Читать книгу If Wishes Were Horses - Carolyn McSparren - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

“OH, DEAR,” Mrs. Jamerson whispered.

“Uh-oh,” Liz said. “She would pick that pony.”

Mike glanced at the women and then at his daughter, who danced first on one foot then on the other in the stable aisle, pointing at one of the stalls halfway down.

“Come see, Daddy,” Pat said. “Come see my very own pony.”

Mike walked slowly to her, Liz and Jamerson following. In the stall stood a sleek gray pony. Even to Mike’s untutored eye it was beautiful. Its coat glowed, its mane looked as though it had been beaten out of a single strip of silver.

“I’m going to name him Traveller, just like Robert E. Lee’s horse, and he’s meant for me. I know he is. I just know it.”

“Not a good idea,” Liz said quietly. “He’s going to be a great pony eventually, but at the moment he’s green as grass. Knows zilch.”

Pat stopped dancing and her face took on that closed, mulish expression that Mike had learned to dread. In the hospital it meant that the doctors and nurses had a fight on their hands to get her to take her medication. He’d never blamed her. No kid likes throwing up a dozen times a day or going bald. There had been times when he’d chickened out, left the medical staff to handle her because he couldn’t bear to watch her suffer another minute. They hadn’t wanted him there most of the time anyway. Neither had Pat. Sometimes he thought she felt guilty about her illness, as though it were something she had inflicted upon him.

Her nausea passed, and her hair grew back, but unfortunately by that time she’d perfected her technique to get precisely what she wanted from him.

The look Pat gave to Liz Matthews would have curdled milk. “He is too my pony,” Pat said. “I love him. We’ll learn together.” Then she took the next step in her prescribed ritual. Her eyes filled with tears, her lip began to quiver, her shoulders tightened. She grew visibly smaller right in front of Mike’s eyes, as though she had taken one of Alice in Wonderland’s shrinking potions. Mike closed his eyes and saw her on that bed again. He couldn’t fight her and she knew it. “Daddy, you promised. If you love me, you’ll buy him.”

Liz snorted. Mike saw Pat glance at her coldly from beneath wet lashes.

“Listen, kiddo,” Liz said matter-of-factly. “After he’s had some training and you’ve learned to ride, maybe you’ll be ready for a pony like this. But an inexperienced rider on an inexperienced horse is a recipe for disaster.”

“No, it’s not, it’s not.” Pat stamped her foot. “Daddy, buy him for me. Please,” she wheedled. “If we give these people enough money they have to sell him to us.”

Mike heard Liz Matthews’s quick intake of breath at the same instant he felt all his plans to get Pat away from this place disintegrate under the force of her hazel eyes—her mother’s hazel eyes—bright and earnest and intelligent and about as movable as Mount Kilimanjaro.

He actually looked forward to handling infuriated business rivals. He knew half the investment community called him a ruthless bastard. So how come he couldn’t handle one eleven-year-old girl?

“I think Traveller is a lovely name for him,” Mrs. Jamerson said. “Much better than Iggy Pop, which is the name he has now.” At the sound of his name, the pony raised his head and looked inquiringly at Mrs. Jamerson. She reached over and stroked his nose. “But you said your father promised you a pony for your twelfth birthday, and that’s not for a while, right?”

Suspiciously, Pat nodded.

“So, there’s plenty of time to find out whether you even like to ride, and meanwhile you can come over and pet him anytime you like. Who knows, you may fall madly in love with another pony.”

“I won’t.”

“Possibly not And he is a truly lovely pony. He’s a registered Connemara—that’s a rugged little breed from Ireland. You have good taste. Still, Liz is right. He doesn’t know much about his job yet. So we’ll take it slow and see what develops, all right?”

Pat took a deep breath, glanced from Mrs. Jamerson to Liz and back again. “Okay,” she said. and Mike heard her whisper, “But he’s mine.”

Mike’s relief that a full-blown tantrum had been avoided was tempered by the realization that now there was no way he could keep Pat out of the riding program. His only hope was that Liz and Mrs. Jamerson would be able to show Pat how little she knew. Surely she’d realize that she had a long way to go before buying even an experienced pony became an option. By then maybe she’d have discovered video games or tennis or shopping malls.

“Fine,” Mike said, wanting to get Pat out of there before this fragile truce disintegrated. He turned to Liz. “You’ll have that complete syllabus to me by Friday morning? I want it on my desk early.”

