I lay back, watching the girls get all sweaty and sandy. I knew he was still behind me, and I knew he wasn’t watching the game. It satisfied me to no end.
Finally he stomped off. I laughed inaudibly. I heard a cabinet bang open. I heard cereal falling into a bowl. “You eat your feelings, too,” I said. “Because you can only screw them a certain number of times per day.”
He walked out of the house. The door shut loudly. The American girls scored, and slapped each other on the ass. “This is the best sport ever,” I said out loud.
Erica
We were back for more. More pain, more drama, more humiliation. More expensive junk food. More panic, more anxiety, more envy. More crappy luck and good luck and dumb luck. And hopefully within all that, we could get a scrap of blue satin. That was showing. It was a really dumb thing to be throwing all this money and energy into, when you thought about it. Silently, I agreed with my non-showing clients. Training was really more rewarding than showing, and judging your training on the results of a horse show was a bad and painful concept. But I was dependant on showing. I needed concrete evidence that I could win if I wanted to be hired. If I wanted to train. And beyond that, I was addicted. I wanted a stupid ribbon. I wanted so many stupid ribbons that I’d run out of places to hang them and they’d just be in the way. There. I admitted it.
We were there on time today, at least. I was going to be able to warm up and walk the course like a normal person. That was good. This show wasn’t D.M.’s big debut, so that crippling pressure was gone. We should be able to put in a good round today. Maybe.
I tied D.M. to the outside of the trailer and quickly returned to its inner depths. Assault craned his neck to look at me. He was big-eyed and the bedding was scuffed up underneath him. I walked to his head with authority and pulled the quick release knot, gathering the lead rope in my hands. As I took a step toward the ramp, Assault rushed forward. I jumped ahead of him, throwing my arms in his face. His head jerked up, nearly hitting the trailer’s roof, and he scrambled backward. I started forward calmly, and he followed behind me. I couldn’t afford to have anything less than a zero-tolerance policy for disrespectful crap with Assault. He could all too easily regress into his old ways if I got lax. I’d brought him along today for the exposure. It had been a while since he’d been in the ring. If he settled in well, I was hoping to ride him in a low jumper class, but my main priority was to make sure he listened to me in a new place.
I took Assault for a walk, reminding him to stay behind me whenever he lost focus or tried to rush ahead. It was a good exercise for him. We wandered around as I inventoried the competition. Jennifer wasn’t there, but her dad had brought a nice string of horses. I wondered if he needed a catch rider. Ben Miller and his son were set up in a nice spot, and the chestnut mare was front and center. I didn’t linger by their trailer.
I was heading back to my trailer with a nice, respectful Assault when Mark DeWayne stepped in front of me. His eyes quickly skipped over me and landed on Assault. I halted the gelding. “Hi, Mark.”
“Hey, Erica.” His blue eyes were still eyeballing Assault. Mark was hot in what I found to be a very generic way. He had the symmetrical, somewhat blank face of a Ken doll. Regardless of what I thought, he was highly sought after on the local hunter/jumper circuit. I seemed to recall Jennifer wanting to get with him. Or maybe she was with him, or maybe she used to be. It was hard to know.
“Nice,” Mark finally said, meaning nice horse, where’d you get him?
“Thanks. He’s kind of a project. He was spoiled, and really nasty when I picked him up.”
That set Mark back on his heels. He looked at Assault carefully. “That’s not…Assault, is it?”
I was enjoying this. “Yep. It is.”
“Linda Dasher’s horse?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Shit. I’ve got a client at Linda’s barn. I used to watch him drag her around all the time. He’d have a fit if she didn’t keep the steady stream of treats going.”
“Yeah, that sounds like him.”
“He’s really different now.” There was admiration in his voice.
I smiled. “I’d like to take credit, but I can’t. I had help…from a friend.”
Mark looked intrigued. “Who?”
“Um, you probably wouldn’t know him. Lawrence Cavanaugh.”
Mark’s face clouded over suddenly. “Yeah. I know him.” Abruptly, he walked away.
