Dark Horse

by J. Carson Black

  He swallowed, closed his eyes. Thanked God. “We’re on our way.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Ruidoso Downs had been renovated since Dakota had seen it last. The tri-level grandstand rose against a dark-green backdrop of pines. The road leading to it curved gracefully in a long-limbed arc, echoing the natural bowl of land in which the racetrack oval lay.

  The rain had stopped as quickly as it started, and the sun came out, edging the puddles with silver and steaming off the pavement. Dakota drove through the Horseman’s Gate and down the hill, scanning the maze of long barns for barn 31. She found it at the end of a winding dirt road, nestled into the mountainside beneath Highway 70.

  Her two stalls were right on the end. She and Ernesto set up camp, putting down a fresh bedding of sawdust for Tyke and Shameless, filling water buckets, and hauling tack, medicinal supplies, and feed into the tack room. While Ernesto measured out the grain and vitamins and filled the hay net, Dakota removed the filly’s traveling boots and walked her around, letting her graze on the luscious weeds bordering the dirt yard, as the sound of cars whizzed by on the embankment above. Shameless had traveled well. She took in the sights, scents, and sounds of her new environment with eagerness.

  After registering at the race office, Dakota drove back up 70 and turned onto Sudderth, greeting the little town nestled in the mountains as an old friend. She loved the bright-green poplars. They shimmied against the darker backdrop of pines.

  No matter what state they hailed from, when quarter horse people said they were “going to the mountains,” they were talking about Ruidoso.

  The town was strung along Sudderth Drive like a gaudy charm bracelet. Some of the charms were the real thing, and others were paste. Some, like Bubba’s BarBQ and Catfish— coffee, five cents—didn’t pretend to be anything but what they were. An amusement park stood at the “Y,” the junction of Sudderth and 70, setting the tone. Ruidoso was an adult-oriented amusement park, the capital of quarter-horse racing in the summer, a ski resort in winter. The town catered to all kinds of tastes, from the wealthy horse owner whose wife shopped the trendy boutiques for denim, diamonds, and lace, to the guy with a one-horse stable who dug a dollar out of his jeans for a breakfast of doughnuts. Ruidoso had several restaurants offering continental cuisine and places like Ole Taco, a pink taco stand with a window full of baseball trophies and the sign: JESUS IS MY FRIEND. The Inn of the Mountain Gods offered fishing, sailing, golfing, casino gambling, and fine dining; the Tepee Motel offered cable TV and clean rooms. Motor court cabins built in the twenties gave the town a rustic feel.

  Everywhere, the horse was king. The Winner’s Circle Dance Club, Win Place and Show Liquors, The Paddock, the Finish Line—all paid homage to the town’s mainstay. One fast-food place offered “Pete’s Picks” along with the burgers.

  Dakota drove down Sudderth in bumper-to-bumper traffic: Cadillacs and one-ton diesel trucks with dual wheels, headache racks, and Texas Truck license plates. Bumper stickers declared that “Seven Days Without Meat Makes 1 Weak” and that the American quarter horse was “The World’s Fastest Athlete.” Roadside stands sold chili from Hatch, The Chili Capital of the World, and roasted corn, caramel apples, watermelons. One enterprising soul advertised FIREWOOD – DOG GROOMING – WE SELL HERMIT CRABS.

  Some of the buildings were new, and the names had changed, but it was still the same town. A little bigger, clogged with a lot more traffic, but essentially Ruidoso held within its boundaries the same spirit: that fairy tales did indeed come true. Anyone who had a good horse could go to Ruidoso and have a chance to win the All American. Now she was taking a horse to the All American. When she reached Ruidoso Downs, all her worries dropped away, leaving only a deep, fulfilling joy.

  Dakota followed Sudderth past the boutiques and stores, then past resorts and private cabins, until she reached Upper Canyon Road, where her father’s cabin had stood since 1952.