“We’ll do our best,” Mrs. Jamerson said when Liz didn’t answer immediately.

Mike turned on his heel and walked back to his car. Pat followed silently. He knew damned well she’d start her campaign for that blasted pony the minute they were on their way. This was one time he’d have to put his foot down.

He felt an unreasoning resentment toward both Liz and Mrs. Jamerson. They were only trying to make a living, he knew, but they were complicating his life. Not their fault that they’d played into Pat’s obsession or his worries as a parent. Still, he fervently wished they’d chosen some other day school to solicit for their stables.

As he drove away he watched Liz, standing beside one of the paddocks with all her weight on one hip. Damn! He certainly planned to come here for as many of Pat’s lessons as he could. He’d arrange his schedule to get into the office late so that he could drive Pat every morning. That meant he’d be spending too much time hanging around Liz Matthews. Why couldn’t she be as old and as wrinkled as her riding boot? And did her legs have to be that long? And that face. He tore his eyes away from his rearview mirror and concentrated on his driving.

He could find Liz Matthews sexier than Scheherezade for all the good it would do either of them. They were on completely different wavelengths. He glanced over at his daughter, who was completely preoccupied—no doubt planning her campaign for the gray pony.

At least Mrs. Jamerson seemed to understand children. He had a suspicion that Miss Matthews adhered to the drill-sergeant school of instruction. Pat didn’t like to be corrected.

He smiled grimly. Liz might turn out to be the best ally he could have. A couple of days of her bullying in the July heat might well convince Pat to take up knitting.

“I’LL STARVE FIRST,” Liz sputtered as she watched Mike and Pat drive away.

“The animals can’t starve,” her aunt said. “If a summer riding program for Edenvale is what it takes to pay the feed bill, we have to do it.”

Liz threw up her hands. “That is a dreadful child, and her father isn’t much better.” She snorted. “He may be a big muckety-muck in business, but he’s not doing that kid any favors by letting her get away with that kind of behavior in public.”

“Well, we’d better keep her safe,” Mrs. Jamerson said. “It’s clear that Daddy will crucify anybody who hurts his little darling. We only carry half a million dollars in liability insurance.”

“And you expect me to spend five mornings a week in ninety-five-degree heat with six or eight like her?” Liz said. “I cannot do it. I’ll sell my body first.”

Mrs. Jamerson looked her up and down. “It’s a nice body, but it is thirty-seven years old and extremely dirty. I doubt anybody would pay five dollars for it.”

“Oh, thank you so much for that vote of confidence.”

“You could always marry a rich husband.” She cocked her head in the direction of Mike’s retreating Volvo.

“Pul-lease. I’ll take the five dollars first,” Liz said with a grin.

“That’s your choice. But you’d better make believers out of Edenvale School and their little darlings, my dear niece, or we’ll both be clerking at some discount mall before Christmas.”

“If Trusty and I win the grand prix on Labor Day, we can add five thousand bucks prize money to the till. And maybe entice some of our old clients back. Besides, we haven’t lost all our adult clients.”

“Yet.”

“Think positive. A couple of shows where Valley-Crest brings in championships and we’ll be beating off new customers with a stick.”

“We need a full barn and a full slate of lessons now, darling Liz. You’ve looked at the figures.”

“I know, I know. But isn’t there a better way than teaching half a dozen Pat Whittens to ride?”

“Come on, Liz, you’re good with children.”

Liz gaped at her. “What lifetime are we talking about here?”

“We could sell Mr. Whitten that gray pony for his Pat,” Mrs. Jamerson said.

“No way! Edenvale has never been that sort of sleazy trader. We even kept Uncle Frank honest.” She caught the look in her aunt’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Aunt Vic. I know he was your husband, but he cut deals fine sometimes—or he would have if you and I hadn’t been there to remind him where business stopped and horse-trading started.”

Vic laughed. “He could have gotten away with a whole heap more, and the clients would still have loved him. I sometimes wonder how any of us put up with him when he was in one of his moods.”

“He trained great horses and riders.” Liz shook her head. “They adored him.”

Vic sighed. “I wish I had Frank’s charm. We could use a few hundred-thousand-dollar sales right about now.”

“Charm? Charm? He made Marine boot camp look like a first-class cruise to the Bahamas.”

