by Laura Moore
“Thanks. I like it. Landscape’s real different from where I grew up in Kentucky, but few places can match the sky and light that you find in eastern Long Island,” Steve replied easily, not for a single moment forgetting this woman’s fierce protectiveness toward Ty. He’d give a good deal to know why Lizzie Osborne felt it necessary to protect her friend. And something about the whole scene in the entryway teased his memory. Similar to the way the name of a long-ago classmate hovers but remains frustratingly elusive.
It occurred to Steve that if he could get Lizzie Osborne alone, he might unearth some very useful information about his partner. Like what made her tick. Like why some things about her seemed strangely familiar.
“So you’re in the horse business, too?”
“More like the pony business,” Lizzie corrected with a grin. “Mainly pony hunters and children’s hunters for my older kids. Of course, that may change as my clients grow up. You know, get rid of their braces.”
She wondered when Steve Sheppard was going to remember exactly who Ty was. It was tempting to jolt his memory a bit, but Ty had already shot her a stern look, giving a quick shake to her head. Lizzie regretfully abandoned the idea, saying instead, “I’ve got a small stable, Cobble Creek, located outside Bedford. The drive’s close enough that I get kids from the city as well as local riders.”
Steve drained his coffee and placed it on the counter beside his hip. “Well, I’m sure the two of you have a lot to talk about.” A man with two sisters, he knew what to expect when women got together with friends. “I’ve got to head over to the barn and feed the horses. Bubba’ll be coming by later.”
“Why don’t we get breakfast ready while you’re gone?” Lizzie offered. “Then you and Ty can tell me about your plans for Southwind when you get back.”
“Holy heavenly host, Ty, he’s gorgeous! Way better than when we were kids, if you ask me. Tougher. It’s horribly unfair the way men improve with age.” She gave a dramatic sigh as she placed a bowl of dry Cheerios in front of Emma. “Here, Em, munch on these. How about we make some french toast? We skipped breakfast.”
While Emma happily grabbed oat rings by the fistful and dry Cheerios scattered over the round wooden table, Ty came over to stand by Lizzie. Lizzie hid a smile at how carefully her friend was moving, asking instead, “How’s it going between you?”
“Educational. It was pretty naive of me to think that just because I wanted to help Steve out of this situation, that would make everything easy.” She sighed. “He’s a complex man.”
“Yeah, but if he weren’t complex, you wouldn’t be interested, and you know it, Ty.” Lizzie paused, expertly cracking an egg with one hand against the rim of a mixing bowl. “Just for the record, what did those guys you’d bring along as dates talk about that had your eyes glazing over a mere thirty seconds later?”
Ty laughed, raising her hands in surrender. “Touch?! Okay, I admit it. I have a major problem with men who never deviate from their two favorite topics of conversation: how much money they made this week, and how much money they’re planning to make next week.”
“Ugh! Totally brain-dead!” Lizzie exclaimed in disgust. “No wonder you never wanted to sleep with any of them! But I bet Steve’s not like that,” she speculated with a small smile.
“No,” Ty agreed ruefully. “He’s arrogant, obnoxious, bullheaded, and a general pain in the neck. He can be downright devious, too,” thinking of how he’d purposely encouraged her belief that he enjoyed living in a moldy, dust-filled ruin of a house. But then, with customary honesty, she found herself adding, “He’s also smart and funny and cares about people.” Ty briefly explained Steve’s relationship with Bubba Rollins. “And lastly, he’s devoted to his horses. Fancy Free’s death really shook him.”
Lizzie nodded sympathetically, beating the eggs with quick flicks of her wrist. “In short, he’s perfect for you.”
Ty opened her mouth to object, then thought better of it, knowing she couldn’t fool her best friend.
“Yes,” she agreed, “I’m afraid so.”
“Well, buck up, kiddo. I caught the way he was looking at you, and I think he’s more than ready to mix a little pleasure with this particular business.”
“Already has,” Ty mumbled, a rush of heat spreading through her.
“I heard that, and you’d better tell all, or I won’t let you have a slice.” As if to make good her threat, Lizzie cut off a thick chunk of butter and dropped it in the frying pan. Sizzling, it melted quickly. “Okay, ready for the first one. We’ll see how many we need to make. Start talking, kid.”