  It was just as she remembered it. Situated on two acres of ponderosa pine forest, it rose up out of tall meadow grass and wildflowers, still sweet-smelling from the thundershower. White clouds blew across the sky like freshly laundered sheets. Pine shadows flickered on the honey-yellow of the pine logs. At the foot of the drive, a dark green wrought-iron street lamp with a cluster of five globes was surrounded by a bed of petunias and geraniums. Inside, the Americana theme continued, lots of antiques and memorabilia from the thirties and forties. Sunlight gleamed on varnished pine cabinets and fifties-era appliances. Red-and-white gingham curtains in the windows and cheap Early American maple furniture—cabin stuff. Rag rugs on the wood floor. A smoke-blackened fieldstone fireplace. Photos of horses, of course. Everywhere. The place smelled musty from having been closed up.

  The toilet in the tiny, paneled bathroom was new. Dakota remembered what Clay had told her this afternoon. Tanner hadn’t taken his firing philosophically. Before he’d left, he trashed the place, and one of the things he’d done was take a cinder block and drop it on the toilet tank. It had cost Coke a fortune to fix the cabin up, but unless her memory was faulty, it looked just as she remembered it.

  She wasn’t prepared for the pain that assailed her as she reached the doorway to the bedroom. The white chenille spread looked the same. Now in late afternoon, the sun slanted across it, snowing dust motes. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the memory, but saw it anyway, as if she were an outside observer. The two of them, embracing, kissing, their tanned bodies moving on that bed, young and healthy and gloriously happy.

  I was never so happy in my life as I was that summer. She realized it was the truth. There was a lot of talk about growing up, moving on. Ostensibly, your life was supposed to improve as you became more mature. The infatuation of first love was supposed to fade as more practical things took over. But looking back on it, she felt the same deep longing that had hit her when she’d first seen Clay again. The void lodged just beneath her breastbone, spreading outward.

  Nothing had changed. Certainly not for the better.

  Tears pricked her eyelids. The memories rushed in like water over a dam: cooking together in the little kitchen, fishing in the river below, catching each other in the hallway, and making love in a tangle of clothing without getting near the bed, talking until dawn. It had seemed then as if nothing could ever come between them. She remembered the time he’d made love to her on the couch. If she hadn’t been nineteen, she would have had a stiff neck. She could see him looking down at her, tenderly touching her face. Telling her he loved her.

  Suddenly, she had to get out of this cabin. She couldn’t face all this now.

  Picking up her purse, Dakota forged through the screen door, and almost ran smack into the object of her pain.

  “Hey! Where’s the fire?”

  Dakota stepped back, letting the door slap to. “Clay. What’re you doing here?”

  “I’m in the mood for spaghetti, and I thought you might be, too.”

  She saw the grocery bag under his arm.

  “Ragu with meat sauce.”

  Dakota started to say she was tired, that he should go away. But then she thought of the ghosts in the bedroom, and wished fervently that for just one night, she could pretend nothing had changed. The screen door opened with a squeak, and Dakota stood aside. “Hope you brought some wine,” she said.

  They made dinner, slipping unconsciously back into the easy give-and-take of people who knew each other well, and naturally divided up the chores, their motions as smooth and efficient as a choreographed dance. Not that the meal was anything special: just Ragu over pasta, the way they used to have it every other night so long ago. While Clay stirred the pot and measured out the spaghetti, Dakota chopped up stuff for the salad, her hands automatically going to the right cupboards for the colander, the knife. As one glass of burgundy became two, Dakota began to let go and have fun. Why not try to recapture the past? Clay was here, and so was she. Her longing for him was a physical pain. Bittersweet tension lay between them like a stifling blanket. He wa
s so close to her, she could touch his hip, reach up and guide his mouth to hers, let him take her back to the bedroom with the ghosts, and maybe they could merge and time could stand still and they would be married again.

  “You want to wash or rinse?” he asked her.

  What a joy it was to do these simple tasks together. He was to her right, his arm occasionally sweeping against hers and igniting little brush fires.

