Читать книгу If Wishes Were Horses - Carolyn McSparren - Страница 7

CHAPTER ONE

MIKE WHITTEN’S FIRST glimpse of the lush pastures and sprawling stable complex filled him with dread. He’d never been truly comfortable outside of cities, and even this close to town, these rolling pastures definitely qualified as country. He stifled an impulse to do a one-eighty and head his Volvo straight back to Memphis.

He’d never get away with it. Not with his eleven-year-old daughter Pat straining against her seat belt beside him. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her so eager.

He stopped the car at the open front door of the stable, and Pat unfastened her seat belt and leaped out before he could turn off the ignition. She was in such a hurry she slipped on the gravel and nearly fell. Mike’s heart lurched. He leaned across the seat as though he could reach her, steady her. “Hey, Pitti-Pat, watch it,” he said.

This blasted place was already conspiring to damage his kid.

“Daddy,” she said disdainfully. “I’m too old for pet names. I’m Pat, just Pat, remember? Now come on!”

He sighed, followed her and looked around this place where he did not want to be. The board fences were stained dark brown and were in good repair. The pastures had been mowed or perhaps eaten down by the horses, several of whom quietly chomped their way across the paddocks. The parking lot was edged with neatly trimmed shrubs, and beds of bright flowers—he had no idea what kind—surrounded the front door.

Something buzzed close to his ear. He slapped at it. A damned bumblebee! To his knowledge, Pat wasn’t allergic to bees, but there was always a first time.

He called to his daughter, who scampered ahead of him into the shadowy recesses of the stable. He quickened his stride to catch up with her as she reached a broad transverse aisle.

Four dogs raced down the aisle toward them. An obese black Labrador retriever, a basset and a pair of small brown-and-white blurs that outran the others and launched themselves straight at Pat’s face.

“Pat,” he shouted, and moved forward to defend her.

“Aren’t they adorable?” Pat cooed to the small dogs wriggling in her arms. “They’re Jack Russell terriers. I’ve seen pictures of them in horse magazines.”

They were licking Pat’s face. Mike caught his breath at the thought of all those germs.

Meanwhile, the Labrador and the basset waddled over to Mike. He sidestepped them, his eyes still on his child. “Put them down, baby. They might bite.”

“Oh, Daddy, get a grip,” Pat said. The terriers stayed where they were.

Mike felt something soft brush against his ankle and looked down to see a fat black-and-white tabby doing figure eights around his legs. God, the place was a zoo. He thought he’d only have horses to contend with. The only animal he did not see was a human being.

He surveyed his surroundings once more, and was surprised at how clean the place seemed. The blacktopped aisle was immaculate, and the barn smelled not of manure, as he’d expected, but of fresh hay. Despite that, he was sure the place was a disease factory. Pat’s doctors said her immune system was normal, but could anybody’s system stand the constant assault from the germs that likely populated the stables? He’d never even let her have a gerbil for fear of allergies.

The barn was built in a rough cross. They’d entered the short arm, and beyond was another set of open doors that he reckoned gave onto the riding arena he’d glimpsed from the road. Suddenly Pat crowed with delight and rushed past him with both terriers still hugged tight against her chest.

Outside in the arena, a woman in jeans, a T-shirt and some sort of tight brown leather leggings cantered into his field of vision on a horse big enough to pull a beer wagon. The pair sailed over a jump yanked off the Great Wall of China. Horse and rider landed with a thud and cantered off.

Mike closed his eyes. No way! He didn’t want his precious, fragile child anywhere around this place. Every time he thought of Pitti-Pat on a horse all he could see was Rhett Butler cradling Bonnie Blue’s broken body. Not his kid, by God!

He’d simply have to find a way to head her off, and that—as he knew from experience—was a hell of a lot harder than stopping a runaway train. How had he let her con him into this?

“Daddy! Aren’t they wonderful?” Pat called from the fence. The rider and the horse cantered past to jump a tall stack of painted poles.

“May I help you?” a voice said at his shoulder. He turned to find a tall, slim woman with cropped dark hair that bore a single streak of silver along the right temple. She also wore jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, and carried a pitchfork as though it were a rifle. She was in her mid-forties at least, but she had a beautiful smile and the taut body and unlined skin of a woman twenty years younger.

“I’m Michael Whitten,” he said. “From Edenvale School. I have an appointment.”

She set the pitchfork against the nearest wall, wiped her hands down the front of her jeans and extended her hand. “Oh, the chairman of the board of trustees. I’m so sorry. I should have realized who you were when I saw the blue suit and tie. But you’re early.”