I stared after him for a moment, then shrugged and continued on toward my trailer. I was well used to the odd personalities of horse people. Analyzing their strange behavior was an exercise in futility.
I tied Assault at a safe distance from D.M. (my gelding was still Assault’s favorite target) and brought his tack out of the trailer. He was behaving so well, I saw no reason not to try him in a low jumper class. I had only ridden him over fences a few times, but he was clearly capable, if nonplussed by small obstacles. When we were both dressed, I led him to the warm-up ring.
The ring was filling up with horses. I knew this would be a test for Assault. He could be aggressive and territorial toward other horses. I needed to keep him focused on me. I mounted up and sent him to work right away, walking on contact and using lateral work to keep his mind occupied. His ears flicked around, but there was usually one swiveled back at me. That was a good sign. After five minutes of walking, I sent him up to a trot, grinning as his suspension propelled me out of the saddle. I’d always known he was class.
A gelding passed close by us, and Assault’s ears flattened as he swung his hind end around, threatening a kick. I growled at Assault and booted him hard, and he lurched forward, ears still pinned. I jammed my heels down and leaned back as Assault’s back raised. I kept my leg on and concentrated on keeping his head up, and the tense moment passed. Assault settled back into his trot rhythm, glowering whenever another horse came near. “Get over yourself,” I growled.
When a practice fence became available, I turned Assault toward it and asked for a canter. He was jumping well, and I studied the course diagram from his back. It was a simple course, only 2’6” in height. It would be laughably easy for Assault. I was mostly happy that we’d made it through the warm-up ring without a major blowout.
When our number came up, I trotted into the ring, circled and cantered over the starting line. Assault cantered boldly, jumping with the almost lazy disdain of a scopey horse over low fences. We left the ring with a clear round.
The shortened course for the jump-off was more difficult, and I was excited to see how Assault would handle it. There were some nice horses in the jump-off, including a few of Ben Miller’s up-and-coming young horses. I hadn’t brought Assault here for a win, but now I was starting to feel differently. Why not push him a little? It’s a two foot six course. It’s not going to hurt him.
I was on deck. I watched Mark DeWayne ride in on a nice young gelding. I watched him take on the course, and I saw where corners could be cut. I saw where speed could be built up. I rode in with a firm idea of how I wanted to ride. Assault pulled a little in the courtesy circle. He felt ready and willing to destroy the competition.
I approached the first fence at a hand gallop, collecting Assault just before takeoff. I rode a more careful line to the second fence, which came up quickly. Then I wheeled Assault around to take the third fence at a sharp angle. He snapped up his legs and got us over. We had room to move before the next fence, and Assault lengthened his stride beautifully, gathering himself in front of the fence. I rode an aggressive line to the next to last fence, and Assault came through for me. We took the last fence at a reckless pace and floored it over the finish line. I patted Assault and he shook his head sassily. Laughing, I brought him down to a walk and left the ring.
Like I’d hoped, we threw down a time that left everyone before us out of the top spot and forced the remaining competitors to take costly chances to try and keep up. I watched with perverse and not very nice satisfaction as Ben Miller’s prize four ye
ar old took several rails when pushed for more speed and quicker thinking. In the end, Assault took the blue ribbon, and I walked him cool and left him in the trailer with a net full of hay. It was time to start preparing for Open Jumping. I was inspired and ready to do some serious damage with D.M.
In the warm-up ring, D.M. seemed more distractible than usual, wavering on the straightaways and dividing his attention between me and every little thing that came into his field of vision. I spent a lot of time and energy just getting him to focus. It was a disconcerting warm-up.
I kept working him until my name was called, and we bounded into the ring. I hoped he would focus on his job now that the jumps were actually looming in front of him. He pulled it together for the first fences, and I was pleasantly surprised by his jumping efforts.
As the sixth fence came into view, I noticed that the standards and poles were a lovely and unusual lilac and teal combination. Potted forget-me-nots were lined up below the striped poles. D.M.’s eye locked onto the fence. Before I could even react, his head shot up. He lost all momentum, and he stopped.