  After dinner they sat on the porch in the pine shadows and finished the wine, talking about old times. She realized she was flirting with him. Well, what was wrong with that? He’d been pressuring her all spring for precisely this kind of behavior. He kissed her, but the kiss didn’t deepen. He seemed to be keeping his distance, and this confused her. Was he trying to hurt her again? Well, she knew she was beautiful. Hadn’t he told her often enough? She threw caution to the winds, and her arms around his neck. She asked him to hold her. Hold her tight. He did so, stroking her back, saying gentle, sweet things. The things he said made her want to cry, and pretty soon, she buried her head in his chest and felt her hot tears course down his shirtfront, and his fingers proscribed firm, calm circles on her shuddering back, and then she was kissing him again, and tonight she was the aggressor, darting her tongue in his mouth with reckless abandon, rubbing against him, exhilarated by his response.

  He wanted her. Men couldn’t hide a thing like that. They could go back to the bedroom and scare the ghosts away. Time seemed to whirl now, faster and faster like a carousel, all moonlight and the shadows of the pine needles against the log cabin, the warmth of his body, his kiss, and then in one dizzying moment, he swept her up into his arms and was carrying her through the hallway, and it felt like a carnival ride in her stomach, so much better than emptiness, and then she was on the bed and she felt the mattress list as he lay beside her, still clothed, and he was cupping her jaw in his hands, saying something, something she couldn’t quite understand, and she reached for his belt, fumbled with the buckle, kissing him and crying at the same time.

  She was awakened by chill air blowing through an open window. At first Dakota didn’t know where she was, and then it came back to her. She was in Coke’s cabin in Ruidoso.

  The smell of bacon wafted in from the kitchen. She heard the rattle of pans at the exact instant she remembered last night. Or most of it.

  Clay was still here. He’d been here all night.

  She sat up, rubbing her forehead, which ached mildly. How much wine had she had last night? Throwing back the covers, Dakota realized with horror that all she had on were her panties.

  That much wine. “Damn!” she muttered as she sprinted for her suitcase. She grabbed whatever was on top, which happened to be a citron-colored tank dress. She tugged it over her head, trying to blot out the creeping dread that filled her. Had she gone to bed with her ex-husband?

  Wearing his jeans and shirt from yesterday, Clay appeared in the doorway and stared in the general vicinity of her chest. “You’re up, I see.”

  Dakota didn’t have to look down to know her nipples stood out in bas-relief. The ribbed cotton shift barely covered her upper body. She wished she could run and hide. Instead, she stood her ground and raised her chin. “Who told you you could spend the night?” she demanded.

  “You did.”

  “I did not.” But she wasn’t so sure.

  His mouth quirked into a grin. “You insisted.” He tucked his shirttail into his jeans. “I left you some bacon, eggs, and coffee. I’ve got to get to the track. See you there.”

  “Wait—”

  But he was already out the door.

  She sat down, trying to ignore the throbbing ache in her head. Had she?

  She remembered tugging at his belt. Remembered throwing herself at him, acting like she’d always imagined Rita would do. Obviously, she’d had too much to drink. She even remembered crying—a lot.

  A crying jag. Jesus! She hadn’t acted like that since college. Clay must have had a good laugh!

  The question was, had he taken advantage of her inebriated state?

  Feeling shaky, she walked into the kitchen. The bacon and eggs didn’t appeal to her at all. But she should have some coffee. Glancing at the clock, she saw it was seven-thirty already. Great. Her first day at Ruidoso Downs, and she was late.

  She’d slept with her ex-husband, made a complete fool of herself, and now she’d gotten off on the wrong foot at Ruidoso. Not that anyone would notice except, of course, Clay.

  Pouring coffee seemed like too great a task for the moment. Sitting down at the table, she pressed her fingers into her forehead and stared down at the Formica, hardly seeing it. Gradually, she realized there was a Post-it stuck to the table surface, just at the edge of her vision.

  The handwriting was Clay’s.

  The note said, “In case you’re wondering, we didn’t.”

  The first thing Dakota did when she returned from the track that morning was to go to Wal-Mart and buy a new bedspread. As she replaced the white chenille with the Country French, Dakota hoped she’d taken a step toward obliterating those painful—and embarrassing—memories.

  Fortunately, she hadn’t seen Clay today. His stable was on the far side of the complex.

  Wincing, Dakota remembered pulling at his belt and crying. What an attractive picture she must have made! Maybe he thought she drank like that all the time, and the reason she’d turned into a lush was because he’d dumped her all those years ago.

