Lynn Michaels

by The Dreaming Pool

  The Dreaming Pool

  Lynn Michaels

  Chapter 1

  A light, icy rain fell on Gage Roundtree’s yellow-slickered shoulders as he cupped a stopwatch in the palm of his right hand and leaned against the backstretch rail beside Malachi Broom. The gray mist enveloping the exercise track muffled the sound of the two-year-old’s hoofbeats and shrouded the dark bay colt from view until he came pounding around the far turn.

  Except for the narrow, coltish withers and the touch of white on his muzzle, he could have been Ganymede. The resemblance between son and sire stabbed painfully at the hard knot of anger inside Gage, and he quickly lowered his head. Fixing his gaze on the stopwatch, he pressed the stem with his thumb as the colt thundered past the quarter pole.

  A spray of wet, sandy loam flew in the colt’s wake, and the small, gnarled man beside Gage who’d been grooming thoroughbreds at Roundtree Stables since the days of Whirlaway, the 1941 Triple Crown winner, grunted approvingly at the frozen red second hand.

  “Mud don’t seem t’slow ‘im up much,” Mal observed in his raspy, high-pitched voice.

  It never bothered Ganymede, either, Gage thought, remembering the day his dark red colt had won the Triple Crown. Belmont Park had been fetlock deep in muck, but Ganymede had won by a half-dozen lengths. Despite the mud and a loose shoe, he’d set a new Belmont Stakes record for the mile and a half.

  After the race Gage had taken the single bent nail that had held the shoe in place, had it gold-plated and put on a neck chain. It had been his good luck piece—and he’d lost it three days before Ganymede disappeared.

  “Gonna make a fine mudder, Ganylad is,” Malachi said, scratching at his whisker-stubbled chin. “Fine as ‘is ol’ man.”

  “We’ll see,” Gage said brusquely, turning away as the colt, snorting vapor trails from his muzzle, pranced toward them. “Cool him out good, Mal.”

  The bleak, chill morning was as heavily laden with memory as it was with rain, and Gage walked briskly through both on his way to the barns. He paused only once, at the white-railed fence that enclosed Ganymede’s empty paddock, thrust his hands into his slicker pockets, and fingered the carrot he still brought with him every morning.

  A year ago, the son of Johnny Byrne, Roundtree’s former trainer, had used a phony name when he’d hired on at the Stables; six weeks ago, the groom he’d known as Paul Johnson —an alias for Marco Byrne—had stolen Ganymede. Every day since then Gage had brought a carrot with him, certain that today would be the day they’d find Johnny’s son and bring Ganymede home.

  Six weeks… and all the cops in California, the FBI, and all the big-name, hotshot private investigators his brother Ethan had hired couldn’t find Ganymede. The only trace Byrne had left behind was the tire treads in the mud at the front gate. From there he and the four-by-four and the trailer carrying Ganymede had simply vanished.

  First, they’d suspected kidnapping, but there’d been no ransom demands. No calls, no letters, no nothing. Then yesterday, the detective from L.A., the Mike Hammer look-alike, had hypothesized that the revenge motive of the crime suggested the possibility that if Ganymede ever came home it would be in pieces—one at a time.

  Gage’s knuckles still ached where they’d connected with the detective’s jaw. Ganymede wasn’t dead. He knew it. He wasn’t sure how, he just did.

  Bowing his head against the rain, he strode quickly toward the long, low white barns. Droplets of cold drizzle slid down the back of his neck, and he raised his head as he turned up his collar. Ahead of him, and adjacent to the paddock, stood Ganymede’s private barn. The double, cross-planked doors were ajar and a narrow shaft of pale light glowed between them.

  Son of a bitch, Gage cursed silently, Ethan and those damn reporters again!

  In the days following Ganymede’s theft television and newspaper correspondents had camped out at Roundtree. Gradually, as the investigation led nowhere and interest declined, their numbers had dwindled until the afternoon two weeks ago when Gage had caught Ethan leading a cortege of reporters from the big-name monthly news magazines and the national television networks through Ganymede’s quarters. He’d entered in time to hear his brother announce his plans to convert the barn into a thoroughbred horseracing museum dedicated to Ganymede’s memory. Gage had thrown the reporters off the Stables and threatened to do the same to Ethan. He’d made the local six o’clock news that evening and the headlines—angry trainer gives press the boot—in the morning sports section of the Santa Barbara paper.

