by Lori Ryan
He joined Presley on the large tack trunk she had taken up residence on and settled in beside her, one of his legs resting slightly against hers. He shouldn't like the contact so much, but he did.
"I looked at the list of businesses that gave me and then looked at what I thought I would be good at. For one thing, I don't love talking to people."
"Really?” She always seemed downright chatty to him, but maybe that was because he didn't talk much. Maybe it was only her in comparison to him that made her seem talkative.
She shrugged. "I don't mind talking to people for a short time, but I don't like having to hold a big conversation, I guess. And I don't like crowds. My family hosts a lot of events. I hate them. You have to spend the entire time talking to people and trying to remember who they are or how they're connected to your parents. You know?"
He grinned and shook his head, no. "Not at all."
"Well, take my word for it. It makes me break out in hives."
"Okay, so small town business and not talking a lot to people left flower shop?"
She nodded, and he realized he could smell the light scent of her as they sat. He didn't know if it was her shampoo or her soap or just something innate to her.
He stood and went to lean on the wall on the opposite side of the aisle. It had been a mistake to sit so close to her.
"It left that and a couple of other things. I chose flower shop in the end because I love flowers and I realized I would be good at it. I like colors and textures, and I've always had an eye for decor. I would still have to handle customers, but if my business plan proceeds as planned, I would be able to hire someone to take over some of the front desk duties and client interactions and bury myself in the back before long."
"You have a business plan? Then this is more than just a fantasy?"
She flushed at that and stood, almost looking like she might bolt. "No, it's just a dream for someday."
"A down the road kind of thing?” He said, letting his tone tell her he wasn't buying it at all.
She lifted a shoulder and let it fall. "Something like that."
"You've got four weeks off now. Why don't you take that time to do some more research. Maybe go look at space downtown? I assume you'd want to rent a storefront downtown?" James knew enough about her career and enough about the show jumping world to know that even without her family's money, she would probably have a nest egg to start her business with. Someone at her level of competition would be bringing in prize money that could support a start-up if it wasn't too costly.
Of course, a lot of people would have to put a lot of that money back into the horses they rode and competition fees and stuff. Her family probably paid for all that.
He watched as she crossed to Tess's stall and ran her hand over the horse's muzzle before turning to limp away from him.
"Can't. Even though I'm injured, I'm still attending most of the local shows."
There was something she wasn't saying there. He would guess it was an expectation. The demand that she be there. He remembered in sports in high school, even if you were hurt, you rode the bench. He supposed it was something along those lines. Still, he wondered, as she said goodbye and slipped out of the barn, how long she would continue to live for the people around her instead of living for herself.
8
James woke to the sensation of Lulu lying on him, paws on his shoulders. The weight grounded him, telling him instantly that the images in his mind were only those of a nightmare. He allowed himself a second to bury his head in her soft fur before reaching for the notebook next to his bed.
He scribbled notes, writing everything he could remember about the dream.
Boots that were too clean. Boots on dirt but no dirt on the boots.
Pallets and crates. The sight of boots on concrete floors. Gunshots.
He could hear the voice that had been haunting his dreams lately, but it never seemed to come through clearly enough for him to identify it. “What the fuck?”
The words rang over and over in James’s mind. There was no accent. It was American.
Then an answering. “You fucked this up!” This one was a roar and it was a roar he recognized. The voice was Silva’s.
Nothing else. The maddening blank space that filled the rest of the memory took over
He reached, searching the shadows of the memory for something. A sound, a smell. The smells of combat were so memorable, so vivid, surely that should stick out to him. But there was nothing.
He let his head fall back to the pillow, bringing one arm behind his head while the other arm moved to stroke Lulu. Closing his eyes and letting his mind wander back to the dream hadn't worked so far, but he tried it anyway.
Then he began to catalogue all the small things that had been eating at him since that initial nagging sensation that he needed to remember something.
It had started when he'd gone to the Pentagon to be debriefed. That wasn't the typical course of action for a soldier, but his situation had been different. He'd had information on the rebel groups and cartels working in that area. He'd talked mostly to desk colonels—the guys that didn't go into the field anymore.
He had met with General Wolf Cutter, one of the people responsible for pulling him out of there. He'd seen Colonel Gray when he'd first been brought to the USNS Comfort, the military hospital ship that had been his first stop after the rescue helo that pulled him out. He'd been really out of it then, though. Malnourished as all hell and not really in his right mind.
By then, his life was centered on the one thing he wanted. An opening. A chance to kill Silva. To avenge Catalina.
When the rescuers had come, they’d taken him out of there before he got close enough. He’d been too weak to find out if they had killed Silva when they got James out of there.
When he saw General Cutter at the Pentagon after a month of treatment in Walter Reed, the General had talked to him for hours about everything and nothing. Not a damned bit of the conversation had been about what had happened or what James had seen and done over there. It made a difference. Somehow, just that time, talking to a man who understood some of what he'd been through but didn't feel the need to talk about it had made a difference.
