Every Second Counts

by D. Jackson Leigh

  Ryder grinned at Skyler and Tory, and shrugged. “That was Claire. She’s an FAA official.”

  Tory tossed the black duffel into Ryder’s arms and arched an eyebrow.

  “Would you believe we met when she strip-searched me in Dallas?” Ryder glanced down the hallway where Claire had disappeared. “She was, uh, the unexpected delay in my flight plans.”

  “I’d believe just about anything where you’re concerned,” Skyler said, grabbing the shoulder of Ryder’s hoodie and dragging her toward the exit.

  Tory’s nostrils flared and she wrinkled her nose. “Christ, you smell like a brothel. You’re not getting in my truck until we stop by a restroom and you stuff that thing you’re packing into your bag and wash up.”

  Ryder laughed. “Still campaigning for the nunnery, huh, Tory?”

  Damn, it was good to see them again. They fell back into their familiar roles as if they’d never been apart—Skyler the alpha, Ryder the restless, and Tory the pure-hearted, who was the glue that held the three of them together. “It’s okay. You two are getting up in age. I don’t mind handling the hot ones for ya.”

  Skyler hooted and grabbed Ryder in a good-natured headlock. “I see that bull’s horn didn’t puncture your ego, half-pint.”

  “Stop it, you Neanderthal.” Ryder extricated herself from Skyler’s grip. “I can’t believe you’re still calling me that. You guys are only a few inches taller than me.”

  Skyler cocked her head at Tory. “What do you think? Should we let her test her skills on your Tennessee firecracker?”

  Tory grinned at the mention of her feisty partner. “Now, that’s just mean. The kid’s already injured, Skyler. Leah would cut her to shreds.”

  Ryder strutted between them. “Bring her on. No woman alive can resist the old Ryder charm.”

  Skyler shoved her toward the restroom entrance. “You keep thinking that, half-pint. Tory and I will be around to pick you up when you find your ass in the dirt with seven seconds to go before the buzzer.”

  Chapter Three

  A determined songster in a nearby tree and the scrape of Bridgette LeRoy’s charcoal pencil across her sketchpad were the only sounds as she worked to capture the antics of Sure Thing, a midnight-black Chincoteague pony, cavorting with a larger yearling in the pasture below her. The slightly overcast morning provided perfect lighting as she sat on the trunk of her car and observed the two colts in their mock battle over a herd of imaginary mares.

  The larger colt clumsily half reared and pushed forward to knock Sure off-balance with his heavier weight. But the Chincoteague was fast and agile. He leapt to the side and reared high to plant his front hooves against his friend’s shoulder.

  Bridgette drew quickly, ignoring detail to outline a panel of poses. She congratulated herself. She couldn’t wait to show Leah. This was good.

  Her life was good. She’d been skeptical when her cousin, Cheryl, called her about a teaching position open at Earnhardt College. She had always been a world traveler, a vagabond artist, but had reached a point in her life where she needed something constant, something solid. So she applied for the job and discovered that she loved teaching budding artists.

  When Bridgette moved to Cherokee Falls, Tory became her first friend, a friend with intimate benefits. The nature of their relationship changed, however, when Leah captured Tory’s heart. Although the sex between Tory and her had been hot and wonderful, Bridgette was fine giving that up for a more traditional friendship because she couldn’t offer her heart as Leah did.

  Despite her past with Tory, she and Leah became friends, too. They also were business partners in a very successful series of children’s books with Sure as the subject. Leah, the writer, usually came up with the ideas and the words, but Bridgette was delighted to be able to supply the subject of their next story. She could easily develop the figures on her paper into a lesson on bullying.

  The colts’ joust lasted a few more minutes before it became a game of tag and they disappeared over a hill at a full gallop. With the yearlings gone, Bridgette began to fill in detail while her memory was still fresh. She was thoroughly absorbed when a piercing whistle jerked her attention from her work.

