After we spoke to Catherine, Peggy and I walked along the causeway. Deep gouges in the mud bank alongside the causeway showed where Ned’s hooves had slid down followed by the four furrows of our cart wheels.
Peggy peered over into the murky water. “I can’t even see the cart. They’ll never get it out.”
“Sure we will,” Dick called cheerfully. “Y’all go on up to the stable, get you some coffee and a hot shower. He grinned at Peggy and pointed to the muddy trail. “If it were later in the year, I’d say one of the resident alligators had slipped down the bank.”
“Alligators?” Peggy yelped. “Nobody mentioned alligators.”
He patted her shoulder. “To the best of my knowledge, there aren’t any.” He glanced behind him. “Not lately, at any rate.”
“Oh, you!” Peggy stalked off up the hill toward the starting line. I trudged after her as she whispered, “I can’t face those people. How embarrassing. I couldn’t control my horses.”
We stepped off the path to allow one of the last ATVs to drive past us with a wave.
“See?” I said. “Nobody gives a hoot. They’re just glad everyone’s all right.”
“Can we find out who went into the water to help? I want to do something for them.”
“Most would probably love a bottle of Jack Daniels. I’m sure the volunteers will know. Watch out!” I grabbed her arm, and we dove into the trees as Raleigh’s four Dutch warmbloods hurtled down the hill for the second time. His heavy carriage lurched from side to side and nearly sideswiped the pines. As he passed us, he swung his whip wide across his body to the left side. The movement of air actually lifted Dawn’s bangs. Raleigh grinned at me.
I felt the lash brush my shoulder. “Sorry,” he said, then over the rumble of the wheels and the thud of hooves I heard him laugh.
“I am going to kill that SOB,” I said. “He’s a menace to the gene pool.”
“Did he hurt you?” Peggy asked.
“Barely touched me. That’s not the point. He was marking his doggoned territory like a boy dog. He’s never forgiven me for not overruling the vet at Southern Pines who told him his horse was lame. As show manager that was not only my right but my duty. The Technical Delegate backed me up.”
“That wasn’t Catherine, by any chance?”
“Actually, it was.”
“You should tell Catherine how he’s behaved. She’d have a conniption.”
We’d reached the top of the hill out of the way of the drivers. Looking back, I could now see that there was a ton of room on either side of Raleigh’s carriage all the way down to the lake. Raleigh had flicked his whip at me on purpose, but there was no way to prove that.
I shook my head. “Poor Dawn. Did you see that apologetic look she threw me? I’d hate to have him for a father.”
“She seems like a nice woman,” Peggy said.
The show was being held on the Tollivers’ big farm an hour or so from Mossy Creek, where the training farm I inherited from my father, Hiram Lackland, is located. That’s why Peggy and I had chosen it for her first big show. We’d have to pay for only two nights in a cheap motel and could use the inside of our big trailer as stabling for Ned and Golden.
Many shows won’t allow that, but because this one was small and stabling was limited, Juanita and Harry Tolliver had decided on a case-by-case basis whether to allow the trailers as stalls. We had come in well within the parameters.
This also gave us an opportunity to promote my own first, small, fun show at my Lackland Farm, scheduled for next weekend. In the year I’d been running the facility, I’d never attempted a driving show, although I brought in professional trainers and well-regarded regional amateur drivers several weekends a year to train our local drivers.
This show should bring in drivers from farther away who had not yet seen Lackland Farms.
“After this morning, I’m beginning to wish we’d never advertised our show next weekend,” Peggy said.
A show is only fun for the attendees, not the hosts. Peggy and I were already nervous wrecks over what could and would go wrong. This morning’s incident underscored my worry.
“We have the food and the volunteers lined up. If there’s plenty of food, horse show people will put up with anything.”
“Even protestors?” Peggy asked.
“We won’t have protestors. Not at a little show like ours.”
She didn’t seem convinced.
Even a small carriage show is much more complicated than the average jumping or dressage show. First, there are carriages—something you don’t attach to the average jumping or racing thoroughbred unless you want to die an early death. Then, instead of a single rider on a single horse, carriages carry extra people.
