by Quinn Wilder
No, that wasn't quite true. There was a dimension more to the look he gave her. A dimension one did not find on one's father's face—ever. It reminded her of their last stormy kiss, and the fear in her increased. She did not feel bold today. Nor passionate.
"The phone's ringing," she announced with relief. Her calls from the house could be put through to the phone in the tack room.
Dace cocked his head. "So?"
"So, I'm expecting a call... from Lionel!" She didn't know if the name Lionel meant anything to Dace, but she noticed that, lately, whenever she was feeling vulnerable she felt she needed a shield to throw up in front of her. Lionel, she thought with a trace of wryness, was a bit of a paper shield. A name with nothing behind it.
Dace's face was bland and his tone dry. "By all means, go talk to your boyfriend."
As it turned out, it was Lionel on the phone. He made her very angry by offering outright to buy Storm and then offering her a ridiculously low figure because the horse was a "renegade."
By the time she went back outside the phantom fear had vanished—seemed as ridiculous as Lionel calling her magnificent horse a renegade. Though she didn't know it, her eyes were spitting sparks that could well have been mistaken for passion.
"That's better," Dace said, eyeing her wryly. He hesitated. "That fear will destroy you, if you let it. It will keep growing and your world will get smaller and smaller and smaller to accommodate its voracious appetite. You're not really afraid of your horse. You should figure out where that fear is coming from."
She did not like the way he was looking at her, his gaze steady and stripping, as though he could see her soul. He seemed oblivious to the fact that the horse was so uneasy underneath him.
"If I want a psychiatric evaluation," she informed him chilhly, "I'll go for therapy. As it happens Storm was edgy the day of our accident, and it still makes me a bit nervous."
"He wasn't anything at all like this the day of your accident," Dace informed her softly.
She felt herself freeze, and she remained frozen while Dace slid out of the saddle, and stood in front of her.
"How do you know?" she whispered, both angry and dismayed.
"He was calm that day. He was going beautifully. You could have handled him even if he was acting up. He went crazy over one of the jumps, Cadence. No one could have stopped it. Nothing could have prevented it."
"How do you know?" she whispered accusingly.
"Can't you remember what really happened?"
He'd ignored her question. She wanted to persist but his voice, soft and insistent, had acted as a trigger. A scene flashed through her mind with vivid clarity. It had been a bright, beautiful day. Blue, cloudless skies. And Storm had been performing to the best of his potential. Not at all like today.
"You're right," she admitted slowly, "he wasn't restless. In fact, it was one of his better days. But that accident and its aftermath have left a sensitive part inside me, and sometimes..." she nodded toward the horse, "...he touches it. The doctor said it was normal."
Dace nodded. "I suppose it is. It won't last forever. You were a magnificent horsewoman. It wouldn't be natural for someone who spent as much time around horses as you did, who rode as well as you did, to be afraid of a horse."
"How do you know what kind of horsewoman I was?"
"I saw you around from time to time," he said carelessly.
She scanned his face, knowing that was probably true. Hacking was excellent conditioning for her horses and she'd ridden every inch of this property. Still, she sensed more, but also sensed he was not going to volunteer it. Or allow it to be prised out of him.
She turned suddenly away from him, despising both her weakness and his intuition. "I don't like being reminded of what I was," she informed him coldly.
He nodded. "So be angry, Princess. Be bloody angry at the hand life gave you to play. It's a bad one, and you have a right. But you remember something—good anger always feels clean. It'll give you the energy you need to get on with your life. Bitterness is something else. It'll just kill you slowly."
"How dare you call me Princess? If you don't mind your manners, I'll "
"Now," he said smoothly, turning from her, and lithely leaping back into the saddle, "all you have to do is start directing that at the right source." He gave her a long, hard look that left her fuming and wordless, then turned again toward the riding school.
"Are you coming?" he threw the final challenge over his shoulder.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," she snapped. "The way that horse is feeling today, you'll probably break your fool neck."
The session did not go very well. Dace had to fight Storm to get him to obey, but Cade realized she was not afraid. She had ridden Storm herself on days like this. It had never been pleasant, but it had not been particularly frightening either. Be-
sides, it gave her a very good idea of how well Dace was riding that he handled the horse's edgy stubbornness with determination and ease.
But his words kept her awake very late that night. Dace perceived her as angry and bitter, which was not very flattering; even less flattering because she knew there was a grain of truth in it. What did he mean about directing her anger at the right source? Where was that?
She finally slept, but fitfully. She awoke to a dream of Lionel kissing her with raw and arousing passion. The dream was so real that she licked her lips to see if his taste really lingered. As with most dreams, there were a few details that didn't quite fit. Lionel, for instance, had been wearing Dace's cowboy hat.
Still, she felt the ache of loneliness his leaving her had left somewhere in the region of her heart.
Surely I'm not fool enough to still care about him? she asked herself. And she knew she was very close to knowing what she had always known: the anger and bitterness Dace had spotted were not directed at Storm. The horse had not hurt her out of malice. It had been an accident, and, as far as that went, how could one be angry at an accident? Life dealt the hands, and being angry about the cards wouldn't change them.
