Dark Horse

by J. Carson Black

  Tanner handed her his card, all business, now. “I’m takin’ my horses up to Ruidoso first week of May. I’ll be glad to bring your filly with ‘em.”

  Dakota was still coming to grips with the fact that this was the man who had saved her father’s life. “You live in Sonoita?” she asked, wondering why it was she’d never met her father’s savior before.

  “We do now, ever since I hooked up with Coke again. Before that, we moved around a lot.” He motioned to his daughter. “Lucy goes to school here.”

  Lucy’s bangs fell forward over her eyes as she patted Alydar, whose back end wriggled engagingly. Dakota felt a stab of pity. It must be a hard life, moving around with the races. Summering in one place, wintering in another.

  Tanner stuck his thumbs in his belt loops and looked down at the ground, rocking on his heels. “You probably have a lot on your mind, what with Coke just dying and all, but I wouldn’t leave that filly too long. She’ll need to be in top shape if she’s gonna run against the best horses in the country.”

  Dakota wanted to hire him on the spot. He was the obvious choice. He’d worked with Shameless before; he knew her. And more important, he was the man who had saved Coke’s life. Obviously, Coke had trusted him. Despite the hint of desperation in Tanner’s eyes and his obvious attempts to ingratiate himself, she wanted to believe that his desire to work with such a fine filly had made him overeager. And of course, he had a teenage daughter to support. “Thank you for coming by, Mr. Tanner. I do have a lot to think about, but I’ll probably call you in a few days, and we can talk about it some more.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. You hire me, you won’t be sorry.”

  Dakota watched father and daughter climb into the cab of the old Chevy truck. She saw the truck roll down the incline, heard Tanner pop the clutch and the engine cough to life.

  A faulty starter probably. How impressive could you get?

  Dakota shook her head and wondered how it happened that Tanner might be the answer to her problems.

  FIVE

  The oak tree leaned over the curve, its shadow pooling on the dirt road. Bunches of golden Arizona cottontop shivered in the breeze, their frayed topknots opaquely translucent, like pearls.

  The tree’s wound suppurated, black sap trying to heal the traumatized bark. Dakota stepped down from Cochita.

  So this was where it had happened. Her mouth went dry as she saw the sparklets of turquoise glass mixed with dirt, gravel, and a few black threads of blown retread.

  It seemed unreal to her, as if this tragedy had happened to another person. She had seen Coke only a few times in the last ten years, and every single time they’d fought. Maybe it was the only way they could maintain any kind of relationship at all. Two strong wills in an endless tug-of-war over unimportant things, so busy fighting over petty details that they never noticed there was nothing else between them.

  Had it always been that way?

  Her childhood had been happy. No major traumas, no verbal or physical abuse. Coke wasn’t around all that much—he spent a great deal of time traveling during the racing season—but she remembered good times with him. They went to basketball games. He gave her a horse of her own for her fifth birthday over her mother’s objections. Every December, he took her up to the nearby mountains to find their Christmas tree. And when they stayed at the cabin in Ruidoso, they would fish in the Ruidoso River, below the house.

  Sometimes Coke would take her fishing at Bonito Lake. Just the two of them, father and daughter, for the whole day. In fact, it was her mother who had always been the odd man out—until Dakota turned ten. That was when her parents had divorced, and she and her mother moved to California. She’d never gone fishing with her father again.

  Suddenly, the grief that had eluded Dakota since she’d learned of Coke’s death crashed into her. Her heart dropped like ballast into a deep void that terrified her, for it was a place in herself she had not known existed.

  Tears blurred her eyes. Coke might have been stubborn and opinionated, but was still her father. And now he was gone.

  She was so distracted she didn’t hear the three-wheeler until it shot over the hill. Cochita heard it, though. She jumped straight into the air like someone lit a cherry bomb under her.

  Dakota, who had grown up with the First Law of Horsemanship—never give up the reins without a fight—found herself ploughing through the dirt, the leather tearing off her glove, a furrow burning in her palm—the reins jerking out of her hands. Cochita took off for home.

