by Sasscer Hill
"Who knows?" I booted Hellish. Her front legs came off the ground enough to send a small wave of fear through me, then replanted themselves firmly in the dirt. Bitch.
Refusing to waste time, I slid off her, intending to lead her through the gap in the track rail. She wasn't having it. If I turned around and glared at her when she balked, it would only make matters worse, so I kept walking in place in the sand pretending I was going somewhere. I felt like a fool with a beached whale on a leash.
The lead shank went slack in my hands, now that she'd decided, the filly hurried through the opening like a shark on the scent of blood.
Lorna rolled her eyes. "Showed you."
Didn't she always? I'd hoped she'd behave at Colonial without the presence of her favorite groom, the old black man, Mello Pinkney. The two had some bond I couldn't get a handle on, but I hadn't wanted to uproot Mello from Maryland, and still hoped Hellish might be manageable without his help.
An outrider cantered over after a minute or two, reined in his track pony, hopped off, and gave me a lift onto my recalcitrant filly. His gaze slid over us. "Nice looking filly."
"Thanks," I said, stroking her neck. "But pretty is as pretty does."
Two weeks earlier Hellish had clocked a blazing work, going head-to-head with a stakes winning older mare at Laurel Park. After a few days off, I'd been dismayed to see her come up gimpy in the right front. I cold hosed the leg, had the vets check it, and prayed. X-rays turned up nothing, she came sound, and this was her first morning back.
Lorna eased her bay into a slow gallop, and not one to be left behind, Hellish took off in pursuit. I almost sang when I felt her fluid motion. We were back in business. Had to watch her though, that big easy stride extended so smoothly she'd be rocketing before I realized she'd ignited. I stood in the stirrups, leaning back, letting my body weight pull on her mouth, reins long, a signal we weren't doing anything serious. She behaved. To my right, the Pegasus tattoo on Lorna's bare forearm moved in sync with her horse's rhythmic stride.
#
Two hours and six horses later, Lorna and I walked up the gravel road to Colonial's backstretch eatery. At most every U.S. track these cafeterias were called the "kitchen." In this one the scent of steaming coffee, bacon, fresh eggs and fried potatoes almost made me whimper.
We got in line at the counter and ordered ham and egg sandwiches. Poured ourselves coffee, paid, then headed to the seating area. A number of people had come down from Maryland for the meet, and we sat at a Formica-topped table with Will Marshall and Sable, an exercise rider from Pimlico. I hadn't seen Will since that day in the Laurel jock's room, the day Paco died.
Race riding and dieting had honed Will’s face into well-defined planes. Though quiet and a bit introverted, he had an appealing sense of humor that popped up at odd moments. He peeled an orange over a plate of dry toast and two lonely pieces of bacon.
Sable had café latte skin and heavy-lidded eyes. She wore a tight, racer-back top that displayed her muscular arms. She worked on pancakes. "You guys hear the autopsy came in on Paco Martinez?"
My head snapped up and Will's fingers stilled on the orange rind.
"Said he was loaded with methamphetamine and some other stuff."
Lorna and I exchanged a glance. The weight. Always fighting the scales, chasing after unnatural thinness. For some it led to multiple health problems, and for Paco it lead to death.
The woman behind the counter yelled, "Ham and egg sandwiches," and slammed her hand on a round buzzer bell. I trudged over to retrieve the order, my appetite shriveled by Sable's words. What had Paco been thinking? Even if he thought so little of himself, why hadn't he cared about his wife and young son?
The kitchen's swinging door pushed in, and a drop-dead handsome male stepped into the noisy room. Brown eyes that could melt you like candle wax and hair that flowed dark and glossy halfway to his shoulders. A narrow waist, and . . .
"Hey, you wanna these ham and eggs?" The Latina woman held a paper bag over the counter, one brow arched, a knowing look in her eyes. Watching me stare like a prepubescent schoolgirl who'd stumbled over a rock star.
Jeez, what was wrong with me? The guy was real young anyway, probably not 20. Warmth flushed across my cheeks. I grabbed the bag, sidestepped the apparition and retreated to our table.
They were still talking about Paco. "Couldn't believe he had a wife. And a kid,” Lorna said, then glanced expectantly at my sack of food.
