Dark Horse

by J. Carson Black

Dakota suppressed the apology that came to her lips. Did the woman think she wanted to see Black Oak go to some Fortune 500 exec with a yen to play weekend cowboy? Or worse, developed into a planned community? She could see the billboards now: THE MEADOWS AT BLACK OAK. FINANCING AVAILABLE. She hated the idea of seeing the broodmares and foals and stallions parade into the ring and then out to the horse vans parked by the barns, taking the heart’s blood of Black Oak with them.

  As she walked through the sunny foyer, Dakota tried not to look at the photos lining the walls, but it was impossible. Her eye had always been drawn to fine horses. There was no dearth of them on the whitewashed walls, posed in the winner’s circle at Tucson’s Rillito Racetrack, her father holding their bridles and beaming with pride. Dakota knew their names, race records, and eventual fates, just as some people memorized the begats in the Bible: Moltaqua, American Flyer, Shasta Pine. Most of the photographs were black-and-white, when her father was a young man. It was another era, the glory years of the late 1940s, when Tucson was the capital of quarter horse racing. Did the handsome, cocky young man in the photographs have any inkling that Rillito Racetrack, the busy hub of quarter horse racing, would become a wishbone for elected officials, horsemen, and developers? Or that his own famous Black Oak Farm would slip into oblivion? Could he have foreseen that the white-painted pasture fences would peel and sag, that with every strong breeze more of the faded Spanish tiles would slide from the roofs?

  No. Coke had the heart of a gambler.

  Dakota paused, unwilling to cross the threshold and meet with the unpleasantness on the other side.

  She remembered her father’s face as he spoke into the camera, capturing his imagined audience with those intense tawny eyes, so like her own. “Hold on to her, Dakota. This one’s special.”

  This one. How many “this ones” had there been in the last ten years?

  But maybe Shameless was special. Coke had certainly put his money where his mouth was. He’d paid her nomination fees faithfully since she was a yearling for the Triple Crown of quarter horse racing: the Ruidoso, Rainbow, and All American Futurities, run at Ruidoso Downs, New Mexico. It was a lot of money to put out on an untried colt, a year before it would even run. Futurities were always a gamble, but because hundreds of owners made relatively small payments throughout the year, the end result was big money to the winner. Owners of a promising young horse had only two choices: pay incrementally larger fees as the year progressed, dropping out any time (should the colt be unable to run), or pay a whopping supplemental fee to get into the race. The supplemental fee for the All American—the crown jewel of quarter horse racing—was fifty thousand dollars.

  One million dollars went to the winner.

  If you had the right horse, it was a great investment. Shameless, sired by Black Oak’s premier stallion, Something Wicked, might be that good. Coke had only let her run full-out once, and the pace had been blistering—

  Dakota shook her head, hoping the motion would clear her mind. That was not a bug that would bite her again. Selling her father’s ranch was an unpleasant task, but it had to be done. She would do it because otherwise the creditors would do it for her—and because this was not her world anymore. It hadn’t been for ten years.

  She would go home to LA, forget all about Shameless and her father and the memories—both good and bad—that clung to Black Oak.

  Steeling herself, Dakota opened the door and strode out into the sunshine.

  The day wore on like a record whose needle was stuck in a groove, replaying the same depressing refrain. At noon, the proceedings broke off for a catered lunch in the gaily striped tent on the lawn, but Dakota wasn’t hungry. She’d seen too many of her father’s beloved horses parade through the portable ring to a lukewarm reception and uniformly low prices.

  Restless, she walked down the row of stalls in the two-year-old barn, catching snatches of conversation as potential buyers looked over the horses on this afternoon’s program.

  She turned the comer and bumped into a woman deeply involved in conversation. “Excuse me,” Dakota said.

  The woman dismissed Dakota with a curt nod and leaned toward the man she was talking to. The epitome of cowgirl chic, the woman was so thin that her leopard-print sweater looked as if it hadn’t left the hanger. Black leggings, lizard-skin cowgirl boots, a black Bolero hat ringed with conchos, and hunks of glittery jewelry completed the look. Dakota started to walk around her. The man, who had been half in shadow, turned slightly.