“We won. We made money. We had a full barn. We had happy customers and top-notch horses. That’s results.”

“Results. Right.” Liz turned away, her chest heaving. She’d finally learned to pity Uncle Frank about the time she turned twenty. Before that. he’d terrified her. He couldn’t show affection, he couldn’t praise the people he cared about, not even Vic. Certainly not his gawky niece.

Yet for all his grumpy bullying, Uncle Frank had taken her in after her mother’s sudden fatal heart attack and her father’s grief made living at home impossible for her. Frank had tried to love her, an eleven-year-old de facto orphan, in the only way he knew. He drove her to ride better, higher, stronger. And when she cried he seemed baffled. Memories of those sessions still made her hyperventilate. What would confrontation with Mike Whitten do to her breathing? She didn’t doubt for a minute that he could bully with the best if he thought it would work for him.

The worst part was that despite his size and that lantern jaw, something about Whitten turned her on. He radiated confidence. He was in great shape. Probably played handball three times a week and had a personal trainer so he could impress the ladies on the tennis court at the racquet club. He wore no wedding ring, and Angie Womack had told her there was no Mrs. Whitten.

She wondered why such an obvious catch was running around without a wife in tow. Little Miss Pat probably fed arsenic to possible queen consorts the minute Daddy showed any interest in them. The girl didn’t seem eager to share.

The kid certainly had her father wrapped around her little finger. Pat held the key to the Edenvale contract, and if Vic said they had to get it to stay solvent, then Liz would do everything in her power to make that happen, even if she had to turn that kid into a centaur.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like kids. She rode against kids every day in the hunter ring. But ValleyCrest had always catered to adult riders.

As Uncle Frank’s exercise girl from the time she was old enough to sit a horse, Liz had been too busy after school to make friends her own age. She’d moved into the adult world when she was barely into her teens. She’d had crushes on the few teenaged boys who rode, but she’d been tall and so bony, and they’d always gravitated towards the cute little debutantes.

So here she was at thirty-seven with nobody in her life except her aunt and the animals, and that was the way it was likely to remain. At least it was peaceful. The dogs and cats never yelled at her.

She watched her aunt bending over the feed sacks, Vic’s youthful body lithe and strong. Liz often caught the longing in her aunt’s eyes when her niece swung into the saddle. Please God, Liz prayed. Let me never lose my nerve the way she did, never cringe at the thought of cantering down on a big fence. She knew it could happen to anyone, even someone as talented and fearless as Aunt Vic had been.

Vic was a great manager, a great teacher, but Liz knew how deeply it must hurt never to sit in a saddle.

All those years that Uncle Frank had tried to bully and cajole her out of her fear, Vic never fought back. Liz finally told him if he said one more word on that subject, she’d leave. Since by that time Frank Jamerson weighed over three hundred pounds, and had no one but Liz to ride his horses, he’d tried hard to watch his mouth from that moment on.

He never knew that after their fight Liz had walked out of the room and thrown up. Only Aunt Vic and Albert knew that angry words wounded Liz much more deeply than broken bones and concussions.

Now Liz was faced with Mike Whitten and his whiny kid, and probably a bunch of other equally bratty kids with bullying mothers and fathers.

She walked up the front steps to her cottage, opened the door to the screen porch, made her way across into the cluttered living room and felt her sweat freeze in the air-conditioning as suddenly as though someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on her.

“What a jerk!” A raucous voice spoke from the shadowy corner.

“Am not.” Liz said.

Jacko, her small gray parrot, hung upside down from the perch in his large wicker cage and regarded her over his shoulder with beady eyes.

“What a jerk?” he wheedled.

Liz laughed. “I wish you’d learn to say something else, anything else. How about ‘I want my dinner.’” She reached for the parrot seed on the window ledge behind the African violets.

“What a jerk!” The parrot bounced up and down in ecstasy.

“Keep that up and I’ll bake you into parrot potpie.”

“What a jerk.” The parrot sighed and stuck his beak into the seeds.

“You’re probably right.” Liz sank into the shabby sofa. It definitely needed new springs and new upholstery. She closed her eyes. Unbidden, Mike Whitten’s face loomed up behind her eyelids. She blinked. “Oh, hell,” she said. “That’s just what I need.” She pointed to the parrot. “And you, not one word. You got that?”

“What a jerk,” the parrot replied. This time he sounded as though he meant it.