I sat next to Will, opened the bag, and pulled out a hot sandwich. Its wax-paper covering was translucent with grease as I passed it over to Lorna. She sat with her back to the guy who'd just come in, but I faced him.
He stood there like he owned the place. Trying to ignore him, I sipped some coffee and pondered being about the only mid-twenties female who still hadn't had sex. I was doomed to be a late bloomer, probably due to some unpleasant stuff that had happened years ago. Stuff I rarely thought about. Still, there seemed to be some desire simmering on a back burner, and this young man was stirring it up.
He walked past our table wearing fringed leather chaps molding long legs and probably the best butt in Virginia. Hadn't meant to gawk. Serious eye candy, but he struck me as a party boy. His eyes didn't focus right, like he was spaced out.
"You see that guy? Is he gorgeous or what?" Lorna practically shivered her eyes bright, feeding on the boy's dancer-like body.
He moved to a table with some people I didn't recognize, spun a wooden chair around and straddled it like a horse. He crossed his arms, rested them on the chair back and glanced in our direction.
"Bobby Duvayne," Will muttered.
"You know him?" I asked.
"Rich boy. Father owns racehorses down here. Bobby gallops them in the morning. If he feels like it."
"He can gallop with me anytime," Lorna said, her breakfast forgotten, cooling on the wax paper. "Those eyes. They're, like, incredibly beautiful."
"You mean the incredibly dilated brown ones?" Will asked, shaking his head. "Guy's on dope, Lorna. He's a mess."
"Maybe," she said. "But look at him. He's beautiful."
I almost said, "Remember what happened with Paco?" but we weren't alone and it wasn't anybody's business. Not really my business either. Relenting, I said, "He's gorgeous all right. But maybe a little wild and unruly."
"Like a feral colt," said Will. "Probably gallop all over you, Lorna."
"I wish he would." Lorna's eyes held a dangerous gleam.
Sable forked a last bite of pancake, drained her orange juice and pushed up from the table, the muscles in her forearms popping. "Watch yourself, that boy keeps bad company."
Lorna raised a pierced auburn brow, the gold ring winking. "I'm not afraid of him."
Bobby stood up, circled toward us from the side, his attention fixed on Lorna's curves, red hair, and Fair Isle skin. He closed in, pulled out a chair and settled next to her. His long tapered fingers brushed the wings on Lorna's tattoo.
She hadn't seen him coming.
"Hey," he said. "I'm Bobby. Saw you out on the track this morning."
The way they stared at each other, I could almost hear the electricity arcing and crackling between them. Oh boy.
I looked away. Lorna was special and something about this guy gave me a bad feeling.
Chapter 9
A light breeze blew down our shedrow carrying the distant sound of sharply raised voices. Earlier, I'd sent Ramon and Manuel back to Laurel with the trucks and trailers, leaving Lorna and me to do double duty. We'd cleaned stalls, filled water and grain buckets, and stuffed hay nets with timothy and alfalfa.
Now, Lorna trundled past me with the last wheelbarrow load of soiled straw for the manure Dumpster. In the distance, the angry voices grew more strident and stirred my curiosity.
I raked away a remaining wisp of straw in the dirt outside our stalls, set the rake down and headed to the right, toward the center of the barn. Like most track stables, this one had a break where the dirt path ran through
the center, allowing quicker access to the other side and a shorter-turn option for grooms walking horses around the barn's perimeter. I passed through the middle and reached the opposite side.
An outfit had arrived earlier that morning, their shedrow set up neatly with a dozen or so horses contentedly munching hay. The trainer and grooms had finished their work and left before noon. The voices came from the next barn over.
Grass and clover rooted in red Virginia clay stretched across the 90 yards or so separating us from barn 22. Bobby Duvayne, at least it looked like his hair and body, stood with arms folded across chest, chin tilted in a defiant angle. An older man, his tone harsh with anger, jabbed a finger near Bobby's face.
As I moved closer, the younger man threw his hands up in a "whatever" gesture and stalked toward the end of the barn and two parked cars. He climbed into a red one. Looked like some kind of Mustang. The older man stared after him, shaking his head. In profile, his body was stocky, his loose green stable jacket partially hiding the beginnings of a beer belly. He muttered something and disappeared through an open stall door.
