Contents
The Will
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
EPILOGUE
Dascha Lane stood outside the attorney's office tapping her foot impatiently. She smoothed her cream pencil skirt, and checked her watch for a third time. Her older brother, Wyatt, was late. As usual. Dascha paced before the door to the office.
Wyatt finally came jogging down the hall, breathless; his dark, floppy hair askew from the run. "I'm not late. I'm not," he insisted.
Dascha crossed her arms and pursed her lips, unamused. "You could have been late any other day. But this? This is not okay, Wy."
Wyatt held his hands up before him defensively. "I know. I'm sorry, but there was this really cute-- "
Before he could finish, the door swung open. "Mister Hanverian wants to know if you're quite ready now?" the attorney's assistant asked.
Dascha squinted at Wyatt. When he offered an apologetic grin, she rolled her eyes and huffed, entering the room.
Mister Hanverian motioned to a couple of seats at a private, polished office desk. After Dascha and Wyatt sat, he took his own place in a high-back leather chair that made a "puft" sound when he dropped into it. "Mister and Miss Lane, we are here to review your father's last will and testament as customary in the state of New York. Shall we proceed?"
Dascha nodded solemnly. Wyatt already looked bored.
Mister Hanverian read from a file, before swiveling his computer monitor toward them. Dascha elbowed her brother to wake him up. He jumped and leaned forward as though he'd been enraptured the entire time.
A picture of their father came on the screen, he was at one of his beloved polo matches in his favorite stone-blue suit, then a click of the play button brought his picture to life. "If you're watching this my loves, I'm dead."
Dascha tucked her lip, gripping the arms of her chair as though her father's arm was still there to hang on to. She shut her eyes, momentarily blinded by the memories of being close to him at that very place. The smell of his cologne mixed with fresh cut grass in the background and horses and men roaring at one another as the polo match ensued. The sound of applause warmed her.
This time it was Wyatt's elbow in her ribs that caught her off guard. She shook her head, refocusing on the video.
"...And that is why I want you to go down to Florida and liquidate my assets. You are to reinvest the funds into my trust account for charity purposes."
"Florida?" Dascha's brow knit. "What assets does he have down there?"
Mister Hanverian rose, closing the file, and returning his monitor to its proper angle. He passed a paper to Wyatt who took it and shrugged. He tilted it toward Dascha. "It's just an address."
"Look up Oliver Way," Mister Hanverian advised. "He'll help you with the liquidation. I've been informed he's very knowledgeable."
Wyatt smiled. "Well, that should make it easy." He reached to shake the attorney's hand while Dascha stared at the paper, still confused. She should have been paying attention.
Mister Hanverian offered his hand to her, and she took it like a handkerchief, shaking it weakly. The attorney left the office. "I'll give you a moment. Feel free to call Miss Atkins if you need a glass of water or anything. I understand these things can be hard to process."
Already Dascha was back at the polo field of her memory, standing in the shade of the clubhouse. Closer to the pitch, Wyatt was decked out in his own polo gear, waiting for his match. She couldn't help notice the way he watched the players and teased any gentleman nearby. He flashed a perfect smile over his shoulder at her, wiggling his eyebrows, and hiking a thumb in the direction of a young man passing.
She jumped to attention again when the door of the office closed, leaving her alone with her brother and the finality of their father's death. Wyatt turned to his sister. "Would this be a bad time to tell you I'm gay?"
Dascha dropped her head into her hands, sighing exasperatedly. "Wy..." she groaned.
"Because we're living in a modern age where--"
Dascha shook her head. "Why would you drop a bombshell like that at this very moment? You couldn't have told me, I don't know..." She glared at him. "Years ago?"
He placed a hand to his heart as if rebuffed. "You knew?"
She rose slowly. "I suspected. Did Dad?"
Wyatt straightened his tie, and squared his shoulders, clearing his throat. "So. Florida, huh? Sounds fun."
Dascha brushed past him. "Let's find this Oliver guy and get things over with."