  The thirty acres behind East Barn were divided into three pastures, each extending outward from the building to allow easy access to different groups of horses. In the narrow pasture that ran up to the back of the barn, a figure stood inside the fence.

  Bridgette stared. Dark hair just touching the shoulders implied that the person was female, but the muscular shoulders encased in a form-fitting black T-shirt seemed to belong to a lean teen-aged boy.

  The boy raised his hand to his mouth and released another sharp whistle.

  A white Arabian appeared at the top of the rise and stopped. The horse stared down at the source of the summons and then lifted its nose to test the morning air.

  “Walker!”

  The horse twitched his ears forward and then charged down the hill at a full gallop, his tail a flag held high in the wind.

  Bridgette flipped to a clean page and began to draw, glancing up between strokes of her pencil to capture the scene as it unfolded.

  The stallion was a testament to his Arabian ancestry, the oldest and purest blood stock in the world and the tap root of so many other equine breeds. Strong withers led to an elegant neck, and his broad forehead tapered down to a delicate muzzle with large nostrils. His sleek body shimmered as the clouds broke and the sun touched his snowy coat.

  Then, as suddenly as he began his charge, the stallion halted several feet from the boy, scenting and blowing to confirm the identity of the interloper. He cautiously sniffed the offered hand. His ears worked back and forth, and then he rumbled a low greeting and stepped forward to gently bump his head against the boy’s chest.

  The breeze carried low, indistinguishable words. The boy stroked and then wrapped his arms around the stallion’s arched neck. After a moment, the boy stepped back and wiped his hands over his cheeks. Grabbing a handful of mane, he leapt onto the stallion’s back.

  The horse wheeled and ran so fast, Bridgette half expected him to unfurl wings and take off into the sky. But he stayed aground, his rider hunched low against his neck, urging him faster until they were suddenly gone.

  It was so magical, Bridgette marveled at how easy it would be to believe that they, indeed, had disappeared into a cloud rather than over the pasture’s ridge.

  “That must be Skyler’s and Tory’s friend.”

  Absorbed in her drawing, Bridgette jumped at the voice but smiled when she turned to its source.

  “Sorry, I thought you heard me drive up.” Jessica propped her hip against the warm metal of the car. She gestured toward one of the golf-cart-sized utility vehicles they used to travel among the five barns at the nationally ranked training facilities of the Cherokee Falls Equestrian Center. She and Skyler were partners in life and in business. Jessica managed the training center, and Skyler devoted her time to their program for troubled kids.

  “I was too absorbed in what I was drawing.” Bridgette rested her sketchpad in her lap. “What did you say?”

  “I was wondering if that was the friend Skyler and Tory went to pick up in Richmond. Did you talk to her?” Jessica’s pale-blue eyes scanned the ridge for the rider.

  “That was a woman on the stallion?” Hmmm. “I don’t think she saw me. You haven’t met her?”

  “No. I was taking a nap when they got back from the airport. I guess Sky didn’t want to wake me.” Jessica sighed and absently rubbed her belly, eight-months swollen with the daughter she and Skyler anxiously awaited. “This little one takes all my energy.”

  Although Bridgette had never contemplated pregnancy herself, Jessica truly glowed with it. “I’m surprised Skyler went all the way to Richmond. Leah said she hardly lets you out of her sight these days.”

  Jessica laughed. “She really wanted to go, so I promised I would rest while they were gone, and Leah swore she would be only a phone call away
.”

  “So you haven’t met their friend before?” The boyish physique intrigued Bridgette.

  “No. Sky said the three of them were running buddies when they were kids, but she hasn’t been back to Cherokee Falls for more than ten years.”

  “That horse seemed to know her.”

  “That’s her stallion that’s been boarding here the whole time. Sky said she raised him from a baby, but I’m surprised he remembered her since she’s been out of town so long.”

  Bridgette shaded her eyes and looked out across the pasture. “What brings her back here now? The horse?”

