepy to haul himself up right away.
You should go to bed.
He acknowledged the truth of his thought even as he remained in place. Pink lay curled up in his lap, his sides moving heavily with his purring. Much as Rich hated disturbing the cat, he couldn’t stay here all night, yet still he did not move. He wandered in that small place between full wakefulness and true sleep, in that space where hypnotists left suggestions and dreams stamped memories.
It had been good to get on a horse again today. It wasn’t as though he never did it, but it was rare. Mostly because it was so damn hard to get on. He usually couldn’t manage it without help, and he wasn’t the sort to ask for help from just anyone. A leg up, the way Jake had given him today, usually worked better than trying to maintain his balance on a mounting block. Either way, mounting a horse in front of clients only accentuated just how hard it was for him to ride, and that was the last impression he wanted them to have. They tended to stop absorbing what he was trying to demonstrate and fixate on his disability instead.
Once he was on board, however, he could almost forget he’d ever been injured. His halting stride was replaced by the strength and grace of his mount. Astride, he could run, he could dance. He could jump the moon.
For a little while, at least.
Within minutes, a sort of jarring harmonic would set up in his bones as muscles and ligaments protested that they no longer bent that way. His leg would refuse to conform to the barrel of the horse’s body, and he couldn’t sit deeply or square. The two-beat gait of the trot seemed to ram up his spine until he twisted involuntarily in the saddle to get away from it. The canter, though it meant moving faster, was a rocking-chair rhythm that was actually easier on his body. Forget about a sitting trot. Dressage was almost impossible these days, requiring him to sit deep in the saddle and move his trunk independently of his upper body. He could still manage to jump when the need arose. Though spotting a takeoff never came as easily to him as it did to Jake, he seldom missed his mark.
He imagined himself riding The Moose in a rolling canter toward a sturdy log fence. He could feel her excitement, her anticipation in the bunched muscles and shortened stride as the fence came ever closer. Once she recognized her target, she’d flatten her stride as she tried to race toward it. He’d have to check her back, preferring to use more muscle and a milder bit than to use the stopping power of something harsh like a Kimberwick, or worse, a gag. Such bits might give the rider “power steering and brakes” but it was also possible for a ham-handed rider to create a horse that stopped over fences for fear of getting jammed in the mouth.
A small part of his brain whispered he’d need the power steering these days, but he brushed it away like an irritating fly. This was his fantasy, and in it there was no pain, no restrictions. Just him, the horse, and the fence ahead. He counted the strides before the jump—one, two, three, go. Beneath him, The Moose lifted into the air when he squeezed his calves against her sides, eager to clear the obstacle and gallop on to the next one.
The red and white flags of the finish line were up ahead. It was a long uphill run, but The Moose was still fresh, and she took it with her ground-eating stride. Next thing he knew, he was laughing and clapping her on the neck with a gloved hand, leaning back in the saddle to pull her up. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and swung down off her back to land lightly on the springy turf. The Moose snorted and blew, moving around him in a circle as he tugged the reins over her head. She pricked her ears and halted at some slight movement behind him, and Rich turned to see Jake walking up with a smile.
He was wearing his eventing colors: a red polo shirt over snow-white breeches, his black tall boots gleaming with polish. Normally, he’d have worn a black body protector as well, the Kevlar-like material making him look more like an exotic police officer and less like an athlete. He wasn’t wearing it now, however, and somehow, that seemed right. Helmetless, his hair lifted in the breeze, and he shaded his eyes with one hand as he came toward them.
Rich half expected him to stop in front of them, but Jake continued on, still smiling, laughing even, as if the glory of the moment was infectious and he couldn’t help it. He moved smoothly into Rich’s space, and Rich’s senses were filled with him. The heat from his body as he pulled Rich into a hug. The smell of his skin combined with that subtle hint of cedar that made Jake instantly identifiable to Rich even with his eyes closed. The brush of lips against his own, which then curved into a smile when Rich’s cock lifted and pushed into Jake’s thigh, anxious not to be left out of the party.
The reins fell away behind him as he clutched at Jake’s sides, trying to pull him in closer. It had been so long since he’d felt those full, lush lips on his own, and he couldn’t get enough. Moaning in desperation and frustration, he opened his mouth to accept Jake completely—and jolted awake as his head dropped forward.
Pink raised a sleepy head and looked at him querulously.
“Goddamn it all to hell,” Rich snarled, dumping the cat unceremoniously from his lap as he got up and went to bed.
The heat wave broke by the end of the week, and the weather turned seasonably cool again. Jake needed a wool sweater and gloves when he rode in the chilly mornings, the mist heavy on the fields. Rich’s clothing underwent a slow metamorphosis from well-groomed professional to something more like a mere groom. The first day he showed up in an old pair of breeches, Jake almost crowed. He stopped himself in time, however, afraid of scaring Rich back into the “professional trainer” look. The change in clothing signaled a shift in comfort level to Jake. It felt like Rich was on his team now, rather than his boss.
He didn’t know why Rich’s wardrobe change was important to him, it just was.