I sat there, absolutely stunned. D.M. didn’t just stop. He was honest and brave and unflappable. Aware that the clock was ticking, I turned D.M. away from the jump and sent him forward on a circle. As soon as he faced the lilac and teal fence, he slowed, drifting sideways. I popped him sharply with my crop, but instead of going forward, he flew backward, snorting and shaking his head. I circled again, letting him see the scary fence, then rode him strongly forward, giving him another whack with the crop. For a moment, I thought he would go over it. But he tucked his butt and came to a halt a horse length before the fence. The bell dinged. We were out of the class. Eliminated.
I left the ring, feeling humiliated in new and worse ways. I took D.M. back to the schooling ring and rode him over the practice fences, which, of course, he jumped perfectly. I left the schooling ring just in time to see Crofton Miller take the chestnut mare over the course that had undone D.M. She sailed over each fence with joy and flair, never looking at any of them. She merely looked through them to the next obstacle in her way.
I took my cheerful, oblivious horse back to the trailer and loaded him and all my equipment as fast as I could. As I drove back home, I reflected on the wildly ricocheting emotions of the day. This really was a horse show. Assault, the only recently reformed asshole, had done everything I asked and won for me, and D.M., who I trusted implicitly to be good and perform to the best of his ability, had totally let me down. What a jerk.
My phone buzzed to life. I picked it up halfheartedly. “Hello.”
“Hi, Erica, it’s Mark DeWayne.”
“Oh, hi, Mark.”
“I was hoping to talk to you at the show, but I saw you’d already left.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m interested in Assault. What do you want for him?”
“He’s not for sale right now,” I said, and I hung up on him.
Lawrence
The bar light was dim and orange as I weaved through the bodies all around me. There was a steady buzz of mingling voices in the air. I could almost smell the alcohol-soaked pheromones.
I hadn’t been to a club in months. Since Florida, actually. It wasn’t really my scene. I’d never been much of a drinker. I didn’t have the money to throw away on poison, and when it came to killing bad feelings, Cookie’s ‘n Cream Crunch went a long way for a lot less.
I’d experimented with all kinds of shit in California, before my life was stripped down to cleaning stalls and riding out hoof beats and survival. And I’d never found a drug as compelling as a woman.
I looked around the pulsating room. The walls held in all the desires, nerves and loud, drunken energy of everyone inside, concentrating it. Keeping my peripheral vision open, I let my eyes scan the crowd. They landed on the back of a head with short, dark hair. My heart flared. The girl turned, and her eyes were brown. She was too thin. She wasn’t her. I went back to my search, but I was shaken. My heart rattled in my chest. This was no way to live.
I knew why I was here. I didn’t have to be here. Sex was right next door, if that was all I cared about. I was here because I was trying to jolt myself out of this place I was in. I had a choice, and I kept going with the easy way out. Although lately it was feeling much harder.
No one was sharpening my focus. Maybe I should just go home. I wavered, unwilling to admit failure and unsure what would constitute success.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
My head snapped around. The line had come from an appealing blonde in a red halter top with a denim cutoff skirt and boots with five inch stilettos. “Hey,” I said.
The blonde stepped closer. I was pretty sure she’d had a few drinks but a spicy perfume overwhelmed any trace of alcohol on her. “What’s your name?”
“Cavanaugh. Lawrence Cavanaugh.”
“I’m Riley.” She smiled brightly. “So what’s your plan for tonight?”
“I think I’ll see what happens.” I let my mouth curve unevenly.
She flipped her shiny, conditioned hair around a little. “I sure hope you don’t mind a little company. I saw you and you just looked so lonely. I thought maybe I could help with that.”
“Well, I appreciate it, Riley.”
Her eyes were fixed on my mouth. “So what do you do?”
I chuckled deep in my throat. “I could show you.”
She laughed shrilly. “No! I meant, like, what is your career?” She gave me a light shove, her fingers lingering on my chest.