  A jolt of recognition shot through Dakota. “Clay.”

  From his six-foot-two height, Clay Pearce studied her with midnight eyes that revealed nothing more complicated than pleasure. “McAll—Dakota. I was looking for you.”

  Dakota’s throat closed. She fancied everyone in the barn could hear the pounding of her heart. When at last she could unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth, she asked Clay, “What are you doing here?”

  Clay gestured with his program. “There are a couple of broodmares I like. You’re looking well.”

  The woman glanced at her. Her face was as flawless as any top fashion model. “Clay, if you want to see that filly you’re so crazy about, we’d better hurry. They’re about to start.” Her voice carried the unmistakable drawl of west Texas.

  “Just a minute, Rita. I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine.”

  Friend? Dakota thought with unaccustomed bitterness.

  Despair assailed her in a staggering wave. Her divorce from Clay was the biggest failure of her life. She had assumed that her feelings had gone the way of the memories she’d so carefully blocked out. But now . . . he looked so damn good, it squeezed the heart. The ten years had made him even more handsome and assured, endowing him with an aura of masculinity that a boy of twenty-two could not hope for. He was nothing like the pathetic lovesick fool of her fantasies. The one who had paid for dumping her in a thousand ignominious ways—by drinking himself into oblivion, gambling his money away, and visiting hookers and catching a dread disease.

  If any of these things had happened to him, it certainly hadn’t left its mark.

  “Dakota, this is Rita DeWeil. Rita, Dakota McAllister. Dakota owns the filly and everything else on this farm.”

  The woman’s stainless-steel eyes sharpened to a knife edge. “You own Black Oak?” Her tone implied that she found it hard to believe.

  Dakota attempted a smile. “As strange as that may seem.”

  “It’s a shame you have to sell now, when prices are so depressingly low,” Rita said. She took Clay’s arm and tilted her perfect profile up to his. Dakota had the feeling that everything this woman did was for effect.

  She had to admit the effect was stunning.

  “Come on. Clay. I’ve just got to see the Something Wicked filly,” the woman said, no doubt referring to Shameless. “No matter how fast you say she is, she’s still an untried filly. I doubt she’ll break the bank.”

  “You go on,” Clay said. “I want to talk to Dakota for a minute.”

  Dakota felt her face grow hot. “That’s all right, Clay. I’m pretty busy myself right now.” She turned to go.

  His hand clamped on her wrist, gentle and strong at the same time. “I have to talk to you. Now.”

  Dakota pulled her hand out of his grasp as if she’d been bitten. She stared into his eyes and saw that he was serious. “All right,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

  Rita’s wide mouth straightened into a slash. “Well, hurry up. Once the bidding starts, it’ll be hard to find a seat. So terribly nice to meet you, Cheyenne.”

  “That’s Dakota. We’re a different tribe altogether.”

  “Dakota.” She made it sound like an unsavory sex act.

  Then they were alone. Dakota tried to regain control of her emotions, but it was difficult. Clay always had been larger than life, and now, standing in a shaft of sunlight, the dust motes snowing down around him, he seemed to contain a magnetic field that held her in its sway. What made this
man stand out so completely? His hair, shiny and dark as sable? His strong, well-drawn features? Other men were just as good-looking. No, his presence commanded people to pay attention to him. Even as a boy that had been true, but it was many times as potent now. He looked nothing at all like the redneck Clay of her revenge fantasies; he wore a jade-green chambray shirt, sleeves rolled up, and pleated tan trousers. She remembered the sandcast, silver-and-turquoise bracelet on one wrist, part of the Pearce family collection.

  At one time, she’d been part of the Pearce family collection. And she’d felt about as useless and ornamental as that bracelet on his forearm.

  The silence grew awkward. At last, Clay said, “I’m sorry about Coke.”

  “Thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful.” Did she have to sound like an automatic recording? It was obvious that he’d rattled her.

  “Didn’t you get my calls? I left two on your answering machine.”