  The asshole on the ATV gunned his motor, described a doughnut around the tree, and drove off in the other direction. Dakota doubted he was too put off by the sight of her middle finger, but she was heartened that her reflexes were still in working order.

  Her hand felt like someone had sewn gravel into it with an upholstery needle. She stood up, slapped her hat against her jeans, and started walking up Washboard Road. The entrance to Black Oak was about four or five miles from here, she guessed, and then it was another three miles to the main ranch house.

  She heard a truck engine and, whispering a fervent prayer of thanks, stuck out a thumb. A Dodge Ram 350 drew abreast of her. “You make it to the buzzer?”

  Of all the damn people to show up on this lonely road, it had to be her ex! “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

  “You look like a bronc just threw you. Just wondered if you made the time.”

  “Very funny.”

  He leaned over to the passenger side and opened the door. “Go ahead and get in.”

  The thought of owing Clay anything, even a ride home, made her cringe.

  He folded his arms over the steering wheel. The sun picked out the dark hairs on his strong, bronzed hands. Hands that had once known Dakota intimately. “It’s a cold day for a walk,” he said. “Particularly such a long one.”

  The wind burrowed into the nooks and crannies of her jacket, but Dakota wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the memory of Clay touching her that made her shiver. What made her react like this? He wasn’t offering to have sex with her, just drive her home.

  “I was headed over to your place anyway.”

  Dakota realized she had no choice. “Thanks,” she said, hopping in.

  “I’m glad living in LA hasn’t taken away all your horse sense, McAllister.” Clay aimed the heater vent in Dakota’s direction.

  “The name’s Dakota.” She knew she sounded prickly. “I’m sorry,” she added, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m just mad. Some jerk on an ATV came flying over the hill and spooked Cochita. He could have killed us both.”

  “They’re tearing hell out of the public land around here.”

  “If Cochita’s hurt—”

  “She looked fine to me. Last I saw her she was kicking up her heels and congratulating herself on giving you the slip. You must be out of practice.”

  “I am not!”

  “You can’t be any great shakes if a twenty-year-old mare can throw you.”

  “She didn’t throw me. Besides, you know what she’s like.”

  “Wily as a coyote, slippery as an eel.” Clay quoted Dakota’s long-ago description of Cochita. “As I recall, she used to toss you once a week.”

  Dakota didn’t want to talk about old times. “What did you want to see me about?”

  “A couple of things. For one, I’ve got a couple of mares I’d like to breed to Something Wicked. And I wanted to thank you for buying Shameless back.”

  “I didn’t buy her for you.”

  “Okay, you bought her for Coke. ‘Course, if you weren’t so damn pigheaded, you wouldn’t have had to buy her back in the first place, but progress is progress.”

  “Coke was my father, not yours.”

  “I’m glad to hear you admit it.”

  She didn’t deign to answer, and they rode in silence to the ranch. Dakota was relieved to see the buckskin mare in the corral; at least the old girl hadn’t paid for her fun with a heart attack. The stud manager, Dan
Bolin, was carrying Dakota’s saddle and bridle back to the barn. When he saw her, he grinned and gave her the thumbs-up.

  Clay followed Dakota across the faded Bermuda lawn to the house. She was aware of him at her elbow and hoped he wouldn’t touch her. She didn’t think she could stand it if he did. As they gained the walk, Clay said, “Coke said he was going to have the place painted this summer.”

  Dakota stared sadly up at her childhood home, thinking of all the things her father never had a chance to do. The house would still be painted—but only to help it sell.

  The rambling, white hacienda once defined Spanish-style elegance. In the twenties, Dakota’s grandfather had owned a Hollywood movie studio. He’d hosted hunting and packing trips for his fellow movie moguls and weekend getaways for stars and rodeo queens. Poolside parties and lavish dinners had been a daily affair at Black Oak.