But when they got to the end of that time, James had asked if Silva was still alive. Cutter’s answer was yes, as far as he knew. James didn’t know how to deal with that. How to handle knowing the man who’d taken everything from him went on living and breathing.
It was during one of the long hours of debriefing that he'd had the first flash of memory. Not even memory, really. It was the ghost of a memory. Just a feeling that there was something he should know but didn't.
Part of him thought it could just be an idea the colonels had put in his head with all their questions. Colonel Gray was the one who’d dug at the memories the most, like someone determined to pick at a scab that wasn't ready to fall off yet. In the end, James had hated the man. He sat behind his desk and gave orders, not having the sense or recent enough field experience to understand the full implications of what he was telling his soldiers to do. Not like General Cutter, who not only had the field experience to back up his commands, but the kind of mind that remembered what it had been like on the ground. To see the implications of his work at a desk and understand the exact tie between that work to each and every man his commands effected.
James sat up and grabbed the notebook again as Lulu resettled herself a little further away from him. Once her job was done, she had no problem going back to sleep.
Pentagon, he wrote, then Gray, Simms, and Coltrane, the names of the three colonels who had done the majority of the questioning. He put a star next to Gray, then put another one near Coltrane’s name. He thought that maybe the first scrap of memory had happened when Coltrane was talking.
Maybe it was just the questions that made him want to remember now in a way he never had before. Or maybe it was the guilt that he was back at all. He was here and Catalina was not.
He closed h
is eyes against the onslaught of images. Soft eyes on his, smooth cool hands on his fevered skin. The smooth lilt of her voice as she talked to him. She'd saved him.
He looked down at his legs, still bearing the scars of that firefight. He could feel the heat. The heat licking up his skin.
Then she'd been there, and she'd made the pain bearable. She'd made it all bearable for a while. Until she hadn't. Until she was gone.
9
There was something about the early morning arrival at a horse show that Presley always loved. Actually, it started before the arrival at the show, when she’d come into the barn and flick on the lights to see horses popping their heads over the stalls at her. She’d stand on her step stool and braid manes and tails while the horses stood patiently on crossties.
They would pull into a show, forming rows in an open field and set up their area like a little campground of horse trailers. And then, she’d do what she was doing now. She would grab an egg and cheese sandwich on a roll wrapped in foil and a cup of coffee. It was a ritual that was soothing in its familiarity.
She stood now, with her coffee in hand and the wrapper from her sandwich wadded up in the pocket of her vest, watching at the side of one of the rings.
“I was sorry to hear you were sidelined.”
Presley turned at the sound of Harry Trager’s quiet voice. “Thank you. It’s just for another few weeks, I hope.”
He nodded, but his focus was now on the rider in the ring. “Steady, steady,” he said under his breath, despite the fact the rider wasn’t one of his. The teen on the horse wasn’t at the level of riders that Harry worked with.
That was the way Harry Trager was. If he got the chance, he would pull the rider aside and offer a tip or two. Not in a way that said he was arrogant and knew it all. For Harry it was more about the love of what they all did. About the love of the ride, the love of the sport, the love of the way rider and horse could come together in an incredible way inside the ring.
As horse and rider left the ring and the next pair was announced, Harry turned his eyes to her again. “I heard Tess fell. Is she okay?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. She spooked at a snake and then stumbled when she shied.”
“You were lucky.”
Presley didn’t need to be told that. Although she had of course known riders whose horses had fallen on them with only a sore body to show for it, she’d also known many who’d broken bones or worse. She could remember one accident when she was younger when a rider ended up needing a knee reconstructed.
“I threw myself mostly clear of her.” And then a gorgeous knight in shining armor came to my rescue. Well, not armor. Jeans. Those jeans on James...
Presley shook herself loose of the thoughts but couldn’t stop the smile that came to her face.
Luckily for her, Harry Trager wouldn't notice the secretive nature of the smile or the fact she blushed. If he did notice, he wouldn't put two and two together and figure out it had anything to do with a man. Harry's observational skills were reserved for horses and riders, provided those riders were up on a horse, not crutches.
"Becky Layne is riding your Feldspar today?” He asked, his eyes going back to the ring. "She'll do well by him," Harry said, without waiting for her confirmation. He had turned back to the ring to watch as the next rider approached a jump. She could hear Harry's sigh as the rider tried to fit one too many strides in before the jump.
"She will. She's got a nice steady hand and he's been doing well with her in training." Presley thought for a minute that if she were to retire, Becky might take Feldspar into her string permanently.
She had to stop thinking that way. Her parents could talk of nothing but her getting back onto the circuit and she owed that much to them. People might not realize it, but her mom had sacrificed a lot to Presley's career. Sure, her mom had seemed to love every minute of it, but surely there had been times when her mom would have preferred not to travel so much, not to have to wake up with Presley before the sun was up to help her groom horses and braid manes.