The scent of cooking batter soon filled the kitchen, its aroma mouthwatering. “All right,” Ty grumbled reluctantly. “He kissed me yesterday.”
“Good girl.” Lizzie nodded encouragingly as she lowered another egg-coated slice into the pan. “And?”
“And . . . oh, God, it’s so confusing, Lizzie . . . he kisses like he means it, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot—the kiss, that is—and I’ve come to the conclusion he was just doing it out of gratitude, thanking me for having planted these trees.”
“You think he was kissing you out of gratitude?” Lizzie’s voice was incredulous. Ty shrugged. “Sure. He’s a really physical person— Lizzie, he can do things with his hands,” Ty said, a delicious shiver racing down her spine at the memory of Steve’s caresses. “And he’s already mentioned he hasn’t had sex in a while.” Ty could so easily picture the woman, Cynthia, whom Steve had been trying to hustle into his bed, that Ty was confident she’d be able to pick her out of a lineup. She’d be blond, pert, buxom. Really cute. All the things Ty wasn’t. “So I think Steve was probably feeling . . .”
“Horny,” Lizzie supplied dryly. “Ty, I’m truly disappointed in you. Have you taken a look in the mirror lately? You don’t honestly believe a guy like Steve’s only willing to kiss you, a beautiful woman, out of gratitude or because you’re convenient and he hasn’t had sex recently? You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Of course not,” Ty protested uncomfortably. She wasn’t used to talking like this, even with Lizzie. It was during moments such as these when she envied Lizzie her supreme confidence in dealing with the opposite sex. For Ty, too many years had passed during which she’d been subjected to the attentions of men who either fawned over her or paraded around like preening peacocks, neither reaction having a thing to do with Ty the person but rather with the neon-lit dollar signs that floated around the Stannard name, attracting men, making them behave like complete morons. Steve wasn’t like them, Ty knew, but that didn’t mean she believed he was truly attracted to her, either.
“Look, Ty,” Lizzie said with some exasperation, reading the bleak look on her friend’s face, “let’s stick to cold, hard evidence here. Just the facts, ma’am. You’ve already admitted he kissed you like he meant it . . . well, what happened next? Remember, we’re talking french toast here.”
“Nothing, really. Bubba came by, and that was the end of that, which was probably a good thing . . .”
Ty’s voice trailed off.
Lizzie said warningly, “Ty . . .”
“All right. Steve already had my sweater off without my even knowing it. Then, this morning . . .”
“Yes?” Lizzie prompted. “This morning . . .”
“Well, I asked him to walk on my back.” Ty ducked her head.
“Oh, my. That is extremely . . . intimate.”
“I know. I can’t believe I asked him. I was probably a little out of my mind. You wouldn’t believe the pain I was in when I rolled out of bed. Lizzie, I rode two of Steve’s horses yesterday,” Ty informed her eagerly. “They were unbelievable! Riding’s definitely got me hooked once more—even if I never walk properly again. It serves me right for being such an overachiever and kidding myself that I could ride two horses in one day.”
“Serves you right for being so darned obstinate that not even I could convince you to get back in the saddle all these years,” Lizzie added.
&nb
sp; “Thanks for reminding me.”
“That’s what friends are for. Look, Ty, I’m ready to rhumba on the roof, I’m so thrilled you’re riding again, but we can talk about that later. Let’s get back to the principal topic here. You were really, really stiff, and you asked Steve to walk on your back?”
“Yes.” Ty pressed her lips tight together. “Ow!” she exclaimed as Lizzie poked her in the ribs with her elbow.
“And,” Lizzie supplied.
“And . . . God, Lizzie, it was amazing! It felt a little uncomfortable, you know, because of how sore my muscles were, but it was also really erotic. Within two minutes, my brain was mush. And then, oh, Lizzie, he did this thing with his toes, just below my shoulder blades. He moved them. Individually. Slowly.”
“Wow!” Lizzie replied, deeply impressed.
“Yes. Definitely wow!”
