by J. R. Ward
"You'll be fair. My father said that dishonesty was not in your character."
"He was being generous on that one."
"Hardly. And he knew men and horses."
As Edward went through the unlocking procedure again, he could feel her looking at him and hated it. His injuries were the result of a hell he would have prefered to keep private from the world.
Before he let her out of the cottage, he stared down at her. "There's only one rule."
"What's that?"
For some reason, he took stock of her features. She was nothing like her father physically--well, other than that small frame. Shelby--or whatever her name was--had eyes that were pale, not dark. And her skin wasn't the consistency of leather. Yet. She also didn't smell like horse sweat--although that would change.
Her voice, however, was all Jeb: That twang of hers was backed up by a solid core of strength.
"You don't go near my stallion," Edward said. "He's mean to the core."
"Nebekanzer."
"You know him."
"My father used to say that that horse had gasoline in his veins and acid in his eyes."
"Yeah, you know my horse. Don't go near him. You don't muck his stall, you don't approach him if he's out to pasture, and you never, ever put anything over that stall door if you want to keep it. That includes your head."
"Who takes care of him?"
"I do." Edward limped out into the night, the heavy, humid air making him feel like he couldn't breathe. "And no one else."
As he tried and failed to take a deep inhale, he wondered if all those doctors had missed an internal injury. Then again, maybe the sense of suffocation was the image of this small woman anywhere near that hateful black stallion. He could just imagine what Neb could do to her.
She went ahead of him and grabbed a backpack out of the passenger side of the truck. "So you're in charge here."
"No, Moe Brown is. You'll meet him tomorrow. He'll be your boss." Edward started off toward the barns. "Like I said, the apartment next to his is furnished, but I don't know when the last person lived in it."
"I've slept in stalls and on park benches. Having a roof over me is enough."
He glanced down at her. "Your father . . . was a good man."
"He was no better or worse than anyone else."
It was impossible not to wonder who the woman's mother was--or how anyone could have put up with Jeb long enough to have a child with him: Jeb Landis was a legend in the industry, the trainer of more stakes winners than any other man, alive or dead. He'd also been an alcoholic sonofabitch with a gambling problem as big as his misogynistic streak.
One thing Edward was not worried about was whether this Shelby could handle herself. If she could survive living with Jeb? Working an eighteen-hour shift on a breeding farm would be a piece of cake.
As they came up to Barn B, the motion-activated exterior lights came on and horses stirred inside, clomping their hooves and whinnying. Entering through the side door, he bypassed Moe's office and the supply rooms, and took her to the staircase that rose up to what had once been a hayloft stretching the full length of the massive roof beams. Sometime in the seventies, the space had been converted to a pair of apartments, and Moe had the front one that looked out over the drive.
"You go first and wait for me at the top," he gritted. "It takes me a while."
Shelby Landis hit the stairs at the kind of clip he had once enjoyed but had failed to appreciate, and it felt like it took a hundred thousand years to join her on the upper floor.
And by then, he was out of breath to such a degree he was wheezing like a stuck tire.
Turning away from her, he found that there was no light shining under Moe's door, but he wouldn't have bothered the man with any kind of introduction anyway. With the Derby running in less than forty-eight hours, the man, assuming he was home, would be passed out.
Especially considering one of their two horses might have to be scratched from the race.
As Edward went across and tried the doorknob to the other flat, he didn't know what he was going to do if it was locked. He had no clue where keys might be--
The door opened wide, reminding him that he was in the minority of paranoids out here on the farm. The light switch was to the left on the wall, and as he clicked it on, he was relieved that the place didn't smell too musty and that there was, in fact, a couch, a chair, a table, and a tiny kitchen that made the galley one he had look industrial by comparison.
"Did your father ever tell you why I owe him?" he said as he limped over to a darkened doorway.
"No, but Jeb wasn't a talker."
Flipping a second switch, he found that, yup, there was a bedroom and bath, too.
"This is what you've got," he said, pivoting around and becoming exhausted as he measured the distance back to the door.
Fifteen feet.
It might as well have been miles.
She walked over to him. "Thank you for the opportunity."
She put out her hand and met his eye--and for a moment, he felt an emotion other than the worm of anger that had been churning and burning in his gut for the last two years. He wasn't sure how to define it--the sad thing was, though, he wasn't sure he welcomed the shift.
There was a certain clarity to having such a unilaterally hostile operating principle.
He left that palm hanging in the breeze as he dragged his body over to the exit. "We'll see if you thank me later."
Abruptly, he thought of the whole don't-cuss, no-alcohol thing. "Oh, one more rule. If my drapes are drawn, don't bother me."
The last thing he needed was for her to find out he cavorted with loose women. And paid them for the privilege. He could just imagine that conversation.
"Yes, sir."
He nodded and shut the door. Then slowly, carefully, executed his descent.
The truth was, Jeb Landis had been the one to turn him around, such as he was. Without that man's swift kick in the ass, heaven only knew whether Edward would still be on the planet. God, he could remember with such clarity the trainer coming to see him in that rehab hospital. In spite of Edward's no-visitors, no-exceptions rule, Jeb had gotten past the nursing station and marched into his room.