  Startled, she asked, “When?”

  “Thursday.”

  “I’ve been here all week.”

  “Hasn’t Norm talked to you? Given you any advice?”

  What did her father’s lawyer have to do with him? “If you’ll forgive me, I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”

  He sighed. “Maybe not. But I promised Coke I’d try.”

  ‘Try what?” Her father had always gotten along well with Clay. Coke had been against the divorce. There were times when Dakota had wondered just whose side Coke was on. “What is this all about, Clay?”

  “You know he wanted you to keep Black Oak.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t, or you won’t?”

  “I don’t have the money. This place is falling apart; there are creditors at every door, and—” She broke off. “I don’t have to explain anything to you!”

  “You haven’t found a buyer yet, have you?”

  She shook her head. Norm had told her it probably wouldn’t happen anytime soon. People weren’t in the market for big horse ranches, and Black Oak was isolated enough that it was unlikely developers would want it either. The Meadows at Black Oak were a long way off yet. She hoped a breeder would buy the ranch, but most of the serious quarter horse breeders liked Texas.

  She only hoped the sale of the broodmares and yearlings would help pay the property taxes and give the creditors something to chew on until she could find a buyer.

  “Some horses aren’t on the program,” Clay said.

  “I’m keeping Cochita.” Coke had given Cochita to her for her sixteenth birthday. “She and Canelo Red are going to my stepfather’s place.”

  “He was a good stud in his day. I’m glad you’re keeping him.”

  The last thing she wanted was Clay’s approval. “Norm’s negotiating with the Lone Star Stallion Station for Something Wicked and a few of our best mares, but we’re keeping them through the summer. We’ll honor the outside mares already booked to him this spring.” She realized she was babbling. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to be—”

  Again, he grabbed her hand. “You know Coke didn’t want you to sell that filly.”

  She was tired of taking the blame for this. Tired of all the free advice and resentful looks. From her father’s lawyer to the pool man, everyone was an expert on her affairs. “Do you think I do? I have no choice!”

  “You have money.”

  “You’re talking about my trust fund? There’s not enough money in ten trust funds to keep this ranch afloat!”

  “I’ll bet it’s enough to race one filly one season. If you knew what a mistake you’re making! Christ!” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Do you have any idea what kind of payoff you’d get if you won even one of those races? Look what your father’s already put into her. Three thousand dollars in nomination fees alone, feeding, vet bills, training—”

  “It’s peanuts compared to what I’d have to pay just to get her to the trials in Ruidoso,” snapped Dakota. “I’d have to ship her, stable her there all summer, find a trainer, pay another thirty-five hundred dollars in nomination and entry fees—and there’s no guarantee she’d even get in the race!”

  He looked at her with new respect. “You have thought about it then.”

  “Of course I’ve thought about it!” What did he think she was anyway? A complete novice?

  “Then you know, with an untried filly, even with the potential she shows, you won’t get anywhere near the price you’d get for her if she won even one of those races. The Ruidoso Futurity trials are in May. The Rainbow in July. You could triple your investment and restore your father’s reputation at the same time. As it is, you’re pouring all the money that went into her right down the drain.”

  “It’s better than pouring it down a black hole,” Dakota retorted. “And that’s what horse racing is all about! What right do you have to tell me what to do anyway? You gave up that privilege a long time ago.”

  She’d struck home with that one. At last Clay said, “You’re right. I shouldn’t be pushing you like this.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” she agreed.

  He grinned. To her dismay, his grin was even more disarming than it used to be. “I’m going to make one last pitch, and after that I’ll leave you alone. Deal?”

  Dakota was surprised at the bleakness she felt at the prospect of Clay leaving her alone. She lifted her chin. “Try your worst.”

  “Every man has a dream, McAllister,” he said, using her last name as he’d always done, even when they were married. “Your father believed this filly could win the All American. Do you really want to deny him that last wish?”

  His words might have come from inside her own mind. She’d played this particular tennis match in her head since she’d watched her father’s videotape. “Even if I wanted to keep her, it’s too late. The auctioneer won’t let me pull her out now.”