Mike smiled grimly. He was always early for business meetings with possible adversaries. Threw them off balance, and sometimes he caught them in things they’d rather he had not seen. He said, “Sorry. Got away sooner than I thought I could. Didn’t have time to change.” He shook her hand. Her fingers felt callused. Her handshake was firm.

“I’m afraid you’re bound to take home some dust on that suit,” the woman said. “I’m Victoria Jamerson. I’m half owner and I manage this place. That’s our trainer and co-owner, my niece Liz Matthews, out there working Trust Fund.” She slipped past him and shouted to the woman on the horse, “Liz, Mr. Whit-ten’s here.”

“Bother,” the rider said softly, but loud enough so that Mike heard her clearly.

She turned to stare at him from under a tight cap that might once have been black velvet, but had taken on a greenish cast. She brought the horse down to a walk and relaxed into the saddle. Mike could see the glint of sweat on the animal’s flanks—hardly surprising on a July afternoon. The woman’s blue T-shirt was soaked, as well, and her muscular arms glistened.

Mike caught himself staring at the curve of the shirt over her breasts and turned back to Victoria Jamerson. “And this is my daughter, Pat. Come here, Pitty—uh, Pat, and meet Mrs. Jamerson.”

“In a minute, Daddy,” Pat said, unable to tear her eyes off the horse and rider. She set down the terriers, climbed onto the bottom rail of the three-board fence and hung over the top.

“Bad case of equine adoration,” Victoria Jamerson said easily. “There’s something about horses that just seems to call out to little girls.” She shrugged and smiled. “Happened to me, happened to Liz, and I already see the symptoms in your Pat. I’m afraid it’s an incurable disease.”

Mike felt his stomach roil. Mrs. Jamerson had no idea how her words affected him.

“I’m afraid you’ve only uncovered the tip of the iceberg,” Mrs. Jamerson continued pleasantly. “Before you know it, you’ll be the proud owner of a large pony. You’ll spend your weekends cheering Pat in weather that you wouldn’t put your dog out in. Comes with the territory.”

At the words Proud owner and large pony, Pat’s head whipped around. Her eyes glowed with an inner fire that Mike had seen only when she was burning with fever—the day that he made her that fateful promise.

“My daddy’s already promised to buy me a pony for my twelfth birthday,” Pat said. “I’ll be twelve in a month.”

“Then we’d better get cracking,” Mrs. Jamerson said and moved to lean beside Pat on the fence. “Large ponies that are suitable for beginning riders aren’t very thick on the ground.”

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Mike said quickly. “Pat’s never even been on a horse. She may hate it.”

Both Pat and Mrs. Jamerson turned to stare at him with a “get-real” look that froze his heart.

In the center of the ring, the woman swung her long leg over the horse’s back and dropped lightly to the ground. She patted the big horse’s neck, slid the reins over his head and began to walk beside him toward them.

Mike saw the resemblance between the two women immediately. Both were tall, slim and had high cheekbones and broad foreheads that would probably keep them beautiful into their eighties. Mrs. Jamerson’s eyes were gray, however, while Liz Matthews gazed at him from eyes the color of a jade Buddha.

Liz Matthews. Different last name. He knew Mrs. Jamerson was a widow. So Liz Matthews could be married. He checked the rider’s left hand. No ring. Oddly, he felt pleased.

He liked the look of her, although she didn’t seem overjoyed to see him. Probably didn’t appreciate having her riding session interrupted. She walked with a long-legged, rangy stride emphasized by the tight dark leather encasing her legs. Her jeans sat low on her hips; but her T-shirt was wet enough to cling to her narrow waist and muscular rib cage. She reached up to pull her shabby riding hat off to reveal an unkempt mass of dark blond curls.

As she came closer, he saw that she was probably in her mid-thirties. There were tiny lines at the corners of her eyes, and a spray of freckles across a nose that had probably been broken at least once. Without that slightly crooked nose, Mike realized, she was simply a good-looking woman. With it, she was sexy as hell.

Since, as chairman of the board of trustees at Edenvale, he would make the recommendation either to employ her and her riding stable, or to look for someone else to start an after-school riding program at Edenvale, he’d expected her to welcome him effusively, maybe even do a little fawning. Apparently she didn’t fawn.

She didn’t offer to shake hands either, but walked straight into the stable, calling as she went, “Albert, can you cool down Trust Fund for me, please?”