They had known each other for well over a decade before that intrusion, Edward's interest in, and ownership of, racing horses, coupled with his previous commitment to being the best at everything, meaning that there was only one man he wanted training his stock.
He would never have predicted the guy to be some kind of savior for him, however.
Jeb's come to Jesus had been short and to the point, but it had gotten through, to the extent it had, better than all the cajoling and handholding had. And then a year after Edward had moved in here, thrown out his business suits, and decided this would be his life, Jeb had told him he was leaving the Red & Black and going to California.
Probably because the bookies up in Chicago wanted a piece of the guy.
In all those years, before and after the kidnapping, the subject of Jeb having any offspring had never come up. But, yes, of course, he would take the man's daughter in.
And fortunately, she looked like she could take care of herself.
So the repayment of the debt was going to come cheap.
At least, that was what he told himself that first night.
Turned out that wasn't true, however . . . not by a long, long shot.
TWELVE
"It cost me a hundred thousand dollars to sit next to you."
As Gin used an antique Tiffany fork in the Chrysanthemum pattern to toy with her food, she barely heard the words spoken into her right ear. She was too busy focusing through the crystal stemware on the bouquet in front her. Samuel T. was off to the left, and with this rose-centric focal point, her peripheral vision could keep tragic track of him and his little girlfriend, Veronica/Savannah.
"So you can at least speak to me."
Shaking herself, she glanced over at the dreaded Richard Pford IV
. The man was as his boyhood self had been: tall and thin, with eyes that could cut glass and a suspicious nature that was in contrast to his enviable position in the Charlemont social hierarchy. The son of Richard Pford III, he was the sole heir to Pford Liquor and Spirits Distributors, a nationwide network that funneled wine, beer, bourbon, gin, vodka, champagne, whiskey, etc., onto the shelves of bars and stores across America.
Which was to say, he could well afford to pay six figures for a specific seating assignment every night of the week and twice on Sunday.
He was swimming in millions--and people hadn't even started to die in his family yet.
"My father's deals are not my own," she countered. "So it looks like you've wasted that money."
He took a sip from his wineglass. "And to think it went to the U of C basketball program."
"I didn't know you're a fan."
"I'm not."
"No wonder we don't get along." KU. She should have known. "Besides, didn't I hear that you got married?"
"Rumors of my engagement were greatly exaggerated."
"Hard to imagine with all your redeeming qualities."
Over on the left, Veronica/Savannah jerked in her chair, her fake eyelashes flaring, her fork clattering down to her plate. As her colored contacts flashed over to Samuel T., the bastard casually wiped his mouth with his damask napkin.
Samuel T. didn't look at his girlfriend, however. No, he was staring over that bouquet of roses directly at Gin.
The sonofabitch.
Deliberately, Gin turned to Richard and smiled. "Well, I'm delighted with your company."
Richard nodded and resumed cutting up his filet mignon. "That's more like it. Please do not stop."
Gin spoke smoothly, although she didn't have a clue what was coming out of her mouth. But Richard was nodding some more and answering her back, so she must have been doing a good job of the social stroking--then again, whether it was conversations she had no interest in or orgasms with men she didn't care about, she'd had a lot of practice faking it.
And yet she was exquisitely aware of what Samuel T. was doing. Achingly so.
His eyes burned as they remained on her. And all the while, just as he'd promised, the tart next to him struggled to retain her composure.
"--saving myself for you," Richard stated.
Gin frowned, that particular combination of syllables registering in spite of her preoccupation. "What did you say?"
"I was set to get married, but then I came to terms with your father. That is why I ended the engagement."
"Came to terms with my f--what are you talking about?"
Richard smiled coldly. "Your father and I have come to an agreement about the future. In exchange for marrying you, I am prepared to grant certain favorable terms to the Bradford Bourbon Company."
Gin blinked. Then shook her head. "I am not hearing this correctly."
"Yes, you are. I have even purchased the diamond."
"No, no, no--wait a minute." She threw down her napkin even though she was not done eating, and neither were the other thirty-one people at the table. "I am not marrying you or anybody."
"Really."
"I am quite sure that you 'bought' a seat at this table. But no one makes me do a damn thing, and that includes my father."
She supposed it was a sad commentary that she didn't question whether her dear old dad could sell her to benefit the family's share price.
Richard shrugged beneath his fine suit. "So you say."
Gin looked down the table at William Baldwine, who sat at the head with total command, as if there were a throne keeping him off the floor and the assembled were his subjects.
The man didn't sense her glaring regard and was thus unaware that this bomb had been dropped--or maybe he'd planned things this way, knowing that Richard would not be able to keep quiet and she might be diverted from making a scene because there were witnesses.
And damn it, her father was right on that one. As much as she wanted to jump up and start yelling, she would not demean the Bradford name in that fashion--certainly not with Sutton Smythe and her father, Reynolds, in the room.
Over to the left, a moan was covered with a delicate cough.
Gin shifted her glare from her father to Samuel T.--whereupon the lawyer promptly cocked a brow . . . and sent an air kiss her way.