Harness tack is complicated, and the complexity increases logarithmically with the number of horses put to a single carriage. A pair is more than twice as difficult to put to the carriage as a single horse and takes three times as long, and a four-in-hand is more than four times more complex.
Many people travel with several carriages ranging from two-wheeled runabouts to big four-wheeled coaches, so horse trailers are bigger, more unwieldy and need extra space to park. Some have eighteen-wheelers specifically built for driving equipment and teams.
Add the palatial living quarters in some of the ritzier trailers, and you can run out of parking space right quick, not to mention the pickups and Mercedeses and BMWs and Land Rovers parked around them like baby chicks snuggling up to their hens. Then there are the spectators and their cars and trucks. And the Porta Potties and the food stands and the people selling everything from horse portraits to jewelry to hats.
I know this because I am a horse show manager for hire. The headaches involved in running even a small show are the reason my hair might be snow white under the color rinse I’ll keep on it until I die.
Most of the carriage people are great.
Then there’s the teensy minority like Giles Raleigh. I considered suggesting he take up scuba diving in a tank filled with ravenous sharks and sea snakes. Or maybe nude rattlesnake wrangling. While bad temper flat wears me out, Giles seemed to thrive on it.
So far I hadn’t seen an application from Giles for our fun show. Please God that meant he considered us beneath his attention. If only.
He only bothered to turn on the charm when hitting on some unsuspecting woman, selling a piece of real estate for an inflated price or conning a mark into investing.
I had tried to find a parking place away from his eighteen wheeler horse and people palace at the Tollivers’ show. Unfortunately, I’d wound up right next door. Our tackroom door was right across from the door to his living quarters. I had avoided him successfully until this morning.
What really drove me nuts was that he said he intended to sleep with me. How’s that for a slick seduction technique? I’m a divorcee, so I should be grateful for his attentions, right? Wrong.
If I went to bed with him, he’d win. He could check me off his list and tack my pelt to his trophy wall. Raleigh will do anything—lie, cheat, and steal—to win. I suspect he’s dreadful in bed. Not that I want an up-close-and-personal, definitive answer to that question. Eeew. Not in this lifetime.
The last time he grabbed my tush at an exhibitors’ party, I warned him that the next time he touched me, I’d kill him.
He deserved it. If some seventyish gentlemen with bright blue eyes and a ravishing smile took me in his arms for a dance and whispered in my ear, “Dahlin’, you prettier than a newborn Angus calf,” then nuzzled my neck and suggested we repair to the nearest bedroom, I would smile and accept the compliment, knowing he didn’t mean the proposition, probably couldn’t perform, and had been married to an adored wife for forty years. That’s a good, good ole boy.
Nasty, southern good ole boys are like Giles. They are not gentleman, even if they came to Georgia with Oglethorpe. They mean that remark about going off to the nearest bedroom for what would undoubtedly be ‘wham-bam, thank-you ma’am.’ And
expect you to be eternally grateful to them afterwards.
Neither Peggy nor I could conceive why Sarah Beth, Raleigh’s trophy wife, had married him. He was rich, but she’d had a successful career as an interior designer in Atlanta before she met Giles. I wondered if she’d ever been happy in the marriage. One hot afternoon beside the dressage arena, she whispered to me, “You know, Merry, I use to love horses. Giles has even taken that away from me.”
I could have cried. Horses have saved my life, my sanity, my bank balance, and my ability to love. I don’t have to ride them or drive them—just having them in the barn and in my life keeps my endorphins pumping.
My mother says that some people are born psychopaths, some choose psychopath and some have psychopath thrust upon them. I had no idea which category Giles fit into. Surely somebody loved him at some point. I used to think his daughter Dawn loved him, but although she was acting as his gator, she seemed to be ignoring him otherwise.
After we passed Raleigh, Peggy and I went to get dry clothes and towels out of our truck and hunt up the shower in the Tollivers’ stable.
“I hope they have a big water heater,” Peggy said. “I’ll flip you for who goes first.”
As I opened the door to our trailer, Sarah-Beth opened the door to their trailer and leaned out. “I’ve been watching for y’all. Get yourselves in here right this minute. Y’all need some coffee and a hot shower.”