Silence descended as Lizzie absorbed the implications of Ty’s description. “So, good hands, excellent feet,” she murmured with the beginnings of a smile. “Ty, honey, you are in luck. I think it’s safe to assume we’re talking about a man who knows how to use his digits.”
A few minutes later, Steve returned to the kitchen to discover Ty and Lizzie, their arms wrapped about each other’s shaking shoulders, their bodies convulsed with laughter. Meanwhile, Emma, not wanting to be left out of the fun, was circling around the pair, flinging Cheerios confetti as she ran. Welcome to bedlam, he thought, suppressing a grin as he sat down before a platter piled high with steaming stacks of french toast.
21
“ H ere’s the list we wrote up last year.” Lizzie withdrew a stapled sheaf of papers from a slim leather attach? case sandwiched between picture books and boldly colored plastic toys in Emma’s canvas tote bag. She passed it to Ty.
“What’s that?” Steve asked, shoving his plate toward the center of the round table. The four of them had made quick work of their breakfast, Emma eating a healthy portion of the french toast, too. “It’s a good color for her,” Lizzie had offered cryptically.
Pointing her perfect chin toward the sheets of paper in Ty’s hand, Lizzie explained, “It’s a list Ty and I made of everyone we knew, or had connections with, who had even the remotest interest in the horse world. We used it to set up a network for Cobble Creek—but that was a very specific selection—parents, grandparents with kids of the appropriate age.”
“I’d like to go through it again,” said Ty, “This time with an eye to adults who ride, own, or might want to form a syndicate with like-minded people and purchase some beautiful, talented, and expensive horses.”
“Oh, before I forget, Ty, Vicky’s number is on the pink stick-em, upper left-hand corner.”
“Thanks.”
“Mind if I look at this list of yours?” Steve shifted in his chair, closer to Ty.
“Of course not,” Ty replied, trying not to be distracted by the nearness of him. “I’m hoping you’ll add names, too. Once we’ve decided who we should approach first, I’ll start telephoning and drafting a letter to send out. That is, after I’ve reached Vicky.”
“Vicky, who’s Vicky?” Steve asked, with a flick of his index finger against the small pink rectangle of paper. His eyes were scanning the list of names and addresses, neatly printed on the first page.
“Vicky Grodecki of the Times.” Seeing Steve’s eyebrows shoot upward, Ty elaborated. “With the National coming up, I think we can get her to do an interview of you, perhaps come out with a photographer and take some pictures. I’m also going to call the editors at Practical Horseman. They often do long features with nice spreads.”
Steve didn’t comment. His eyes were moving slowly down the list of names. Then, “You two been digging through the social register here?”
“Actually, no. Most of these people are business types, captains of industry. They’ve made their fortunes and are ready to spend.”
“Great. Type A personalities who are going to tell me they know how to train their horses. All they really need is a heavier bit, spurs, crop, perhaps a baseball bat to whack the horses between the ears, ’cause everyone knows horses are dumber than shit and these ‘captains of industry,’ why, they’ve made reams of money, so they must be real smart and . . .”
Ty held up her hand. “Okay, all right. Got the message. sage. We’ll only focus on serious horse people who’d be interested in riding with you, or want to form a syndicate.”
“Which adds up to a big zero,” Steve replied coolly. “You’re forgetting a horse was killed in my stable. You think anyone with half a brain is going to trust me any time soon?”
Lizzie cleared her throat gently. “Steve, you’ve got to put that behind you. Tragedies happen. You know that. Horses out grazing in a pasture one beautiful summer day. Soon after, they’re brought back to their stalls and are running a fever. Their breathing becomes increasingly labored. Before too long, they’re dead because of one puny mosquito bite. How many horses died last summer because of the West Nile virus?”
“That’s different,” Steve said, his brows drawing together in a forbidding line.
“Is it? I can easily imagine the bitter self-recrimination of the people responsible for the care of those horses. How they must have come up with dozens of scenarios where they prevented their deaths. Just like you and Fancy Free.” Lizzie eyed him steadily before continuing, “Steve, you’re a great horseman. People know that and are going to trust you.”
“That’s true, Steve,” Ty observed, tracing her finger along the folded edge of her napkin. “If there’s anything they might still condemn you for, it’s for having lost your money.”