“Uh-huh,” came a bass voice from the shadowy reaches of the stable. A moment later a huge man opened one of the stall doors and ambled down to take the horse. “Hey, old fool,” he said amiably, and walked the horse past them into the green area that surrounded the ring.

“Come on in the office where it’s cool, Mr. Whitten,” Mrs. Jamerson said as Liz came back to join them.

“Can I stay here, Daddy? Please, can I, please?” Pat whined.

“That’s probably not a good idea, kiddo.”

He caught a glimpse of Liz Matthews’s raised eyebrows at Pat’s tone.

“She’ll be fine with Albert, Mr. Whitten,” Liz said and turned to Pat. “Stay away from the stalls. Some of these guys kick and a couple of them will bite a plug out of you if you get too close.”

“Sure,” Pat said and skipped off after the big man and the horse.

Great, Mike thought. One end kicks, the other bites. “Pitti—uh, Pat, I’m sure this gentleman has work to do. He can’t take the time to watch you. Better stay with me.”

Pat turned and glowered at him.

Albert had also turned, and gave him a broad grin that didn’t quite hide the query in his eyes. “She’ll be just fine, Mr. Whitten.” He glanced down at the child. “Gonna put you to work, though, you stick with me. You can help me water the horses.”

For the first time in her life, Pat seemed delighted by the word work. “I’ll be just fine, Daddy.” She shot him a look that dared him to stop her. Seeing Albert nod, he gave in and hoped he wouldn’t regret his decision.

Somehow he’d find a way to keep Pat out of this summer riding camp, and before fall he’d make damned sure that he had enough ammunition to prove that Edenvale School did not need an after-school riding program.

If his Pitti-Pat wanted to learn to ride a horse, break bones, breathe dust, ingest dog and cat germs, chance disease and danger, she’d have to wait until she was grown and out of his control, and even then he’d go down fighting to keep her safe.

He’d come within a hairbreadth of losing Pat twice. The first time, being kept alive in an incubator, she’d managed to cling to life, but her mother, the only woman Mike had ever loved, had died bringing her into the world. That terrible loss had brought home to Mike, in a way that nothing else ever could, how fragile life was. One moment the child in his wife’s womb was to be the crowning jewel in their charmed lives. The next he was alone and despairing, terrified of losing this tiny creature who was his only link to his wife.

The second time had come when he’d finally begun to relax a little, to think that he and Pat were safe.

Well, he’d finally learned. No way would he risk a third time. Not in his lifetime or hers. If she was angry with him, well, that came with parenting. He could face her anger; he couldn’t face life without her.

He couldn’t guard against every danger, but he tried to keep the risks to the minimum. If that meant going back on his promise to buy her a pony, he’d have to find a way to explain his reasoning to her. He’d only made that promise out of desperation when he’d seen her so small in that hospital bed, when he’d been afraid she’d never live to celebrate her twelfth birthday, let alone be able to ride a pony.

He’d do anything to keep her safe—even betray her trust in him, and that would be a very hard thing to do.

As he followed the two women toward the front of the stable, he felt a pang of nostalgia. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and remembered the two summers he’d spent at camp outside of Portland when he was younger than Pat.

He knew his parents simply wanted him out of the house, but still he treasured those memories—swimming in the lake, canoeing, campfires—a few months of paradise for a city boy whose every moment during the school year was carefully programmed to get him into the best schools, the best clubs, the most advantageous career when he grew up. Those two summers were the only time in his life he’d ever stepped off the fast track.

He wished with all his heart he dared allow Pat the same luxury, but her illness had left him more deeply scarred emotionally than it had her. To Pat, it was a horrible time, but it was over. Mike couldn’t manage to get past his ever-present sense of impending doom.

Five minutes later Mrs. Jamerson, Liz Matthews and Mike settled in the air-conditioned clients’ lounge with sodas at their elbows.

“Why should we pick your stable to run the after-school program at Edenvale?” Mike asked. He heard the edge in his voice and assumed the women would hear it too. Mike considered himself an equalopportunity intimidator. Anything to get a better deal for Edenvale. Just doing his job.

Mrs. Jamerson glanced quickly at her niece. “Frankly, Mr. Whitten,” she said, “there are bigger and fancier stables than ValleyCrest Farm in this area, but there’s not a single one with a better atmosphere for the kids or a better trainer.”

Mike turned to Liz. “What are your credentials?”

“Better than most,” Liz said. “I have a B.A. in Equine Studies, and a British Horsemanship certificate. I grew up in pony club. I’ve been riding and training horses most of my life. I’ve ridden everything from short stirrup to grand prix, and I’ve started riders who’ve gone on to Indoors every year.”