*
Oliver Way chucked a bucket of water onto the grass outside of the breezeway of his racing stable at Gulfstream Park. The muggy air embraced him, warning of a storm on the way. Big, fat thunderheads gathered across the gray sky. He worked as quickly as he could to batten down the hatches for the night. Things would be easier if he could afford a couple of grooms. His racing string was shrinking, and Walter Lane hadn't sent him a paycheck in a month.
Oliver ground his teeth as he filled the bucket with fresh water. The next time he saw that overbearing, obese walking money bag, Oliver would give him a piece of his mind. He hung the bucket in the stall of Walter's pet, a chestnut mare that couldn't run a lick. Oliver sighed and smoothed over her forelock. He leaned his forehead against hers. He loved her anyway. Coveted her even.
Not every horse was cut out to race. In fact, Oliver was sure Fools Rush In, or Faith as she was known around the barn, would make a better pony-- a lead horse-- to calm younger racers on the track. She had a very laid back personality, which is probably why she had only won a handful of races. Better horses had more fire and drive in them. However, Mr. Lane had insisted on pouring money into her. She was his slush fund, his rainy day play date. Something frivolous that made the old fart happy. When was the last time he visited her anyway?
"He'll be back," Oliver said quietly. He listened to Faith's even breathing, a calming cathartic rhythm. A rush of wind outside made her buck her head, and push him away, snorting. Oliver patted her side and left her stall. He had other charges to take care of. It would go a lot faster with some hired help, though, but that took money-- something he didn't have at the moment. It hadn't stopped him from posting flyers at the track cafeteria that morning, however. He'd find a way to pay them, somehow.
*
Dascha stepped from the car, her nose wrinkling at the mixed smell of manure and earth after rain. The address had taken them right to Gulfstream Park in Hallandale Beach, Florida. She was glad they'd gotten to the hotel before the storm last night. She couldn't bear thinking of what a nightmare the flight could have been in that nasty business. It had taken her a couple of drinks to relax in the midst of the thunder; the way it had shaken the hotel tower had been unnerving. Now she pinched the bridge of her nose, wincing behind dark glasses. "How do you suppose we find Oliver?" she asked Wyatt.
The place was buzzing with horses getting bathed and walked. There were so many people, she couldn't tell who was in charge.
Wyatt smiled, patting her back hard enough her shades popped to the end of her nose. "Relax, sis." He strode toward one of the workers, looking like he owned the place. He was definitely overdressed in his pressed new business
suit. Come to think of it, so was she. Dascha realized as she glanced down at her slacks and flats. She squinted hard against the sunlight and pushed her sunglasses to the top of her brow where they sat neatly, brushing her light locks from her forehead.
She followed after Wyatt, who was completely unafraid to talk to anyone he could get to listen to him. By the time she caught up, he'd already asked five people if they knew an Oliver Way. One of them pointed in the direction of another shedrow.
Wyatt took Dascha by the elbow. "Come on."
"That was easy."
Wyatt shrugged as he strode quickly in the direction he'd been given. "Half of them spoke Mexican."
"You mean Spanish."
"Oh, so sorry your majesty," he reeled. "I'm only a Jersey boy in a Wall Street world. What do I know?"
Dascha glanced skyward. "Forgive him, Father, for he knows not what an idiot he is."
They continued walking, feeling more and more lost. All the barns looked the same to Dascha.
"Here we are," Wyatt announced. "Barn five. I think." He glanced, scratching his chin.
Dascha noticed a man about her age down the aisle. He was bent over a hay bale, cutting orange twine. She marched up to him. "Excuse me?"
"You here about the job?" he asked. He lifted half the bale and shoved it into her arms. "Make yourself useful before I change my mind."
Dascha stumbled backward, landing in a pile of wet. The hay prickled into her blouse, poking her skin. A horse behind her squealed. She scowled at the man who was already coasting around the corner with another part of the bale. Wyatt trotted over to help Dascha up. "What in the world?"
Dascha dusted herself off. "I know, right?"