I smiled. “I’m a professional polo player.”
Riley lit up at that. “Wow! Like that Ralph Lauren model guy?”
“Yes, but with a better handicap.”
“Wow,” Riley exclaimed brightly and unimaginatively.
I drove back home, leaning on the wheel a bit. I was inexplicably tired. Ann Wilson’s inhumanly brilliant voice was barely penetrating my skull. I turned her off before “Crazy On You” came on. I didn’t feel worthy of that song right then.
Riley’s headlights lit up the cab of my truck. I turned onto my drive and let my truck roll to a halt. I sat there a moment, and when Riley’s door slammed, I stepped out into the night.
From there it happened easily. We slipped into the house, past a comatose Amber and into the bedroom. I didn’t turn on any lights, and we felt our way out of our clothes and into each other. I went through all the right motions. Sent her over the edge, and quickly followed, to that place where there was only sensation, not feelings.
In the morning I slipped away, unencumbered by Riley who was curled up, nearly at the edge of the bed. I went to the barn and fed the appreciative horses and cleaned their stalls. I worked slowly, feeling twinges of an emotional hangover and slight dread. I killed two hours, and then hunger drove me back into the house.
I had a box of Cookies ‘n Cream Crunch in hand when Amber strolled up to me. Her grey hoodie sweatshirt had grease stains and hung down to her upper thighs. “Guess what I woke up to today.”
I wanted no part in Amber’s undoubtedly sadistic guessing game. “Guess how much I care?”
“That Riley chick fucking ate all my kale.”
I looked at her blankly. “I don’t know what that is.”
“You wouldn’t. But anyway, I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know Riley all morning. And it has to be said. Not your best work.”
“I was tired last night. I didn’t feel like working.”
“Yeah, and the sun was in your eyes. Whatever.”
I shook my cereal into a bowl and started shoveling it in. Riley strolled out of the bedroom just then. “Oh, hi! You’re back!” She squealed.
Amber shot her a look of abject disgust and left the house. The door banged and rattled in her wake.
Riley slid into the chair next to mine, leaning in and hanging on my shoulder. “I was worried you’d taken off or something.”
“I was just taking care of the horses,” I said. Duh.
“Oh, ri
ght.” Riley’s head bobbed enthusiastically. “Your roommate was real nice, though.”
I almost choked on cookie crumbs. “She was?”
“Oh, yes. She asked me all kinds of questions, like did I enjoy my salad and stuff. Oh, and I had some of your kale. I hope that’s okay.”
“Sure,” I said distractedly. I still don’t know what that is. It was starting to get to me.
I took in some more Cookies ‘n Cream Crunch, mildly aware of Riley clinging to me. She had to be hungry still. I didn’t imagine kale (whatever the hell that is) was filling. I glanced at the cereal box. “Would you like some?” I asked her.
Riley’s face twisted. “I don’t put carbs in my body,” she said with self-righteous horror.
I stared at her for a long moment. “You can leave now,” I said.
Erica
I twisted the crystal-cut knob in my hand and walked through the door, letting it bang shut. Pausing to kick off my boots, I wandered into the dining room, listening to the clink of silverware. “Last one out of the barn, as usual,” my mother said, though not unkindly. It was 8:36 and her hair was styled, pinned and sprayed into submission. She was decked out in a sundress, diamond earrings and kitten heels.
I shrugged. “I was working with that new Oldenburg. Her ground manners are less than nonexistent. So I had to spin her in fifty million circles before she quit trying to drag me out to the pasture.” I reached for a muffin and eagerly peeled off the paper.
My mother let out a little huff of disapproval and skewered more steamed veggies with her fork. At the head of the table my dad was hunched over his full breakfast platter, averting his eyes from the subtle hostility.
We ate in silence for a while.
“So, what do you have going on today?” My mother asked me with slightly resigned hope in her voice.
“Training.” I gave the clipped, one-word answer to her.
Training Harry Page 30