Toward the end of the week, Rich announced they would be taking the horses on a day trip.
“There’s an open schooling day at the Horse Park in Lexington. You’ve got some decent cross-country fences here at Foxden, but nothing like an actual course, with banks, drops, and water elements. It’ll be good to get the horses off the farm and school somewhere different for a change before we head to Rolex at the end of next month. We’ll leave here before dawn and be home before too late in the evening.”
Jake knew better than to protest. “It’ll make for a long day” was all he’d said.
Thank God for the Angels. They were the sort of die-hard, dedicated young riders who were becoming scarce in these days of Facebook and Twitter, willing to work hard for a chance to ride top-notch horseflesh. Tom had once complained there weren’t any Pony Clubbers anymore, and that fewer young people were willing to work in a stable for the opportunity to learn how to ride under his tutelage.
“Gotta indoctrinate them when they’re young,” Jake joked, but he knew Tom was right. He wondered what would happen to the sport in another twenty years.
The working students had washed and prepped the horses the night before the trip, and as Jake made his way to the barn in the predawn darkness, he was grateful they’d have the van packed and the horses wrapped and ready to load. He sincerely hoped the light rain would clear before they made it to the park. He flipped the collar of his Australian duster up around his neck and pulled the wide-brimmed hat down low over his eyes. He hated being wet. Fortunately, the oiled leather coat did a good job of keeping him both
warm and dry. Welcome to spring in Virginia.
Instead of a four-horse trailer and truck, he had an old International horse van now. It could easily haul four horses; six in a pinch. Perfect for a day trip. The horses tended to prefer walking up into the large compartment, and as long as the driver kept at a reasonable speed, the stability was reassuring.
He turned over the ignition in the van, letting the heavy diesel engine warm up. Checking his watch, he realized Rich was late. Normally, Jake wouldn’t load the horses until Rich arrived or they’d stamp and paw while standing in the van, but he had a feeling Rich would be in a hurry to leave when he finally got here.
He got out of the cab and approached Becky. “Load them up. Rich should be here in a bit.”
Becky nodded, her cheeks red with the cold. She went back inside the lighted barn where the Angels were moving about. He was crossing in front of the van when he saw Rich pull into the driveway. He waited in the beam of the headlights, knowing he’d be hard to see in the dark otherwise.
Rich parked and got out of the car. He seemed to be limping more than usual, and Jake wondered if it had to do with the rain.
“I was starting to think you’d slept in,” Jake drawled. When he realized he sounded just like Tom, he suppressed a smile. “They’re loading the horses now.”
“I’m crippled, not blind.” Rich’s retort slid like a sharp knife through the ribs, painless at first, until the searing jolt struck raw nerves.
“Right.” Jake snapped off any further rebuttal. “There’s room in the van if you want to ride with me.”
“You’re driving?” Rich looked at him directly for the first time, bringing up a hand to shade his eyes from both the rain and the glare of the headlights. Brows furrowed, he squinted at Jake with some unspoken concern.
“Well, yeah. Is there a problem?” Jake’s hand twitched, an involuntary need to reach out and touch Rich, but he stopped himself from doing so.
“No, not at all. I don’t ride with the horses anymore. See you at the Park.” Rich turned on his heel and lurched back to his car.
Jake went back to supervise the loading, making sure everyone was tied in safely and the hay nets were in place. Kryptonite bugled loudly from inside the rig, causing a horse somewhere in the barn to whinny in response. The Moose fretted a bit, pawing at the rubber matting. Molly was placidly eating her hay, which made Jake wonder if her calmness was due to being a seasoned campaigner or not having the right temperament to be a truly great event horse. He spoke to The Moose softly, ignoring the sound of tires on gravel as Rich’s Forrester spun out of the driveway.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” Becky looked worried as she helped him shut and lock the van doors.
“Tom needs you here more than I do. We’ll be fine. Won’t hurt me to be my own groom for a change.”
“You know how The Moose gets when you leave her alone in the rig.”
“That’s why I arranged to take stalls for the day. Besides, since I can only work one horse at a time, there will always be a pair left behind. We’ll be fine, Becky.” He gave her a smile he didn’t feel and got into the cab. He engaged the clutch, and the big International lumbered its way out of the drive.
Driving alone for hours with the radio as his only companion, Jake had too much time for thinking. His father’s words after the accident came back to him.
“Let him go, Jake. He’s lost everything. At the very least, give him the dignity of leaving on his own terms.”
Donald Stanford never openly acknowledged their relationship, but after the accident, it was no secret that he both knew and disapproved. The day Jake came home from the hospital, shattered by Rich’s rejection, he’d been in no position to argue with his father. Which made it all the more surprising when his father had been almost understanding. Kind, even.
“He’ll blame you. Oh, not at first. But he’ll resent you for being healthy, for being able to compete, once he realizes his career is over. He says he doesn’t want to see you? Let him go. It’s better this way. He’ll end up hating you for what you are—and what he’s not.”