  “An injury. She’s a professional rider.” Jessica looked down at the knee Bridgette knew held the titanium joint that had ended her riding career. “I know what that’s like. I don’t think she has any family or a partner, so I told Sky to call her up and insist she come here to rehab.”

  Bridgette frowned. She hadn’t noticed an injury when the woman swung up on the horse and rode off at a gallop.

  “Anyway, Sky left a note saying they’d be at Creek Barn breeding some mares, and I was headed over there when I saw you. Leah’s coming over later and we’re grilling steaks to welcome our guest. Can you join us?”

  Bridgette closed her sketchpad. “I’d love to, but I’ve got a faculty meeting in an hour and a class to teach tonight.”

  “Too bad.” Jessica wiggled her eyebrows. “I understand she’s something of a charmer.”

  The woman had been too far away for Bridgette to see her face clearly, but she did find athletic women particularly attractive. “How long will she be here?”

  “I haven’t talked to her yet, but I’m sure it’ll be at least a couple of months.”

  Bridgette tossed her pad and chalks into the car. “Sorry I can’t stay, but I need to get going or I’ll be late to the meeting.”

  Jessica stepped back from the car. “Come find me next time you’re out here and I’ll introduce you. You two might hit it off.”

  She chuckled. Matchmaking was a burden all single lesbians had to endure. “Maybe I’ll do that. Say hey to everybody for me.”

  *

  Except for the reason behind it, Bridgette would have been grateful for the somber mood of the faculty meeting because it matched her own frame of mind. She’d been uncharacteristically unsettled lately. Perhaps the underlying uncertainty that had infused the college campus in recent months had caused it. Rumors of deep cuts in the college’s art department had been circulating and were the anticipated subject of this emergency gathering.

  William Blanchard, the department chairman, worked his way through his colleagues and stood at the end of the long conference table. “Please, everybody find a seat. I won’t take too much time.”

  “I hope we’re going to talk about how sweltering the studios were this summer,” the woman next to Bridgette said. “I know we’re having a budget crisis, but my students couldn’t work with sweat dripping onto their sketches, and they won’t be able to do anything this winter if their hands are numb from cold.”

  William ignored her and cleared his throat. “I just came from a meeting with the chancellor and the news isn’t good.”

  He waited while murmurs rippled through the group.

  “Enrollment is down over the past two years because student financial aid is declining at the federal and state levels. General fund-raising is off at least twenty percent, and several of our endowment’s more aggressive investments tanked with the market.”

  “I knew hiring that young idiot of a chancellor would be the end of us.”

  Bridgette wasn’t sure who spoke, but they all were thinking that.

  William held up his hand. “Chancellor Waite did gamble a bit, but we’re in no worse shape than most other private institutions. We’re all suffering.”

  “Just give us the bottom line, William. How big’s the cut?” asked Wesley Grant, a tenured professor whose job was secure unless the entire college closed. Bridgette was an artist-in-residence, a program that, while valued, would be on the chopping block long before a tenured position. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what was coming.

  “Next year, the college will fund the positions of only tenured faculty and one administrator.” He had to raise his voice over the angry din. “And the rest of the art-department budget will be cut twenty percent.”

  “We can’t operate like that.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “We’ll lose more students.”

  The protests quieted when Jonathan Frank stood. A widely respected senior member of the faculty, the tall, white-haired sculptor had a quiet but commanding presence.

  “The art department is the foundation of this institution. Earnhardt College may be small, but it was built on our reputation. And this department has enjoyed international recognition because of our diverse faculty.” He paused to scan the faces of his fellow faculty. “We said nothing when this new chancellor reallocated our art resources to other departments because he wanted to ‘broaden our appeal.’ We gave up a third of our studio space to new science labs. We broadened our class offerings to accommodate non-art majors.” He fastened a scathing glare on poor William. “Enough. This is not acceptable.”

  Everyone looked at William expectantly.