  The thought of talking to him again was mortifying.

  Dakota folded up the chenille spread and put it in the linen closet. Interacting with Clay couldn’t be avoided, so she had to be prepared. Last night had been a momentary slip—that was all—brought on by exhaustion and too much to drink. The best thing to do was to pick up the pieces and move on, and try to regain what dignity she could.

  But she couldn’t get it out of her mind that he’d turned her down. She didn’t know whether to be grateful, or insulted.

  One minute, Trish O’Neill was having a great time, skating in the parking lot of the Stockman’s Bank with her friends, and the next, she saw it.

  The truck pulled up across the street in front of the Sonoita general store.

  Panic bolted through her system. Her mouth was suddenly dry. Her heart pounded.

  “What’s the matter, Trish?” Megan asked. Trish didn’t—couldn’t—answer.

  There were two men in the cab, and two sitting in the bed of the truck. She’d never seen them before. They were pulling a boat, probably headed for Parker Canyon Lake.

  The men in the back of the truck stayed where they were. One of them glanced in her direction, but she was all the way across the highway, standing in the shade of the post office, so she doubted he would recognize her. He opened a cooler and took out a beer, popped the tab and drank.

  “Trish?”

  Trish was shaking. She tried to avert her eyes, pretend to be a teenage girl skating on the sidewalk. Tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, but it was impossible not to look at the truck.

  It had to be the one. She’d forgotten until now what it looked like. If anyone had asked her to describe it before, she wouldn’t have been able to. But when she saw the truck pull in, suddenly she was back there at Dead Man’s Curve, watching the killer drive up to see if Coke McAllister was dead.

  It was the shape. Although she couldn’t tell what color the killer’s truck was, she’d had the impression it was dark. This truck was dark green. It was old and scraped up with lights on the cab roof.

  The two other men came out of the store, carrying a twelve-pack of Coors. Their backs were to her as they loaded the beer into the truck bed. One of them wore a Harley T-shirt and camo pants. He had tattoos on each arm, and his elbows bowed away from his sides. He was short and stocky.

  It could have been the guy she saw.

  She couldn’t remember if the guy had been stocky, or if he’d just been dressed for cold weather. She hadn’t been able to tell how tall he was either. The on
ly thing she remembered about him was that he’d stood there for a long time, his arms folded low across his chest. He’d rubbed his arms to keep away the chill. She’d realized that she’d been rubbing hers the same way, and that had spooked her.

  She couldn’t even remember if his hair was long under his cap. This guy’s was.

  No, it was impossible to tell. But the truck—

  She saw them pull out, following 82 south toward the lake.

  A sheriff’s vehicle was coming this way. Trish raised her arm halfheartedly to wave him down, then stopped.

  It probably wasn’t the same truck. And if it was, the guys in it would know who finked on them. They’d come after her.

  The sheriff’s deputy glanced her way, his face puzzled. She smiled and waved and let him go by.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Dakota soon became caught up in the routine: mornings on the backside with Shameless, breaking for lunch, and a few stolen moments of reading or hiking along the Rio Ruidoso below the house, going back to the track for afternoon feeding, then spending a quiet evening at home. She didn’t join the trainers who sat their horses near the clocker’s stand and passed the time of day trading stories while keeping an eagle eye on their runners. She didn’t know any of them for one thing, and if Clay had a horse on the track, that was where he’d be. She’d nod to him as she led Shameless onto the track, then ride Tyke up the backstretch and wait for the filly there. It made her appear standoffish but also serious, and that was fine with her.

  She was painfully aware of the looks she got from jockeys and exercise boys, and even a few of the trainers. A lot of the attention was sexual in nature, which she deflected by appearing naively oblivious. Dakota tried to do her job without letting it get to her, but it was hard. She might as well have a spotlight aimed at her. There were other female trainers—and plenty of female jockeys and exercise riders—but she was a novelty. First, she was new, and therefore, vulnerable until she showed her mettle. But worse, she’d come here with a dynamite horse. That alone generated a great deal of resentment.