“You’ve heard about our dunking?” Peggy asked.
“Who hasn’t? I want to apologize for Giles. He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I know how he gets when he’s driving. Do you have dry clothes here or do you have to drive back to the motel?”
“We have several sets here, as a matter of fact,” I said. “It’s fifteen minutes back to the motel, so we came prepared.”
“We just didn’t expect to take a dive in the lake,” Peggy said. “But we’re covered in mud. We’ll mess everything up. We were planning to shower in the stable.”
“I’ve got more hot water, and I definitely have coffee. Get your fresh clothes while I heat up some hot chocolate. That’s even better. Our shower is more private than the shower in the barn. Where are your Halflingers?”
“Dick Fitzgibbons’ groom is looking after them.” I saw Peggy shiver. “Okay, Sarah-Beth. You have a deal.” I shoved Peggy forward. “Warm this one up while I get dry outfits.”
When I got inside Raleigh’s trailer, I heard the shower running. In most living quarters attached to horse trailers—even the big ones—the shower is barely large enough to raise your arms to wash your hair. Raleigh’s had a real bathroom. I shoved Peggy’s fresh clothes inside the bathroom door and took the mug of hot coffee Sarah-Beth handed me. “You’re a life-saver, but won’t Giles have a fit if he finds me here?”
“Screw Giles,” Sarah-Beth said. “Or not. Preferably not.”
Uh-oh.
Sarah Beth had been trophy wife thin since I’d known her, but now she looked positively cadaverous.
I don’t agree with the prevailing theory that you can’t be too thin or too rich, although some of the rich-rich folks I know would benefit from a hefty dose of penury. But there is a limit on thin and she’d gone way past it. Something was wrong.
If anyone could find out if Sara-Beth was having health problems, Peggy could. People confide in Peggy. Not because she looks nurturing and motherly. Believe me, she doesn’t. She’s nearly as tall as I am with muscles like tanned leather strips. She taught at the college level until she retired and moved to Mossy Creek, Georgia, and has not lost her ability to terrify the average liar into blabbing the truth.
Until my father, Hiram Lackland, discovered her aptitude for driving carriages, she seemed content to cosset her four cats, read tons of murder mysteries, enjoy the Mossy Creek, Georgia, Ladies Garden Club and her grandchild Josie.
Now, I couldn’t do without her as my second-in-command at the farm.
I stuck my nose into my coffee cup as though I hadn’t heard Sarah Beth’s comment about Giles. Peggy may invite confidences. I, on the other hand, generally run from them. Peggy saved me by coming out of the shower.
“Lord, I may live,” she said and accepted a mug of coffee. I slid out of the banquette, picked up my clothes, and left her to deal with Sarah Beth while I showered.
By the time I came out after my shower I felt human again, even though my short hair was still damp.
“Sit,” Sarah-Beth said. Something about her was different. She seemed to have undergone a backbone implant. I wondered what she had told Peggy.
“Sorry to scrub and run,” Peggy said and slid out of the banquette. “But we really need to check on the horses, and I want to find out if they’ve managed to winch Dick’s carriage out of the lake yet. Dick talks as though it’s a piece of cake, but someone’s going to have to dive in and attach a cable from the tractor to the rear axle. That lake is cold, not to mention murky.”
“Dick will handle everything. I suspect he’d rather you stayed out of the way,” Sarah Beth said. “He’s such a sweetie. He taught me the difference between a real southern gentleman and the man I married.” With no warning, she burst into tears.
Uh-oh again. I’m not insensitive. I’m simply incompetent when it comes to nurturing anything with fewer than four legs. I’m terrified I’ll make things worse. Thank God Peggy takes up the slack.
Peggy sat back down and stroked Sarah Beth’s shoulder. “Honey, can we help?”
Sarah-Beth shook her head without raising it from her hands. “Nobody can help me.”
“Did that man hit you?” Peggy asked.
Again the head shake. “He doesn’t have to hit me.”
“Divorce the bastard,” I said. See what I mean? No gray areas. Always cut to the chase. “God knows he’s committed adultery enough times.”