  This time, he decided angrily, as he headed toward the spill of light, I think I’ll shoot for a spot on the national news.

  Hoping one of the reporters would be carrying a camera he could smash for effect, Gage slipped through the opened doors, and came to an abrupt halt as he looked down the long, wide corridor. It was empty and silent, except for the off-key humming he heard in Ganymede’s stall. Frowning, he quickly moved toward it, his footfalls muffled by the loam floor beneath his boots. The chest-high stall door was also ajar, and here he stopped again, startled and taken aback by what he saw.

  Shin-deep in fresh straw, a slim, dark-haired woman stood near the center of the stall with her back to the door. Her shoulder-length hair was nearly the same color as the brown velvet collar of her tweed Chesterfield coat.

  “How the hell did you get in here?” Gage barked at her.

  She jumped at the sound of his voice and whirled around. Her deep-blue eyes looked startled. Straw snapped and snarled around her slim, stockinged legs.

  “Ohhhh,” she breathed, pressing her right hand to the bow tied at the collar of her powder-blue blouse. “You scared me.” Leaning over to brush straw dust from her darker blue suede skirt, she saw a narrow run zip down her shin, and glanced up at him with a wry smile. “You’ve also caused me to ruin my pantyhose.”

  “Consider it a small price to pay for trespassing,” Gage answered sharply. “I could call the sheriff, who I’m sure would be delighted to write you a citation.”

  Placing her hands on her hips, she straightened and shot him an indignant glare. “I was invited here, Mr. Roundtree, by your brother.”

  That surprised him. With her elfin features and slender figure, she was hardly the leggy and glamorous sophisticate Ethan usually preferred. “My brother only owns half of Roundtree, Miss… ?”

  “Hillary,” she filled in. “Eslin Hillary.”

  “And unfortunately, Miss Hillary, you’re standing on my half.”

  “Then please direct me to his.” she replied tartly.

  Anger flickered in her nearly violet eyes, and Gage was almost sorry Ethan had seen her first. “If my brother invited you, then where is he?”

  “Right here, Gage,” Ethan replied smoothly, his deep voice echoing slightly in the empty corridor. “I see you’re charming the guests again.”

  On one boot heel Gage Roundtree spun away from the stall door, and behind him Eslin Hillary felt a giddy, lightheaded rush which she told herself was due to nerves, nothing but nerves. Why, oh, why, she groaned silently, trying to look away from the angry red aura whirling around Gage, had she trusted Ethan to smooth her way with his brother when all of her instincts—not to mention Doc Fitz himself—had warned her not to?

  Actually, she hadn’t had a choice, she reminded herself. Ethan had insisted on talking to Gage himself, which he obviously hadn’t done. Now as she looked at the aura beginning to darken and pulse around Gage, she knew there was no way she’d accept Ethan’s invitation to spend the weekend with his family.

  “I thought we had an agreement,” Gage said furiously. “You’d stay away from me and I’d stay away from you.”

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” Ethan replied, leaning his leather-patched, gray tweed elbow
on the top of the stall door as he stepped into Eslin’s line of vision. “You’re supposed to be at morning workouts. I’m not a mind reader, you know.”

  Oh, Lord, Eslin prayed, as Ethan adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses and smiled at her. Please don’t say it.

  “You must excuse Gage, Eslin. He’s much more at ease with horses than he is with women.”

  Gage tried his best to put a damper on the fratricidal thoughts swirling through his mind. Even at age thirty-two Ethan’s engaging smile, charismatic air, and designer tweed jackets and trousers made him feel awkward and oafish. Although his brother’s glib tongue often spouted manure, he never had to scrape it off his Gucci boots, while Gage’s own vintage, weather-beaten Dingos were often caked with it.

  “I warned you, Ethan—no more reporters.”

  “I’m not a reporter. I’m a medical librarian.”

  Glancing over his left shoulder, Gage watched Eslin Hillary wade through straw as she came toward them. Again, he genuinely regretted that his brother had seen her first.