  Dakota reflected that what had been in vogue in the twenties looked strangely out of place now. The red- and white-striped aluminum awnings hooding the windows would have looked more suitable on a funeral home. Rust streaked the stuccoed walls under rain gutters badly in need of repair. The arched picture windows were too narrow. Inside, built-in bookcases, cabinets, and cubbyholes conspired with the myriad of photos and western paintings on the walls to imbue the house with a cluttered, genteel shabbiness.

  Alice was vacuuming. “Let’s go to the study.” Dakota walked through the foyer, crossing a series of terraced, sloping floors, which followed the topography of the hill. Clay paused at the blue French doors opening onto the courtyard and gazed at the view: flagstone paving, a swimming pool, and beyond, a belt of fat Aleppo pines.

  The pool looked like a rectangular-cut aquamarine, sparkling in the sunlight. It, like the house, had seen better days. Years ago, there had been a fountain in the shallow end. Now only a plastered-over pipe remained. The two-tiered diving board stand looked like an oil derrick. Dakota tried not to think of all the times she and Clay had competed with each other, doing backflips and somersaults off the high board, or sunned near the pool’s edge, talking about their future together.

  “Can you still do a perfect belly flop off the high dive?” Clay asked her.

  “Can you still do a perfect swan dive off a Brahma bull?”

  He grinned. “I guess neither of us is what we used to be.”

  As they entered Coke’s study, Dakota looked around the jumble of horse blankets, tack, newspapers, and magazines piled everywhere, wondering where Clay could sit. She’d been afraid to throw anything away, since there were any number of personal and business papers in among them. “Excuse the mess. Coke wasn’t much of a housekeeper.”

  She’d loved to spend time in the study when she was a child, listening to Coke conduct business with various horsemen or tell stories over drinks with friends. She used to gallop her stick horse over the expensive Oriental rugs, and many of the divots and chips in the red-enamel, poured concrete had been from her rough play. Only Coke’s collection of Americana—jukeboxes, signs, neon, and refurbished gum ball machines—was new to her. It had been a late hobby.

  Clay moved a horse blanket and sat down on a faded sofa. “I’ve always liked this room. It’s got a lived-in quality.”

  “That’s right. You spent a lot of time here.” She tried to keep the accusation out of her voice and failed.

  “You never liked that, did you? The way Coke and I remained friends after the divorce.”

  “Why should I care?” But she knew her feelings showed in her voice.

  “You tell me.”

  Dakota sighed. She knew she had no right to be jealous. But she also knew that her father had enjoyed playing people off against one another, and doubted his side of the friendship had been entirely innocent. She motioned to the bar. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You said you had some mares for Something Wicked?”

  As they discussed the mares, Dakota tried to maintain a professional distance. This was a business transaction. But she couldn’t ignore the way his shirtsleeves were rolled just to the elbows, revealing the long muscles of his forearms. Or how his booted ankle rested negligently on his knee, or the way his faded jeans fit his trim hips like soft, old velvet, remembering how she used to run her hand along his flat belly, pretending her palm was a car going over a road that dipped and swelled, slowing to a crawl over “the speed bump”—and suddenly she was whopped hard by the searing memory of the two of them tangling in wet-hot sheets of a summer’s afternoon, her fingers unzipping jeans just like these, marveling at his smooth, bronze skin.

  In that one bittersweet instant, she was overwhelmed by the memory of being eighteen and in love for the first time, her whole future stretching out before her like a day at the beach—before the grief, the anger, the disillusionment set in—and wished with all her heart she could go back to that time and start over.

  For one instant. Then she regained her sanity. She cleared her throat and tried to focus on the air just by his right ear. “Then it’s settled. You can send the mares anytime this month.”

  Although their business was concluded, Clay made no move to leave. Did he guess how he’d affected her? “It just occurred to me that I put you in a bind yesterday,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I talked you into keeping the filly.”

  “You didn’t talk me into anything. I make my own decisions.”