He gave her a look that asked if she was okay. When she nodded, Wyatt shuffled off after the man. "I'll talk to him."
A horse behind Dascha whinnied. She whirled on her heel, stumbling again and caught herself on a beam. Dascha narrowed her eyes at the offender. The chestnut horse tossed its head and wiggled its lip at Dascha. Dascha noted the empty hay net and the pile on the ground. She pointed. "I suppose that's yours?"
The horse gazed at her reproachfully, as if to say, Yes, please.
Dascha scooped up the pile and awkwardly stuffed it into the blue hay net. The horse snorted, sending Dascha jumping back. She squinted at the horse. They were all the same: hay burning money pits. Why did her father insist on a hobby that literally ate his funds away? They were all the same, too. Even the fancy polo ponies he had so adored. Prancing around in their flashy leather, and bright leg wraps. Snorting and foaming like Saint Bernards.
Wyatt returned with the man who had shoved her full of hay like one of the horses. Dascha watched them walk down the lane toward her. The man beside Wyatt was shorter than her brother, with dark sandy hair, and chiseled biceps. Her eyebrow arched. She kicked forward from the beam, heading toward them. She extended her hand. "I'm Dascha Lane. Walter was my father."
Biceps and Hair wiped his hands on his jeans, not that it made them any cleaner. His grip was strong and gentle at the same time. "Oliver Way." He yanked her close, like some crazy scene in a romance movie. His voice was hushed as he lowered his head to hers. Oliver's breath brushed against her lips. Dascha trembled.
Oliver held her there, bound for a moment, before whispering, "Where's my money?"
Dascha extricated her hand from Oliver's grip. "Excuse me?"
"Your father's overdue on my trainer fees, and the upkeep of his horses. I assume you've come to take care of that." The hardened look on his face made him even more rugged.
"Our father's dead," Wyatt said.
Oliver's expression softened. He turned to Wyatt. "Sorry?"
"You're right that we've come to take care of things on his behalf," Dascha murmured. "But our father has passed away. We're here to liquidate his assets, whatever they might be."
Oliver rubbed his neck. "My condolences."
Dascha clasped her hands in front of her. "I'm sure we can come to a settlement we can all agree on, Mister Way. Our attorney said you could help us take care of the business here."
Oliver nodded. "Of course. What did you have in mind?"
Wyatt crossed to Dascha. "We were instructed to sell his string. The money will go to charity."
"Well, he only had three horses. None of them are worth much, but we can probably get what he paid for them."
"Not to seem like idiots, Mister Way, but you'll have to guide us through the process," Dascha said.
Wyatt smirked. "We're noobs."
"We've mostly been around Polo ponies, so we're initiates to the racing world."
"Alright. I think we have some clear options here. I can put out some feelers to see if there are any interested buyers," Oliver said. "We could also run them in claiming races to see if anyone picks them up at a reasonable price." He walked down the aisle toward Fools Rush In, trying not to seem like she mattered to him. "Or we could wait until the Ocala Mixed Sale this winter."
"Winter?" Wyatt asked, his face widening with surprise.
"Too long?" Oliver asked. He rubbed Fools Rush In's blaze. "I understand. It's a gamble, too, if you ask me. No guarantee they'll go for a good price. If you ask me..."
Dascha and Wyatt leaned in, looking interested.
"The claiming races are the surest best," Oliver finished.
"A guaranteed price," Wyatt inferred.
Oliver nodded.
Wyatt looked at Dascha. "What do you think sis?"
She turned away, headed back to the car. "Do what you have to, Mister Way."
*
Oliver smiled internally. What a stroke of luck. Not only had money shown up, but his boss's ignorant children. It had been work enough helping naive Walter Lane find horses he liked, but now Oliver could wash his hands of him-- and possibly keep Fools Rush In in the process. He turned to the mare. "What do you think, Faith?"
She nosed him out of the way to get to the hay net that Lane girl had so awkwardly stuffed. Most of it was on the ground. Oliver sighed, picking it up. He'd get fresh food for his girl. No one loved him like that mare did. At least she'd never try to run off on him. He grimaced, stalking away from her.