I headed back to my side, hearing the roar of a muscle-car engine. Lorna pushed the now empty wheelbarrow into the hay-storage stall, then stepped back into the aisle as the sounds of gasoline combustion, torque and driving pistons grew louder.
We were at the end of the backstretch, on the far side of the last barn, but here came the white-striped red hood nosing around the corner.
"Whoa!" Lorna trotted forward and leaned over the perimeter wood rail. "Man, look at that. Ford Shelby GT 500. That's a Cobra, dude!"
Why did people younger than me always know this stuff?
The car eased along the dirt and gravel drive running past our barn. The engine, at idle speed, reminded me of the heavy tha-dump of a big Harley in neutral. The tinted driver's window rolled down. Bobby. Knowing he looked sharp.
I could hear Lorna's intake of breath when his hot eyes found her. He winked, the window closed up, and the Cobra crept down the dirt side road. When it hit the main backstretch road, the car roared away.
"Dust on the horizon," I said.
Lorna seemed to come back from far away. "Huh?"
"That Bobby. He's the kind of guy, when you need him, he'll be dust on the horizon."
Lorna frowned. She didn't want to hear it. But then, if I'd received that wink, I wouldn't want anyone trying to pull the reins in on me either.
#
Ramon showed up around four in my beat up Celica. He unfolded himself from the car, yawning, his eyes droopy. "Jim say you got two more come in tomorrow."
"Two more horses?" I'd been hoping we'd stop at six – a nice round number. Eight felt a bit top heavy.
"Yeah, some lady. Her name is Chaquette? She got two Virginia-breds."
"He tell you anything else about this woman?"
A spark of interest lit Ramon's eyes. "He say she used to be, how you say . . . “He paused, suppressing another yawn, "fashion model."
I hoped that wasn't synonymous with prima donna. Ramon sagged against the side of my car. Must be all that driving.
"Why don't you get some rest, Ramon. We'll finish up."
He flashed a grateful smile and trudged off toward the grooms' quarters. Lorna and I fed the horses, tidied up, and headed for the grocery store.
When we got to the cottage, I wandered around looking for Slippers. I'd let him out that morning, placing his food and water dishes on the stone step outside the front door. I'd put his favorite mouse toy out, too. He wasn't a strayer, but I wanted to find him. I circled the cottage, calling, then headed down the drive past the stand of cedars that sheltered the cottage from the outbuildings and main house.
A sharply cooling October afternoon, the sky shifting to pink in the western horizon. The sun still warmed my back as I leaned over and picked up a piece of rose quartz from the gravel road. I fingered the cool stone, admiring a translucent white stripe blazing through the center. I headed toward the chicken coop. The old wire fence sagged to the ground in places and ragged holes darkened a few of the building's baseboards. It appeared the Cheswick's were out of the poultry business.
I stopped. An indistinct form lay in a shallow depression near the coop. I couldn't make out where it started or stopped. Fur? Feathers? Nerves tightening, I drew closer. Was it dead?
A fluffy black-and-white rooster hopped up, clucking in alarm. One beady yellow eye glared at me. He ruffled his feathers, drew in some air, and crowed. The fur object rose, stretched, and began washing his paws. Slippers.
I peered closer. Had he been pecked? Spurred? I couldn't see any spurs on the rooster's feet. A downy blanket of feathers covered his legs down to his toenails. My eyes cut back to Slippers. Being part Persian, his legs were draped in smoke-gray fur pantaloons. The cat matched the rooster perfectly.
I moved in, scooped Slippers into my arms, and headed back to the cottage. The rooster followed. Was everyone partnering up but me?
Lorna stood in the doorway. "What's with the chicken?"
I set Slippers down and he padded to his food dish. The rooster cackled and made a bee line for the Iam's pellets. The cat crunched, the rooster pecked.
Lorna grimaced. "Isn't that chicken he's eating?"
"I don't want to think about it." I went inside.
I sauteed hamburger with stewed tomatoes, onions and Worcestershire, then boiled two potatoes and mashed them with butter. A comfort food dinner. We ate off mismatched crockery, seated at an oak plank table in rickety wooden chairs. Lorna got first call on the bath, and I stepped outside to continue my exploration of the Cheswick farm.