"Yes, you can take her plate away," she heard Richard say to the uniformed waiter. "She's finished--"
"Excuse me?" Gin pivoted toward Richard. "But you have no right to--"
"I approve of your lack of appetite, but let's not chance fate, shall we?" Richard nodded to the waiter. "And she won't have dessert, either."
Gin leaned in to the man and smiled at him. In a whisper, she said, "Don't get ahead of yourself. I remember the days you stuffed your jockstrap with socks. Two pairs because one didn't go far enough."
Richard mirrored her. In an equally quiet voice, he retorted, "Don't pretend you have any say in this."
"Watch me."
"More like wait for you." He eased back and shot her the self-satisfied expression of a man with a royal flush in his hand. "Don't take too long, though. The carat weight of your ring goes down hourly."
I am going to kill you, she thought to herself as she looked at her father. So help me God, I'm going to fucking kill you.
*
As Lizzie took a turn off a country road, the dirt lane she headed onto cut through wide-open corn fields and was barely big enough for her Yaris. Trees stood guard on either side, not in an orderly row, but with a more casual planting pattern, one driven by nature more than a landscaper's hoe. Overhead, great limbs linked up to form a canopy that was bright green in the spring, emerald colored in the summer, yellow and orange in the fall, and skeletal in the winter.
Usually, this processional was the beginning of her relaxation, the quarter of a mile to her farmhouse a decompression chamber that she'd often thought was the only reason she was able to sleep after a day of Easterly's issues.
Not tonight.
In fact, she wanted to look over her shoulder to make sure there was no one behind her in the rear seat of the car. Not that you could fit somebody larger than a twelve-year-old back there--but still. She felt pursued. Chased. Mugged . . . even though her wallet remained in her purse and she was, in fact, alone in her POS.
Her farmhouse was classic Americana, exactly what you'd see on a poster for a Lifetime movie that took place over the Fourth of July weekend: white with a wraparound porch that had on it pots of pansies, rocking chairs, and a bench swing off to one side. Both the requisite red brick chimney, and the gray slate, peaked roof were originals that dated back to its construction in 1833. And the coup de grace? A huge maple tree that provided shelter from the summer heat and a buffer to the cold wind in the winter.
She parked underneath the tree, which was the closest thing she had to a garage, and got out. Even though Charlemont was hardly Manhattan, the difference in ambient noise was stark. Out here, there were tree frogs, fireflies that had nothing to say, and a great horned owl that had started guarding the old barn out back about two years ago. No highway murmuring. No ambulance sirens. No drifting strains of Bluegrass music from the park down by the river.
Shutting her door, the sound was magnified by the darkness, and she was relieved when she walked forward and triggered motion-activated lights that were mounted on either side of the glossy red front door. Her boots scuffed the way up the five creaky steps, and the screen door welcomed her with a spring of its hinges. The dead bolt lock was brass, and relatively new--it had been installed in 1942.
Inside, everything was pitch-black, and as she confronted the emptiness, she wished she had a dog. A cat. A goldfish.
Hitting the light switch, she blinked as her comfy/cozy was illuminated by soft yellow light. The furnishings were nothing like the Bradfords'. In her house, if something was antique, it was because it was useful and had been made by a Kentucky craftsman: an old wicker basket, a pair of faded,
tissue-soft quilts that she'd mounted on the walls, a rocking chair, a pine bench under the windows, the heads of old hoes and spades that she'd found in her planting fields, framed herself, and hung up. She also had a collection of musical instruments, including several fiddles, many jugs, some washboards, and her treasure of treasures, her Price & Teeple upright piano from 1907. Made of quarter-sawn oakwood, and with incredible copper hinges, pedals, and hardware, she'd found the old girl in a barn rotting in the western part of the state and had her lovingly restored.
Her mother called the house a museum to folklore, and Lizzie supposed that was true. To her, there was great comfort in connecting with the generations of men and women who had worked the soil, carved out lives, and passed their survival knowledge on to next generations.
Now? Everything was about 3G, 4G, LTE, and smaller, faster computers, and smarter smartphones.
Yup, because that was a legacy of honor and perseverance to give to your kids: how you struggled to wait in line for the new iPhone for twenty-six minutes with only a Starbucks in your hand and an online blog about something pointless to pass the time.
Back in her forties-era kitchen--which was that style not because she'd gone to Ikea and Williams-Sonoma and bought lookalikes, but because that was what had been in the farmhouse when she'd bought the hundred-acre parcel seven years ago--she cracked the icebox and stared at the leftover chicken pot pie she'd made Monday night.
It was about as inspirational as the idea of eating paint chips heated in a sauce pan.
When her cell phone started to ring, she looked over her shoulder at where she'd put her bag down in the hall.
Let it go, she told herself. Just . . .
She waited until the ringer silenced and then waited longer to see if there was a call back--on the theory that if it were an emergency with her mother, there would be an immediate re-ringing. Or at least a chirp that she had a new voice mail.
When neither came, she walked over and fished through her purse. No message. The number was one she didn't recognize, but she knew the area code: 917.
New York City. Cell phone.
She had friends up there who called her from that exchange.
Her hand shook as she went into the call log and hit dial.