When he turned back, carrying enough food to properly fill the net, he jumped. Walter's son was standing right in front of him. Had he followed Oliver? Oliver squinted at him. He could just make out what Walter would've looked like as a young man. Then he shook off the vision and pushed past him. "Scuze me."
Lane Junior grinned. "Of course."
He was following Oliver like a scent hound. "Do you like what you do?"
Oliver filled Faith's net. "Of course I do. I wouldn't do it for nothing if I didn't."
Lane Junior leaned against a beam. "What do you mean for nothing? I thought people paid you to work for them."
Oliver frowned. "Occasionally. People like your father, for instance."
"People like Dascha and I," Lane Junior inferred.
Oliver stared at the mare, watching her eat. He couldn't help but feel the guy's gaze on him. It made the hairs on the back of Oliver's neck stand at attention.
"Do you think she's pretty?" Lane Junior asked.
Oliver spun on his heel. "What?"
"Dascha, my sister, she's pretty right?"
Oliver's mouth floundered like a fish on land. If he confessed her good looks hadn't gone unnoticed, what then? He swallowed. "I guess."
When an awkward moment passed between them in silence, Oliver offered, "I think your sister's waiting for you."
Lane Junior flashed a boyish grin. "I look forward to working with you, Mister Way."
Oliver was still at a loss for words. "Uh, yeah. Likewise-- what did you say your name was?"
"Wyatt. Wyatt Lane."
*
"What kept you?" Dascha asked as Wyatt's door slammed.
Wyatt buckled his seat belt. "Oh, you know." He puffed out his chest, his voice deepening, "Man to man talk."
Dascha rolled her eyes. She leaned her
head back against the seat as Wyatt drove away from the backside. She couldn't wait to get away from this place, and that rude Oliver fellow. Who cared if he was semi-good looking? How could anyone pull a stranger in like that and then demand money? Who did that? Thugs did, she noted. She closed her eyes, sliding her shades down to the bridge of her nose. The memory of her father's voice trickled into her head.
"Now, Wyatt," he said in a hushed tone, "This is man to man talk. We need to make sure Dascha is taken care of. We've got to step up and fill in for your mother."
Dascha had stood in the shadows as a girl, peeking into her father's study. Her mother was terribly ill. The doctors said she'd never get better. Young Wyatt nodded solemnly.
To this day, Wyatt was the only one willing to run to the store for Dascha for all the lady needs. And he always got it right, she had to give him that. He was still a good big brother, despite his flaws. Much nicer than that Oliver man, anyway-- Who reminded her of her father in the worst way. He only seemed interested in the horses.
Ever since her mother passed, Dascha had been paraded around on her father's arm like some jewel to be sold to the highest bidder. He wanted to make sure she was taken care of, for sure, but not in the ways she needed. She was happy on his arm at all the social events and polo matches but resented the effect. All those young men chasing after her. It was embarrassing.
"Home sweet home," Wyatt announced as he pulled up to their hotel's valet.
Dascha opened her eyes. When was the last time she'd really felt at home?
Oliver poured over the Gulfstream Park Horsemens’ Condition Book for the next few weeks. There had to be some decent claiming races coming up. They started at six thousand dollars and went all the way up to fifty thousand.
Oliver rubbed his stubbled chin. He didn’t think anyone would pick up Lane’s horses for anything as high as fifty thousand, but he might be able to swing twenty-five. All three of the racers might go for that much, maybe even thirty-- tops. He sighed. It would pay off his bills and satisfy Junior and his sister.
But when he came across a claiming race at the lowest rung, specifically for fillies and mares exactly at Faith’s favorite distance... something clicked inside. Oliver was nigh dead-broke. If anyone held him at gun point and demanded his PIN, Oliver would probably laugh and give it to them. The only thing that would come flying out of an ATM is a bunch of IOUs. Which is exactly why that six thousand dollar claimer for Faith would be perfect.
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