  “Do you have to be such an independent bruja?” He’d always called her that—Spanish for witch—and the memory jolted her. “I thought you could use some help.”

  “Help?”

  “You’ll need a trainer.”

  “I have a trainer.”

  It was Clay’s turn to look nonplussed. “I don’t see—”

  “I got one this morning.”

  He digested this information, his dark eyes skeptical. “Do you mind telling me who it is?”

  “His name is Jerry Tanner.”

  “Jerry Tanner? Are you kidding?”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I wouldn’t let him near one of my horses.”

  “Coke did.”

  That stopped his gallop. Clay rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Did you also know Coke fired him?”

  “Mr. Tanner told me about that. He said he had a disagreement with Dad over Blue Kite.”

  Clay snorted. “Some disagreement. Did he tell you he ran that horse against Coke’s specific instructions?”

  Dakota’s stomach sank. “He said Coke wanted to run him.”

  “And you believed him.” Clay’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t you know your father at all?”

  “I think you’d better go.”

  Clay stood up. “Just for the record, Jerry Tanner was responsible for that colt being destroyed. If you want to hire him, it’s your business. But if I were you I’d think about that filly and what you might be risking.” He walked toward the doorway.

  Dakota felt as if she’d been socked in the stomach. No one accused her of cruelty. Least of all Clay Pearce! “Just a minute!”

  He turned to face her, his dark eyes challenging.

  “Can we talk like two reasonable adults?” She sat down to keep her legs from shaking. “It’s taking me a minute to get all this. You’re telling me Jerry Tanner lied to me.”

  “If he said he didn’t want to run Blue Kite, yes.”

  “But he meant a lot to my father.”

  Clay sat down on the sofa opposite her. “You mean because of what happened in the war.”

  She nodded.

  “Tanner’s been collecting for a long time.”

  “He saved my father’s life!”

  “He didn’t have to make a career out of it. Coke gave him his start as a racehorse trainer. Gave him good horses, a high salary. He treated him like a younger brother, always forgiving his mistakes, even the big ones.

  “When Tanner showed up again. Coke hired him on the spot. It never made sense t
o me, because it was obvious he was no good with horses, and Coke wasn’t a tolerant man.”

  “Maybe Tanner was a better horseman than you thought.”

  Clay shook his head. “I saw him in action. Coke got so tense watching him try to load a high-strung colt he bit a cigarette in two. You could practically see his blood pressure rise. Didn’t say a word, though.” He shifted slightly, ran strong fingers through his dark hair. She wondered if he did it on purpose. Why would he bother to make her want him again? Just to show he could do it? “Every time I asked him about Tanner, he’d clam up. Even after he told me about what happened in the war, I didn’t understand it. Jerry Tanner is bad news. Even Coke fired him—too late for Blue Kite.”

  “Obviously, you know more about Jerry Tanner than I do.” She caught his gaze, was disconcerted by the disturbing scrutiny in those eyes she knew so well. “I’ll have to think about it. If you could give me some names of trainers.” She paused, self-conscious. “I really don’t think you and I should do business, in light of our . . . past association.”

  “You think I’m here because I want a job?”

  “Well, you offered—”

  “I didn’t get a chance to offer anything. I’m not taking on any new owners.” There was something final in his tone that snapped her to attention. “Half the horses I train are horses I raised, and I’m waiting for the day when I won’t have to train for anyone else. I have no interest in training Shameless.”

  She was surprised at the bleakness that this remark elicited.

  “Ron Spackman has a good-sized stable right here in Sonoita. He might be full up, but it’s worth a try. I’ve written the name of a couple of other trainers on the back.” When he stood up and handed her the card, their fingers brushed. Dakota felt as if she’d just touched an exposed wire.

  She drew back, her face burning. She could still feel the residual warmth of his fingers on the stiff paper. This was ridiculous!

  “You’d better do something soon,” Clay said. “As it is, it’s going to be a rush getting Shameless ready for the Ruidoso. I’ll bet she hasn’t set foot on a track in three weeks.”