He hadn’t wanted to believe it. But after the things Rich had said, Jake knew his father was probably right. Only he couldn’t shake the feeling now that he hadn’t tried as hard as he could have.
Well, why would anyone want him anyway? With a few exceptions, he’d learned that most people wanted him only for what he could provide them, not for who he was as a person.
The memories kept him silent when they finally arrived at the Horse Park and received the stabling assignment. He was quiet during Rich’s fussing about the footing, and the argument Rich had with the management for permission to drive a golf cart on the course between fences. The silence between them continued as Jake set up the stalls and unloaded the horses. The Moose came out of the van snorting, and floated across the ground with a large, springy stride as she took in her new surroundings. Jake walked her around until she calmed down. Kryptonite was lit up in his own way, but as a more experienced competitor he quickly settled. Molly paused on the ramp to look around with mild curiosity, then unloaded without a qualm. The horses kept Jake busy, and that suited him just fine.
The only time he felt obligated to speak was when Rich wanted him to school The Moose first. The rain had stopped, but it was still damp. A few more hours in the sunlight and the ground would be better for the less-experienced mare, and he said so.
Rich nursed a cup of coffee from the manager’s office like it was mother’s milk, and the glare he turned on Jake was clearly jaundiced. “In case you haven’t noticed, the footing won’t always be ideal when you compete. What are you going to do at the Games? Walk outside, look at the sky and decide it’s too wet to ride?”
“Of course not,” Jake snapped. “I just don’t see the need to put her at any unnecessary risk. You’re the one who thought we needed to come all this way for a cross-country schooling day. I’m just trying to get the most out of it, that’s all.”
“If you want the mare to be completely safe, if you want to wrap her in cotton wool and hope no harm ever comes to her, stop competing her. Just give up, why don’t you? Take her home, park her on the farm, and never ride her again. Even then, you can’t protect her from a freak lightning strike or from breaking a leg in a groundhog hole. So what do you want, Jake? To be a serious rider, or a playboy amateur?”
“Is that what you think of me? Because I was fortunate enough to be born to money, I haven’t had to work for anything? That I’ve never lost anything that mattered to me?” Jake’s words spattered between them like molten steel from a hot forge.
Rich looked taken aback, but only briefly. His expression hardened again. “I just thought you might have grown up a bit in the last eight years.”
“Wow. Nice to know you have such a high opinion of me.” Jake turned his back on Rich and pulled out the stud kit. He took out the grass studs he’d need to put in The Moose’s shoes for better traction on the wet turf.
Rich made a little noise of exasperation behind him. “Look, can we not talk about this now? I mean, here, in public? People will talk. It’s a discussion best held privately.”
“Since when have you cared what other people thought about you?” Jake recalled how adamant Rich had been that they be open with their relationship. “We’ve got nothing to hide,” he used to say.
“You’re an Olympic hopeful now. If you so much as sneeze, someone will be speculating on Twitter that you’ve got pneumonia and you’re out of the running.” Rich indicated a figure at the end of the aisle, pointing a camera in their direction. “Part of my job is looking out for your public image and keeping you focused on the job at hand.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Evans.” Jake took out the small wrench to remove the blanks that protected the grooved slots in the shoes and placed the mare’s foot between his knees so he could clean away the dirt from the holes. He had to keep her foot wedged there until he bolted in the studs or else he’d have
to start all over again.
“Fine. Whatever. I’ll meet you at the first fence.” Rich stormed off to the golf cart and climbed in with poor grace. He gunned the motor and zoomed down the gravel path toward the long slope up to the cross-country course.
The freeze between them lasted until they actually began schooling, and then a slow thaw set in. It was hard to remain angry with your trainer when every bit of concentration was necessary to keep your fresh, forward horse focused and on task. The sun made an intermittent appearance through clouds still heavy with rain, and Jake’s mood lifted. There was nothing in this world so grand as riding along an open field on a breezy spring day. Ahead of him to his left, the cross-country course spread out over several acres of rolling fields until it disappeared into the woods on the far ridge. The Blue Ridge Mountains formed a backdrop to his right, and down below the ridge, the steepled roof of the indoor arena seemed far away. The Moose caught his mood. She galloped strongly toward the warmup fence and took it handily, without hesitation. In fact, her entire schooling session was exhilarating, a controlled joie de vivre they shared. Jake was riding bottled lightning and he knew it. He’d had it once before, that perfect combination of everything he’d loved and wanted—and he’d lost it. He couldn’t let that happen again.
In many ways, the session was much as it had been that last schooling the day of the accident. Even down to him riding The Moose.
Breaking for lunch was a let-down. After a quick sandwich and a diet soda from the drink machine in the main office, Jake got Molly ready to ride. Unlike The Moose’s quiet excitement, riding the smaller mare felt almost like taking a lesson pony out for training. Despite her fitness and athleticism, she simply didn’t burn with the fever of competition the way The Moose had. Knowing they’d have to spend extra time on Kryptonite as well, Jake didn’t object when Rich cut Molly’s ride short.
Fool's Gold Page 9