  “Such modesty.” Ethan laughed as he swung the stall door wide open and extended his hand to her. “You’re much, much more than that.”

  Eslin ignored Ethan’s hand. The frown on her face was definitely belligerent, and Gage didn’t blame her for feeling that way. If he’d been Eslin Hillary, he would’ve slugged Ethan.

  “From now on, Ethan,” he said, as he turned away, “whether I’m supposed to be here or not, keep your guests on your side of the Stables.”

  “Wait a minute, Gage. Eslin and I have a proposition for you.”

  Pausing, he looked back and frowned at the diminutive woman standing beside his brother. “No, thanks,” he said curtly. “Threesomes aren’t my thing.”

  She laughed, her expressive eyes shining with amusement. It was a melodious, rather throaty peal that Gage found unusually pleasant. She should’ve been offended, he should’ve been embarrassed, but instead, Eslin was laughing and Gage was smiling, something he’d rarely done in the last six weeks.

  “Perish the thought.” Ethan smirked distastefully. “No, little brother, this is a business proposition.”

  “Pertaining to what?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Ganymede.”

  Slowly, Gage swung around to face Ethan and Eslin Hillary. “I can’t see what a medical librarian—”

  “Eslin isn’t just a medical librarian.” Ethan swept his right arm around her shoulders and drew her against him. “Her abilities are, shall we say—far reaching.”

  Gage saw the sidling half-step she took away from his brother; then he raised his eyes to Ethan’s face. “What abilities are those?”

  “During the past few years Eslin has helped various law-enforcement agencies locate missing persons. Admittedly, her methods are somewhat unorthodox, but there’s no arguing with her success. For instance, in Nevada last summer, a two-year-old boy wandered away from his parents’ campsite…”

  Very skillfully, Ethan avoided using the word—but he did imply it: psychic. Gage let his eyes drift from Ethan to Eslin Hillary’s lovely face, and the stab of disappointment he felt was almost physical.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said, bluntly interrupting his brother’s sales pitch. “You’re a psychic.”

  “No,” she corrected him firmly, “I told you, I’m a medical librarian.”

  “Who just happens to see things when she looks into a crystal ball and uses it to augment her salary. Just how much do you charge for your services, Miss Hillary?”

  She recoiled, almost as if he’d struck her.

  Because the angry blood-red had faded from his aura, which now hung gray and heavy with grief, Eslin chose to forgive him his remark.

  “I don’t charge,” she answered, trying unsuccessfully to keep the stony edge out of her voice. “Neither do I use a crystal ball or advertise in the Yellow Pages under ‘Fortunes Told.’ “

  “Do you know my mother, Miss Hillary? Or maybe her wacky friend Dr. Fitzsimmons?”

  Now he’d gone too far, and Eslin bristled. “As a matter of fact, I—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Gage!” Ethan interrupted her. “Eslin isn’t one of Mother’s kooky friends! Captain Hargrove of the Sheriff’s Patrol recommends her highly.”

  “Just what are you proposing, Ethan? Letting her hold a séance to see if her spirit guides know where Byrne has stashed Ganymede?”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Eslin told him coldly.

  “How does it work, Miss Hillary?”

  “If you were genuinely interested, I’d tell you. Since you’re not, I see no point in continuing this conversation.”

  With a dignified lift of her chin she started past Ethan.

  “Wait, Eslin.” He caught her arm and then turned back to Gage. “Do you want Ganymede back? If so, she can help you find him.”

  “Do you expect me to believe—”

  “I don’t expect anything,” Ethan cut him off. “I’d hoped for your cooperation, but I sure as hell don’t need it—or your permission. The stallion’s half mine and so will be the two-million-dollar loss the Stables will suffer if we don’t have him back in time for next breeding season.”

  “Threaten me with something that matters,” Gage returned evenly. “I don’t give a damn about the money and you know it.”

  “With or without you, Gage, Eslin and I are going to find Ganymede.”

  “No,” she contradicted him quietly. “Without him we aren’t.”

  “What’s the problem, Miss Hillary?” Gage taunted. “Will my negative vibrations disrupt your psychic equilibrium?”