  “I’m sorry, Jon. What you say is very true, but my hands are tied. The board of trustees supports Chancellor Waite. Drastic times mean drastic measures.”

  Bridgette frowned. Although her art sales and investments provided most of her income, she loved teaching. She could find a teaching position at another institution, but she had made friends and found a home here in Cherokee Falls. She looked around the table. “Surely we can do something.”

  William stood to take the floor again and Jonathan sank back into his seat. “Yes, we can raise our own endowment, independent of the college. We will fund our own teaching positions and pay our own staff.”

  Someone grumbled. “Easier said than done.”

  “Dr. Blanchard is right,” Bridgette said. “This department has produced some very notable artists, whom some of you sitting around this table have mentored.” She pushed her chair back and stood. “Surely they wouldn’t let their alma mater suffer these dire cuts without offering to help.”

  Her colleagues’ faces showed a mix of emotions.

  “Are you suggesting that we beg from our former students?”

  “I signed up to teach art, not whore for Earnhardt College.”

  “Asking for money is so belittling.”

  Bridgette held up her hand for silence. “We don’t have to solicit money. We can ask for art donations, hold an auction, and pledge the proceeds to the new endowment. It won’t be enough, of course, but it’s a start.”

  “That’s an excellent idea, Ms. LeRoy.” William slapped his hands together. “I’m appointing you chairwoman. Jonathan, Amelia, and Justin, you also are on the committee to get this off the ground. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have a meeting in a few minutes with an art patron. Instead of asking for money, maybe I’ll ask for something from his collection for this auction.”

  Bridgette pushed her way through the other faculty members—milling about and complaining about the meeting’s abrupt end—and hurried to catch up with William.

  “Dr. Blanchard, wait. Surely you’d want to appoint someone more senior in the department. I’ve only been here a little over two years. I don’t want to cause any hard feelings.”

  She followed him into the elevator and the doors slid shut as he pressed the button for the first floor.

  “In case you didn’t catch on, most members of the senior faculty consider fund-raising an odious task. They’ll be happy to let you do the work.” He sighed. “I’m more worried that Jonathan and Justin will give you precious little help beyond contacting the few former students they’ve mentored. Hopefully, Amelia will assist you with the details. Women are so much better than men at planning events.”

  Bridgette resisted rolling her eyes. It irritated he
r that men liked to claim masculine shortcomings as an excuse for laziness.

  The elevator doors opened and they stepped into the long lobby where an impressive gallery of artwork was on display. William stopped and gazed around him, as if taking one last look.

  “I’ve spent the past fifteen years, as have many department chairmen before me, collecting the artwork displayed in this building. I consider it my life’s greatest accomplishment.”

  He rubbed at his temple. For the first time, Bridgette realized the weight of the burden this man carried for all of them.

  “I’d lobby to sell every damned precious piece of it if that would save this school.” His voice wavered and he paused to clear his throat. “But, technically, it belongs to the college, not the art school. It’s part of our institutional assets that secure the college’s bond rating.”

  He turned to Bridgette, his gaze determined. “You have good ideas, current contacts in New York, and, despite your short time here, the respect of your fellow artists. I’m counting on you to help us, Ms. LeRoy.”

  Bridgette stared at his back as he walked away. He hesitated at the open door and turned to her. “Perhaps you’d like to start by painting or sculpting something for the auction. Prime the pump, so to speak.” He didn’t wait for her answer.

  She plopped down on a nearby bench and rested her head in her hands. Other than the children’s books she’d been illustrating, she hadn’t produced a single marketable piece in the past two years. Saving the art school might be easier than curing her recent dry spell.

  Chapter Four

  “You might want to lighten up on the beer until you eat something.”

  The late-afternoon sun that had been warming her almost blinded Ryder when she opened her eyes, and she squinted to focus on Tory standing over her.

  “I’m okay. Just tired. Long day.”

  “Leg okay? I see you’ve put the brace back on.”