“No way, that’s ridiculous.” Steve shook his head, unwilling to believe that Fancy Free’s death and not catching Jason Belmar with his hand in the till could even begin to compare.
“I’m serious,” Ty insisted. “Bad business practice. Losing piles of money is for many people a far bigger no-no. That’s why when Vicky Grodecki comes to interview you, you’ll have to make sure you mention repeatedly that I’m your new partner and that I’m investing heavily in Southwind.”
“Won’t be necessary, as you’ll be right by my side, like jam on a biscuit. You didn’t actually think I’d go solo into this interview?” Steve’s mouth quirked in amusement. “Sorry, partner, no dice. It’s going to be a whole lot more convincing if the genuine article is sitting right next to me.”
“But no one’s interested in me . . .”
“Oh, no, of course not.” Steve scoffed. “The readers aren’t going to be dying of curiosity to find out why the daughter of billionaire real estate tycoon Tyler Stannard is going into the horse business? Hell, most people will be far more interested in you than in anything I have to say.”
Ty was opening her mouth to argue when Lizzie spoke. “Steve’s got you there, Ty. For any interview to make the kind of splash you want, you’ve got to jump right in there with him.”
At Ty’s moue of distaste, Steve laughed. “Welcome to the club, Ty.” Nice to know he wasn’t the only one who didn’t want his life picked apart by the press. “Maybe this idea of yours isn’t so harebrained after all. I think I might enjoy our chat with this Vicky Grodecki, all the fascinating stuff I’ll learn.” His laughter redoubled when Ty turned to him and deliberately stuck out her tongue. Yes, thought Steve, he might very well pick up a few interesting details about Ty when they sat down for a cozy session with Vicky Grodecki. But Steve still considered Lizzie his best source of information. The women were obviously close, a friendship Steve sensed ran deep and true. That’s why when he heard Ty decline Lizzie’s invitation to go to the stable in Amagansett, citing the need to go through the client list, sort out promising candidates, and make some telephone calls, Steve volunteered to go in Ty’s place.
“You’d be willing to come with me?” Lizzie asked, looking startled but pleased. “These are ponies, remember.”
Steve shrugged. “Damien’s stable has got nice horseflesh, period. Who knows, might find something I want
for myself.”
“And you don’t mind holding Emma while I try out the larger ponies? I’d kind of thought Ty would be able to come with me . . .”
“Why don’t you leave Emma with me?” Ty suggested. “We haven’t had any time together.”
“But your work . . .”
“I can get most of my things done while she’s playing. Then while I’m waiting for people to return telephone calls, I can play, too.”
“That’d be great. She’ll probably go down for a nap soon, anyway, we woke up so early this morning,”
Lizzie said enthusiastically. “I hope this doesn’t inconvenience you, Steve.”
“No, no. It’s always fun to check out other stables. Besides,” Steve added with a grin that charmed effortlessly. “It’ll be a pleasure to become acquainted with such a close friend of Ty’s.”
Lizzie bounded up from the table saying she’d be back in a second and that they could take her car—she needed to fill the tank for the return trip—but Ty’s face was all too easy to read. That’s right, Ty, he acknowledged silently as their eyes held, hers openly suspicious, his innocent as a choirboy’s. Lizzie and I will have lots to talk about.
They left Ty and Emma immersed in washing the dishes. Emma was standing on a stepladder next to Ty, her arms plunged deep into warm, soapy water, which slopped over onto the wooden counter as she enthusiastically scrubbed plates and mugs before presenting them for Ty’s inspection. Steve drove, knowing far better than Lizzie which roads would avoid the double nuisance of having to pass through the center of Bridgehampton and having to drive for long stretches on Route 27, a road that, even off-season, Steve detested. He took his time, tooling down the twisting roads at a sedate pace, happy to have Lizzie Osborne’s undivided attention.
“You and Ty go back a ways,” he observed casually.
“Third grade,” Lizzie responded readily. “Mrs. Ottom. Rhymes with rock bottom.” Her lips curled in a smile. “Ty was new that year. We had the misfortune of being stuck in a class packed with the cattiest little girls in all of New York City. They never gave Ty a chance.”