  “Hardly.” She shot him a contemptuous look over her shoulder. “I simply refuse to pit Cain against Abel.”

  Zap. Eslin watched her remark strike its respective bull’s-eyes like an arrow launched simultaneously at twin targets. Ethan looked stunned, simply astonished, but Gage Roundtree jerked his head sharply to one side and raised an eyebrow. With the advantage tipped slightly in her favor, Eslin extricated her arm from Ethan’s grip, turned, and walked toward Gage.

  “I found this in Ganymede’s stall,” she told him. “I believe it belongs to you.”

  She stopped in front of him, her dark head even with the top buckle on his slicker. Dipping her right hand into her coat pocket, she withdrew his neck chain and held it up to him. The bent, gold-plated nail shimmered in the fluorescent light.

  “Lucky guess,” Gage answered gruffly, as he held out his hand to take it. “That, or Ethan told you it’s mine.”

  Smiling, she dropped the chain in his palm. “Ask him,” she challenged, and walked toward the door at the far end of the corridor.

  Gage raised his eyes from the chain, which felt warm in his hand, to his brother’s face. Still somewhat dazed, Ethan slowly shook his head.

  “Miss Hillary?” Gage called.

  She stopped and looked back at him. “Yes?”

  “Would you care to stay for lunch? I’d like to discuss my brother’s proposition.”

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Roundtree, I’ll think about it. The proposition, I mean.” She smiled again. “I’d love to stay for lunch.”

  Tucking her hands in her pockets, she moved briskly down the corridor. One of the tubes suspended from the ceiling flickered on the verge of burning out and streaked her dark hair with red highlights.

  “I invited her for the weekend,” Ethan said as the door swung shut behind her with an echoing slap.

  “Don’t push it,” Gage advised him steadily. “Let’s see how lunch goes first.”

  With a disgusted sigh his brother turned away and quickly followed Eslin down the corridor. Beneath the same light that had enhanced Eslin’s hair, his pale scalp showed through the thin, dark strands of hair he so carefully combed over his bald spot.

  When the door clapped shut behind him, Gage opened his hand and looked at his neck chain. It still felt warm—probably, he decided, from being in her pocket—and he smiled as he closed his fingers around it. He beli
eved in luck, and if this wasn’t an auspicious sign he’d never seen one.

  Chapter 2

  Once she was outside the barn, Eslin’s quaking knees failed her and she sagged gratefully against the cold and damp white clapboard wall. Although the overhanging eaves shielded her from the worst of the drizzle, a light, wet breeze wafted across her tingling, flushed face.

  Run! warned the little voice she always heard inside her head when she was about to do something she’d later regret. Run as fast and as far as you can!

  It was good advice. But as usual, she ignored it.

  Why had she pulled that grandstand stunt with the neck chain? She’d encountered bigger cynics than Gage Roundtree—and eventually won them over. Why had it been so important to her to convince him that she wasn’t a carnival sideshow gypsy?

  It wasn’t just his good looks, though she knew she’d dream about her first, heart-leaping glimpse of his face for weeks. He’d appeared behind her like Laurence Olivier out of the movie Wuthering Heights—Heathcliff, fresh from the moors, the dank smell of wet earth clinging to him, rain glistening in his dark hair.

  Eslin remembered how her mother used to tell her that she looked a little like Merle Oberon. The memory made her smile slightly, and then frown. Whoa, Eslin, she cautioned herself. You’re not Cathy, and you definitely do not want to get involved with a man who’s in mourning for a horse!

  Yet that was why she’d wanted to prove to him that she wasn’t a fake, that she could—hopefully—find Ganymede. Eslin was certain she’d never seen a human being that the phrase walking wounded described so perfectly. Gage Roundtree’s pain had touched her, and for a moment she’d known exactly how she would feel if something as equally awful happened to her palomino mare, Meringue. She’d responded to his grief, the bottomless, soul-wrenching grief she’d seen in his eyes. She had a knack for perceiving people’s true feelings no matter how skillfully they tried to hide them. She wished she had the same talent for reading auras, and now that she thought about it, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d perceived an aura as vividly as she had Gage Roundtree’s.