When she was young, they’d only had the one horse per show to prep, but as she gained experience, she’d started bringing two to three horses per show. Her mom had been there to help her manage all that, not to mention simply managing the pressure that entering the Grand Prix level at a young age had brought. Presley had been two years younger than any of her closest competition. She hadn't been the type of girl to rebel, even in her teen years, but there had been days when she hadn't exactly made her mother's job easy, by any means. Days she’d been moody and snotty in the way only a teenager could.
Surely her mother hadn't wanted the job of organizing tutors and keeping up with all the home schooling requirements that let Presley compete at such high levels at such a young age? When Presley had made it to the U.S. Olympic team, her mother had gone with her, living months away from her husband and her home so she could be with Presley as the team prepped for their Olympic run. Her mom had done that three times over the years and hadn't complained a bit.
Someone came up to Harry on the other side and he was lost in conversation with them. Presley wandered away from the fence, heading back to the Royale Stables trailer to check in on the horses. They'd brought four that day. Two were horses that normally filled out her string and two were horses her dad trained for other owners and their riders.
Becky sat on the wheel well of the trailer, pulling her socks up. "Hey, Pres. Your dad is up in the back ring with Porter."
Presley nodded and took a seat in one of the director's chairs they'd set up outside the trailer. She lifted her ankle up to rest on a cooler. "Is Porter feeling better?"
Porter Wylie was her father’s new student and Presley had a feeling he wouldn't last long, poor guy. His parents wanted him to train with the great Lawrence Royale, but he didn't have the temperament for it.
Her father was a hard man. While you couldn't actually say he abused his charges, he had high expectations. Anyone riding under him felt it to the core when they let him down. He pushed hard in training and harder in the ring. He never pulled punches and if he wasn't happy with how you were doing something, you could plan to stay on the horse's back until you could barely move before he'd release you with instructions to be back first thing in the morning.
Becky grimaced. "He threw up minutes before they headed up."
Presley sighed. "Maybe I can gently push his parents toward Harry."
Becky grinned. "Harry would be more his speed."
Harry was as hard as her father in some ways. He was exacting and held his students to a high standard, but if he wanted them to stay and work longer, he'd ask them how they felt they were doing. Then he'd ask what they thought they needed to do to make a change. He'd guide them to the solution of longer lessons and greater focus. He didn't berate or belittle the way her father could. The words that came from Harry's mouth never cut.
Presley’s phone buzzed and she slipped it out of her pocket, looking at the screen.
The Cambury people are up at the main tent.
Her father didn’t need to say any more. It was expected she would know that if the Cambury Veterinary Supply reps were in the main tent, Presley needed to get herself there, too. Cambury had been her main sponsors for years. Probably over a decade at this point. She needed to put in an appearance, woo them, and let them see she’d be back on top soon.
She stood, waving to Becky, who was now pulling on her boots. It was time to go earn her keep.
10
Presley pulled her truck slowly along the drive at Bishop Ranch. She didn’t want to wake the house up, but she’d been on the road for almost a week, and she wanted to check on Tess before heading home.
Honestly, what she wanted was to bury her head in Tess’s mane and wrap her arms around the large horse’s neck. It had been a long week of talking and being “on” for other people. Her parents, her sponsors, the other riders. That much continuous “on” time—as she always thought of time when she had to co
nstantly engage with other people—always wore Presley out. This was probably what she hated the most about being injured. When Presley was competing, she could disappear to her trailer and hide away in her changing room, telling anyone who asked that she was re-braiding her hair or taking a minute to focus before going up to the ring.
Anytime she’d been out with an injury, there wasn’t that chance to find chunks of downtime throughout the day. People expected a competitor to want time to focus on getting into the right frame of mind before entering the ring. When you weren’t competing, it didn’t work that way. Unless she told people she needed to rest her leg, but her mother would have had a coronary at that. Showing any kind of weakness that might put her return to greatness into jeopardy wouldn’t have been acceptable.
She shut her truck door softly, then walked to the barn door, sliding it open with a soft call to Tess. Mostly she wanted to let the horses all know it was her entering the barn.
“Hey, Pres,” came a soft voice in response and her heart kicked over at the sound of James’s voice.
She walked farther into the aisle to find him at the other end of the barn, only the light of the tack room spilling out to light the area.
“What are you doing here?” It was obvious what he was doing at that very moment. He was giving Cade’s horse, Cayenne, an ear rub that had the horse looking like he might melt into a puddle right there. Lulu stood silently by his side. His sentry.
Presley thought about what it would be like to have those hands on her. She would bet she would look a lot like that, too. All puddle-headed and ready to melt.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said simply. “You just get back? Cade said you were in the northeast this week at shows.”