“What’s all that mean to us common folk?” Mike said.

“It means I’m damned good.”

“So if you’re so good and so successful, why do you want to start this riding program with Edenvale?”

Mrs. Jamerson stepped in. “Good doesn’t always equate with success, Mr. Whitten. Although Liz has done most of the training and all the riding for the last ten years, my husband, Frank, had the international reputation. While he was alive we always had a waiting list for lessons and stalls. Since he died, eighteen months ago, some of our clients have moved to stables with more famous trainers. We have to rebuild, recoup. In the meantime, we need a steady cash flow. The riding program at Edenvale would give it to us.”

“And what do we get out of it?”

“We’ll make your kids into horsemen—or should I say horsepersons,” Liz said. “Not a bunch of snobs who don’t know anything about horses except which end to get up on. And who never get any fun out of the horses they ride.”

“Are you calling Edenvale’s students snobs?”

“Not at all, but there are a great many kids who turn into real brats when they start showing horses. We won’t let that happen.”

“How do you plan to prevent it?”

“Kids ought to have fun messing with their horses,” Liz said, “hanging out around the barn, learning to clean tack and clean stalls, going on trail rides, just becoming, oh, hell—horsemen. I’ve seen parents put enormous pressure on kids to win—maybe live out the fantasies they never achieved when they were young. Riding is supposed to be fun. We try to keep it that way.”

“On horses like that Trust Fund?” Mike waved a hand at the wall that separated them from the stalls.

Liz laughed. “Of course not. He’s a grand prix jumper. He’s a handful even for me.”

Her eyes crinkled, her mouth split into a broad grin, the freckles on her crooked nose stood out and Mike’s blood pressure rose twenty degrees. He was stunned. Women like this did not usually appeal to him. Even dirty, there was something disturbingly sexy about this one. Whoa. He’d have to watch himself. He didn’t need any further female complications in his life.

“We’ve got large ponies and small horses that have been teaching kids to ride for years.”

“That you intend to sell the Edenvale children?” He knew he sounded truculent. He had to get control of himself and the situation quickly.

Mrs. Jamerson stepped in again. “Of course we’d love to sell every one of those children a horse or a pony to keep here in training—but we won’t cheat anyone, and we’re truly interested in bringing along the next generation of riders. Both Liz and I started in small riding programs at barns like this. Look where we wound up.”

Hell of a selling point. Liz and Mrs. Jamerson were dirty and sweaty, fighting money troubles, and undoubtedly worked seven days a week. Just what every parent wanted for his child, a lifetime of drudgery in thrall to a bunch of animals who bit and kicked.

Then he looked into their eyes and saw a pair of supremely content human beings. He shot his starched cuffs and felt the constriction of his power tie. Maybe what he felt was envy.

“Do you give better care, better prices than the other stables?”

“The best care and competitive prices,” Liz said. “Plus, we’ve got over a hundred acres here. Most training stables have a few paddocks and no place for the kids to trail ride.”

Mike leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. “All right. As we discussed earlier, Edenvale is willing to give you a trial run. An eight-week camp for half a dozen or so kids from Edenvate—Monday through Friday, 9:00 a.m. until 3:00 p.m. They bring their own lunches. You provide drinks. Starting Monday week. I want a prospectus on my desk by Friday morning of this week detailing precisely what you plan to accomplish during that time.”

“That’s crazy!” Liz yelped. “That’s two days from now.”

“Come now, Miss Matthews, you keep saying you want to make horsepersons of these kids. You must have some idea of how to accomplish that.”

“How much?” Mrs. Jamerson asked softly.

Mike turned to her and smiled. He knew he looked like a crocodile that had just spotted a particularly succulent possum. He’d spent a great deal of time perfecting that smile. Let the negotiations begin.

The door to the lounge flew open. “Daddy, Daddy! I’ve found him! Come and see him. He’s beautiful!” Pat flew across the room, grabbed her father’s arm and began to pull him to his feet. All four dogs tumbled into the room after her.

“Who’s beautiful? What are we talking about here?” Mike asked.

“My pony! My very own pony! I’ve even got a name for him. Come and see him, Daddy. Right now!” She flew out the door again.

Mike gaped after her.

“Terminal,” Mrs. Jamerson said softly. “I did warn you.” Smiling, she said, “We’ll give you our price on Friday.”

Mike turned to Liz. “What pony?” He realized he’d been smartly outmaneuvered, but at the moment he was too worried about Pat’s reaction to care.

“God only knows,” Liz said. “Hadn’t you better go see?”