She limped. But she lived. Her mind drifted to her telephone conversation with Lionel that day, and she knew from the sudden stirring of rage within her that she had finally arrived at the place she sought.
Lionel. All this time, she had tried to suppress that rage. Tried to tell herself that Lionel had a right to feel the way he did, to walk away from
damaged goods. She had tried to understand his point of view and in doing that she had ignored her own right to have feelings. Maybe she had hoped if she was kind enough and understanding enough and brave enough Lionel would see her virtue and come back despite everything.
That was foolish and naive. She was angry, and Dace was correct—she had every right to be angry. The man she thought she loved had behaved like a shallow and despicable cad. In the end, she had to acknowledge, she felt horribly angry at Lionel— but also at herself. She was a fool. Not because she still cared, because she didn't. But because she had ever cared about a man like that. What did it say for her that she had never seen what he really was? That she had actually been so weak as to want him back after the way he behaved?
She noticed a sudden cool breeze blow through her window, and felt the heaviness lift from her. The air, blessedly, was not smoke scented or hot. She rushed to her window. It was still deepest night, but the haze had cleared and the moon was shining. The fresh air was irresistible.
She pulled jeans over her bare legs, and tossed a light sweater over her shoulders and went down the stairs into the night. She was drawn to the stables. She didn't know why. She came around the corner of the stable and then shrank back.
Storm and Dace stood together, washed silver by the moon. She took in a long, shuddering breath. Dace's forehead was pressed into Storm's muzzle, and the horse and man stood absolutely stock-still, frozen by the moon in a moment of unbelievable communion.
She could hear his voice now, soft as velvet, soothing as the night itself.
"You were h
urt, weren't you, big guy? I could feel it in you today. Some giant hurt coiled in you like a rattler. I wish you could tell me what it was. I wish you could."
Dace rolled away from Storm's head, leaned his back on those powerful withers. The horse reached around and nuzzled his cheek as Dace looked up at the stars.
"Me too, big guy. I guess that's why I like you so much. I can feel the sameness in us. A big hurt, where our hearts used to be, that never quite goes away."
Cadence stood in the shadows in shocked silence. She wanted to slip away, unseen. She knew that would be the decent thing to do. And yet, she did not. She moved out of the shadows, and crossed over to them, the moonlight streaming over them all.
Storm greeted her with a soft nicker, and Dace stiffened.
"It's me," she announced softly and slid her arms around Storm's neck. She regarded Dace over Storm's neck. "I couldn't sleep."
"Me neither." His eyes were hooded. "You shouldn't be wandering around in your pyjamas in the middle of the night."
She glanced down. Her sweater was open over the soft, transparent white of her teddy. She registered the fact that Dace was trying to embarrass her, that he didn't like being discovered at his most vulnerable.
She laughed softly. "Well, it's not as if I'm walking down a street in New York in the middle
of the night, is it? I wasn't expecting to see anyone. Besides, Dace, I suspect you've seen women in their pyjamas once or twice before."
With a total lack of urgency she pulled the sweater shut and crossed her arms over it. She eyed him solemnly.
"You know," she finally said slowly and softly, "I realize that sometimes I act as if, because the whole world can see my handicap, I'm the only one wounded. But I'm not, am I?"
His face looked remote, the silver of the moonlight giving it a granite cast. His eyes glanced off her face, hard and hooded. "No."
She took a deep breath, and plunged on, despite his lack of invitation. "I'd listen if you wanted to talk."
"Thanks, Cade. Not tonight."
She felt shut out. Rejected. But then what had she ever done to earn Dace's trust or respect? She made a move to leave and was surprised by the restraining hand on her arm.
"Don't go."
She looked at him with question. His voice had been husky, faintly imploring. As if he too, at some point this night, had wrestled with the ghosts of loneliness.
"We need moments like this, you and I. Quiet moments, filled with dark skies and stars. A resting time."
"Between battles?" she offered wryly. But she was glad he wanted her to stay here with him, sharing the night. It took some of the sting out of his earlier refusal to let her into his private world. He wouldn't give her his past, but perhaps it meant
something that he would want to share a small piece of the present, this moment, with her.
He smiled, his teeth white through the darkness. The guarded look had relaxed in his face. "Something like that/'
"Redheads aren't terrifically good at being quiet," she informed him lightly, but then she let the silence wrap itself around her, and allowed herself to feel something she rarely felt in Dace's company: tranquillity. Comfort. Peace. He was right. They did need moments like this.
After a long time, she shivered regretfully. 'Tm starting to feel chilly. I think I'll go in now."
"Wait. I want to show you something." She heard the hesitation in his voice even though his movements were a study in casualness as he picked up a stick that lay on the ground. He stepped slightly away from Storm and into a pool of moonlit dust.
She moved over beside him.
He was doodling in the dust. He glanced up at her. "How's that for surprising?"
DACE.
CADE.
His name written above hers in the dust.
"Do you see it?" he asked softly.
She shook her head, bewildered.