Slippers' dish lay empty on the stone doorstep. The cat, rooster and mouse toy had all disappeared. Dew moistened the grass and a pleasant cedar tang saturated the evening air. Above, shreds of dark clouds drifted across the quarter moon rising in the east.
Down the gravel road, past the wood frame chicken coop, something scurried in the brush. I drew in some air, exhaling slowly. Just ahead lay the building resembling a workshop, covered with buckling prefabricated siding. Four windows, maybe two-foot square, marched across the front of the rectangular structure.
As I edged over to the closest window, the moon dimmed. The glass was dirty and hard to see through in the dark. I pulled a wadded dinner napkin from my jeans pocket and rubbed it on the window pane. The moon brightened. My hand froze.
A pallid face with wide, unseeing eyes loomed behind the glass.
I stifled a shriek as my brain sought an explanation. A doll. A china-faced boy doll. My body sagged against the siding in relief.
The large toy stood on a shelf below the window. Someone had arranged the doll so it appeared to stare through the glass. Inhaling a steadying breath, I stood on tiptoes to get a better view inside. Dozens of dolls in various sizes lined shelves built against the interior walls. Doll parts littered a long rectangular table. Headless bodies, disconnected arms, wigs and outfits I realized were Colonial. A sewing table stood near the far wall, and on the shelf next to the doll that had scared me half to death was a box of little tricorn hats.
"What are you doing?"
I jumped about two feet. Bunny. Where had she come from? "Just . . . looking at these dolls. Do you make them?"
The woman stared at me, her expression guarded. A long, faded paisley skirt wrapped her plump hips, and another worn sweater hung on her shoulders. She sighed, her tension dissipating as if too difficult to maintain. "I do. They're my little men." A key appeared from her skirt pocket and she shuffled up two steps and unlocked the workshop's door.
Inside she turned on overhead florescent bulbs, highlighting the downward lines of discontent etching her face. Her short blond hair became gray-white in the glare. "I started making these after I lost my boys. They said it would be good therapy, don't you know?"
I didn't. "Ah, I like the colonial theme."
"Yes." She picked up a loose leg, setting it next to a single arm. "They sell well in Williamsburg." Her
fingers kept rearranging the lifeless body parts.
Something brushed my leg, something normal. I leaned over and grabbed my cat, cradled him in my arms. A gray feather clung to his forehead. "So, you don't raise chickens anymore?"
"No, they're all gone. Except for one old rooster. Don't want any pets." She stared past me into the dark outside. "Pets are bad."
"Bad?" I asked.
"They could die."
Mentally, I searched about for something to say and came up empty.
Crunching gravel signaled someone's approach. Bunny's face took on a deer-in-the-headlights expression, her body tightening. A man's form emerged from the darkness. Well over six feet, but trim, with a head of thick silver-gray hair, he hurried toward us. Heavy black-rimmed glasses formed rectangles around his eyes, the thick lenses making it hard to read his expression.
"She all right?" he asked me.
I felt an immediate dislike for this man. "You're okay, aren't you, Bunny?" Why would he talk about her as if she wasn't there? But she wasn't. Her eyes had taken on a vague uncertainty, and she appeared almost feeble.
Exasperation and a look of long suffering washed over the face of the man I assumed was my landlord. He startled me by dousing the lights.
"Are you Chuck Cheswick?" I asked.
"Yes. Glad you gals could rent the cottage." His words were clipped and he made a motion to look at his watch, only it was too dark. "Come on, Bunny. Let's go to the house." He put a hand on his wife's arm, ignoring her flinch I could see in the moonlight.
Bunny allowed herself to be led away down the gravel drive. The darkness swallowed them up, leaving me alone, the night closing in.
Chapter 10
The rooster's crow awakened me at 4:35 a.m. Rolling over, I squinted at the clock's red numerals, then grabbed my pillow and shoved it over my head, hoping to blot out the sound, entice Mr. Sandman back before he dissolved completely. My bedroom door creaked open, and I sat up fast remembering the man with the shovel, the body on the road, those dolls.