  “You could buy her back. The consignor may bid on any horse in the sale. Norm told me the estate will guarantee your personal check for up to fifty thousand dollars. He put that stipulation in himself.”

  “Why’d he do that?”

  “In case you changed your mind.”

  “And why would he think I’d change my mind?” But she knew. Clay had persuaded him. Seething with anger, she said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d stay out of my business affairs in future.”

  “I only made the suggestion, knowing what your dad would want. Norm agreed. We both thought you should have the option.”

  “You must think I’m made of money.”

  His eyes, dark as the night sky, scrutinized her. She knew he was assessing the cost of the suit she was wearing. Quintessential rich bitch, compliments of her mother. And of course, her stepfather, who had made a fortune in personal computers back in the eighties. The man she owed her allegiance to, far more than to the domineering man who had been her blood father.

  “Darling.” Rita was back. “They’re about to bring out the Streakin Six mare. You promised you’d tell me how much to bid.”

  Darling. She left no doubt how she felt about Clay.

  For his part, Clay certainly seemed to like it. He pushed away from the barn wall, his body loose-muscled and fluid as a cat’s. “I’m sorry, Dakota. I promised your dad I’d try. I hope next time we meet under better circumstances.”

  And then he was gone.

  Dakota walked through the cool, shadowy barn, painfully aware of her heart slamming against her chest wall, the blood thumping in her ears. Just the sight of Clay had sent adrenaline rushing through her like an undammed river, carrying with it all the disturbing debris of a decade ago. Memories, uprooted from a past she’d thought long-buried, surfaced on a current of panic, anger, and despair.

  Judging from Rita’s possessive attitude, Clay had moved on. Why couldn’t she?

  But I have, a defiant voice in her head answered.

  In LA, Dakota’s life ticked along at a satisfying pace. She had just signed with the William Morris Agency—no mean feat for an actor—
and had landed small parts in three movies.

  That was her world. There was no room for a man like Clay Pearce in it. None at all.

  Here at Black Oak, Dakota was out of her element. She was the bad guy about to sell the ranch that had been in her family for over one hundred years, the fool about to throw away a chance at the All American Futurity. From the moment she arrived, the pressure to keep Black Oak had been unrelenting. Pressure from the Black Oak employees, pressure from Norm Fredman, and now, pressure from her ex-husband.

  Dakota dragged her mind back to the present, shutting Clay behind the door she had thought was bolted, boarded up, and cobwebbed with age.

  This might be her last chance to look at the filly in her possession, the last chance to prove to herself she was right in selling her.

  She reached Shameless’s stall. Most people were at the auction, so Dakota had a few moments alone with her. Maybe she could puzzle out just what made this horse a potential All American winner.

  If winners were selected solely on looks, it would be no contest. In the dim light of the stall, her coat had the muted sheen of dark velvet, but Dakota had seen her in the pasture. Outdoors, the highlights on the filly’s flanks and muzzle ran the gamut from rich mahogany to the color of burnt buttered toast, depending on the angle of the sun.

  Shameless was perfectly balanced. She had inherited her sire’s strong, sloping shoulder, fine head, and glorious symmetry. Although Something Wicked was mostly thoroughbred, he sired quarter horses exclusively. This was not unusual. In the last forty years, thoroughbreds had been used to refine the racing quarter horses, but the breed itself originated in Virginia in Colonial times. A sturdy pony who could run blistering short match races, the quarter horse later moved west and began his career as a cow pony. Now he had come full circle.

  From her dam, Shameless had inherited the quarter horse muscularity and powerful hindquarters that could propel her far beyond any thoroughbred up to a quarter mile. Her dam was Dash To Judgment, sired by the most successful quarter horse stallion in recent years, Dash for Cash. That quality showed.

  But more than the filly’s quiet beauty, Dakota was arrested by a less tangible quality. This horse knew she was special. It showed in the way she stood, head slightly raised, ears casually pricked toward Dakota. Like a queen granting an audience, she waited politely for Dakota to state her case.