"The same letters," he pointed out. "The same ingredients, only mixed up differently. I thought it was strange, that's all. A weird coincidence, if you believe in them."
He had pushed her away tonight when he'd felt vulnerable, but now she could feel the blue of his eyes invading her when she felt vulnerable. That look was in his eyes again. The look she hated.
"Don't look at me like that," she ordered crossly.
"Like what?"
"It's the way my father looks at me, as if he wants me to be what I once was."
He was silent for a time. "I guess that is what I want, too," he admitted softly.
"You don't even know what I once was."
"Your father gave me some of the videos he made of you riding."
She felt the blood drain from her face. She clenched her fists. "You son of a bitch! How dare you?"
The truce, that most pleasant interlude between battles, came to a crashing end.
He was meeting her anger levelly. "I don't see anything wrong with looking at them. In fact, I thought you'd approve,"
"Approve? Approve of you spying on me?"
"I didn't feel as if I was spying." He actually smiled. "Spying implies all kinds of intrigue. All I felt I was doing was learning in a brand-new way. A good way." He hesitated. "It wasn't unpleasant watching a beautiful woman ride her horse, but I sure as hell didn't feel like a Peeping Tom." He must have seen the expression in her face and read it accurately. "You are a beautiful woman. You don't believe that has changed, do you?"
"I'm not her any more," she said, her face absolutely frozen. "Why can't you all see that? Why can't anybody just care about me the way I am now? This instant?"
"Cadence," he looked stricken, "I was saying that I didn't care about you now "
"Don't call me that! Don't ever call me that again!" It wasn't the first time the long version of
her name had slipped off his lips. But before she had enjoyed the sound of her name coming off his lips just enough to ignore the slip. Not now.
"It's your name," he said, his voice as uncompromising as steel.
"It's her name!"
"Don't say that as though a part of you is dead."
"A part of me is dead. The part you all want back. The Cadence who rode horses and walked courses and danced till dawn and ran through meadows with flowers in her hair..."
"That's not the part anybody misses. It's got nothing to do with your damn legs. It's the light in your eyes "
"I told you before that I don't want your pity." She could hear the shrill wildness in her tone. "That's what this is all about, isn't it? A game. See if you can give me back my confidence. Give the poor, ugly cripple a real treat. Give her a kiss every now and then. I wouldn't be surprised if my father set you up "
"Stop it. I told you once before that nobody feels any pity for a wildcat. You're a self-pitying little witch, and I wouldn't kiss you for your father's entire fortune."
And, having said that, he took her in his arms and bestowed on her the most punishing kiss of her entire life. His lips were bruising on hers. He plundered her mouth, stealing her very breath from her.
She willed herself to give nothing back to him, despite the white-hot heat uncoiling within her. Her willpower had nearly spent itself, her ache overcoming her anger, when suddenly he stepped back from her. It was obvious he was furious at his own lack of control as well as furious with her.
They stood eyeing each other, silently, warily. His shoulders were heaving. She was trembling.
"I can't make love like a normal woman," she told him, her voice tight with frozen control. "I can't have babies like a normal woman."
The anger was gone instantly from his face. He stepped toward her.
"Oh, Cadence," he said softly, his voice rough around the edges. His eyes were awash with feeling, denim blue in their intensity. "Oh, Cadence."
Her tone was hard, and her eyes glittered hard, too. "So tell me that isn't pity I hear now, Dace Stanton," she challenged coldly.
He said nothing.
She turned and stamped away, never more aware of the eyes th
at watched her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"There's a small but very well-respected show in three weeks," Cadence told Dace. "I think if we worked really hard "
"I think we'd better talk about what happened last night," Dace cut her off smoothly.
"I am never going to talk about that," she stated with a cold finality that she hoped hid her intense embarrassment. She'd blurted out the most personal details of her life to this man! She'd acted as though he'd asked her to marry him when all he'd done was stolen a kiss on a moonlit night. He hadn't even kissed her out of passion. He'd been furiously angry.
The only way she knew to handle her acute embarrassment was to try and outrun it—by working them both nearly to death, if need be. Besides, maybe a common goal could divert this powerful electricity that leapt between them, channel it in a different—and safer—direction.
Dace was looking at her, shaking his head.
"How do you feel about ties?"
"Ties?" he asked, baffled.
"Well, we had some problems with the breeches. I'm just wondering if I'm going to have to hire a team of wrestlers to get you into a tie on show day."
Dace's fingers moved to his throat as though he were being strangled. "I don't wear ties," he told her grimly.
And she knew, mercifully, that the incident last night had been shelved. She felt her feet were comfortably back on solid ground when they spent the rest of the morning arguing amicably about ties and wrestlers.
It was a world she had missed, she thought poignantly, moving through the show grounds and sniffing the air. It smelled of horses and hay, and newly turned turf, and excitement. She'd forgotten how much energy and magic were at these smaller prize-money shows. This one was a Five—a good place to start Dace, though she hoped he would move quickly to Ones and One-As. A fist tightened in her stomach at the sheer audacity of her ambition, and she glanced around for Dace.