Peggy rolled her eyes at me. Surely Sarah-Beth knew about her husband’s serial infidelities.
“I can’t.”
Peggy mouthed, “Drop it” at me. I would have divorced him long since. I divorced Vic, after all. Okay, so maybe I took my time about it, but I eventually did it.
“Sometimes I think the only pleasure he gets in life is hurting other people,” Sarah Beth pulled a paper napkin out of the holder on the pop-up banquette where we sat. She wiped under her eyes carefully so as not to smear her mascara. “You know what I’m talking about. What on earth does he have against you?” she asked me.
Peggy gave the kindest of the answers I could have given. “Uh, remember last year when one of the vets at Southern Pines called his black gelding lame and wouldn’t let him compete?”
“Oh, Lord, yes. I thought he’d have a coronary right there.”
“Since I was show manager,” I said, “Giles thought I should overrule him.”
“You can’t do that,” Sarah-Beth said. “Can you?”
“No, I can’t, but even if I could, I wouldn’t have. The gelding was moving short on his off hind leg. A full day of showing and racing around a marathon course could have done real damage. Giles swore he was being discriminated against to give the other competitors an unfair advantage. I told him to take the horse back to his stall. When the gelding went sound the next morning, he called me everything except a child of God.”
“Why you and not the vet?”
“Giles had a few choice remarks for the vet as well, but you can’t ball out a vet with impunity. That can get you set down and fined. Anyway, Giles said I was incompetent and couldn’t manage my way out of a paper sack.”
Sarah-Beth nodded absently. “So that’s why.”
“Why what?” Peggy asked.
Sarah-Beth slid out from behind the banquette and pulled a couple of sheets of paper out of a drawer under the computer desk. “I think you should read this,” she said and handed it to me.
The top sheet was a list of top rated shows in the United States for the next year, listing the names, telephone numbers, emails and mailing addresses of the committee heads for each. The seco
nd sheet was a letter set up to mail merge with the list on the first page.
My heart began to race after the first sentence. By the second paragraph I felt as though I had a fever, and by the end I was so stunned I simply sat down and gabbled.
“Give me that,” Peggy said and took it from me. “That bastard,” Peggy whispered. “This is libelous.”
“He’s telling everyone that you’re incompetent, that you’re responsible for the runaway last year at The Meadows that damaged all those trucks and trailers,” Sarah-Beth said. “I was there. I know you risked your life to save that stallion.”
“I thought a few of my show contracts for next year were slow in arriving,” I said. “A couple of people haven’t returned my calls.” I closed my eyes. The accident had been a bad one, but I had in no way been responsible, as the show committee judged at the time.
“It gets worse,” Sarah-Beth said. “He keeps making these snide little remarks to people about your father’s death. How convenient it was for you to inherit the farm free and clear . . .”
“How the hell does he know that?”
“If it has to do with real estate in the state of Georgia, Giles knows all about it. Particularly around Bigelow and Mossy Creek. He’s big pals with the governor and his cronies.”
Mossy Creek, Georgia, where the training farm I’d inherited when my father, Hiram Lackland, was murdered, has as its motto, “The town that ain’t goin’ nowhere and don’t want to.” A view not shared by Governor Bigelow, nephew and archenemy of Mossy Creek’s mayor, Ida. His country place is in Bigelow, most of his family lives in Bigelow, and he is definitely the big dog in the neighborhood.
Except in Mossy Creek, where he is either ignored or treated like a bad-tempered Yorkie.
Since moving to Mossy Creek to take over my father’s farm, I have come to share their view of the world. I suspect you have to be third or fourth generation Creekite to be considered a native, but they certainly try to make me feel at home.
I’ve never felt at home anywhere before. My mother and I dragged around with my father from training job to training job until they were divorced. By the time she remarried, I was incapable of putting down real roots. Then we moved around every time my husband—now my ex—Vic got a new job, but that’s the paradigm I grew up with. Whither thou goest, etc. It had been tough on my daughter Allie, but she learned to make friends fast, a trait that has stood her in good stead as a starting broker in New York
One Hoof In The Grave [Carriage Driving 02] Page 3
