The A Circuit

by Georgina Bloomberg

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  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

  Sneak Peek

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Bonus Round

  Imprint

  To my mother, Susan,

  for always supporting me,

  through the good and the bad

  —G. B.

  For the people who helped make this happen:

  Caroline Abbey, Michelle Nagler,

  Frank Weimann, and Elyse Tanzillo

  —C. H.

  ONE

  “Stalker alert,” Zara muttered in disgust as she saw a fat, sweaty guy with a camera zero in on her father. If she’d thought the paparazzi would be any less annoying here than in LA, she’d thought wrong. Same manure, different coast.

  Her father dropped his cigarette and ground it out with the toe of his Tres Outlaws custom cowboy boot. “Chill out, Little Z,” he said without looking at her. He leaned casually on the post-and-board fence of the ring, pretending to watch some random panicky-looking pony rider steer a phlegmatic pinto over a tiny pre-beginner-wannabe-hunter course.

  Zara rolled her eyes. “Nice pose,” she told her father. “Very Zac Trask.”

  His green eyes flicked toward her, but he didn’t answer. The photographer was upon them, the stench of stale BO announcing his arrival. Zac’s publicist and a couple of bodyguards moved closer. Just in case the guy turned out to be psycho, Zara knew, though she doubted many psychos would waste their time hanging around some sleepy small-time horse show in the middle of New Jersey.

  She glanced around, still not quite believing she was here. The showgrounds were dusty and hot under the early summer sun, the humidity making her chin-length dark hair frizz out like some mall chick’s. June in New Jersey. It sounded like the title of one of Zac’s songs.

  The reporter was spouting eager questions at the Rock God, the same ones as always. Zara was already bored. Then again, this wasn’t exactly the place to seek any major excitement.

  Or was it? She perked up as she spotted a guy wandering past. He had a big nose and a smattering of zits on his chin but was otherwise passable looking, clean and preppy in full Abercrombie regalia, though his demeanor was awkward and his expression vaguely uncomfortable. Probably because he knew he was the only straight guy in a half-mile radius, Zara figured.

  She sidled away from her father’s entourage, undoing the last button on her Ralph Lauren skinny-fit polo to reveal a little more of her two best features. The ones her mother openly envied, often wondering aloud how her daughter had come by naturally what she’d had to pay a pricey plastic surgeon for upon first arriving in Hollywood.

  “Is this place boring or what?” Zara said when she reached the guy.

  He blinked, looking startled. “What? Uh, I mean, hi.”

  “Hey.” Zara slouched against the wall. She let her eyes, the same mossy green as her father’s, wander up and down the guy. “So you’re not a rider, are you? Least you’re not dressed for it.”

  He blinked a few more times, looking nervous. “Me? No. I’m just here to, you know, watch my girlfriend do her thing.”

  A girlfriend, huh? She should have guessed. Not that a minor detail like that was going to stop her from getting her flirt on. It wasn’t as if she had anything better to do until her appointment.

  “Really?” she said. “Your girlfriend any good?”

  She tilted her head and leaned a little closer, going hard for the double entendre. But the guy wasn’t even looking at her anymore. His eyes had just gone all wide and excited.

  “Whoa!” he said. “Check it out—isn’t that, like, Zac Trask over there? Oh my God!”

  Zara let her eyes drift shut. Of freaking course. She knew what would happen next. Either this guy would rush off without even remembering she was there, or—worse—he’d figure out who she was and go all weird and fanboy on her. Either way, she wasn’t in the mood to deal with it.

  “Gotta go,” she muttered, hurrying off before the guy could respond.

  It was almost time for her to go find that horse she was supposed to try, anyway. She thought about getting Mickey or Saul or someone to go fetch her boots and helmet from the golf cart where she’d left them. But a glance back at the circus surrounding her father made her decide to go get them herself instead. Maybe putting on her gear would help her blend in and look like just another rider rather than the Rock Star’s Daughter.

  “Easy, boy,” Tommi murmured as she felt the horse’s body tense beneath her. After his usual easy lead change in the corner, Toccata had just spotted the first jump in the next line. The course decorators had gone all out with this one, creating a freakish mélange of daffodils, fern fronds, and potted lemon trees. Toccata’s ears were pricked toward the jump, and Tommi could feel him sucking back against her leg.

  She gave him a firm squeeze, allowing a touch of spur to help push the big bay gelding forward while she kept her upper body as quiet and relaxed as a kid on a pony ride. She’d been moving more into the jumpers lately, but had grown up in the hunters and still knew the cardinal rules as well as she knew her own name. Always make the horse look good. Always make the ride look easy. Make it look like a blind, drunken monkey could find eight spots on this thing, eight perfect jumps.

  Their takeoff spot was there, staring her in the face. Tommi clucked softly to make sure Toccata had the impulsion to get there. Four, three, two …

  She felt it coming, that sudden surge of nervous energy through the horse’s body. Toccata’s stride opened slightly, sending him spurting forward right past the perfect distance. Damn.

  Sinking down into her thighs, Tommi quickly half-halted, trying to salvage the fence. Normally this was her thing, her skill. Staying cool. Making it work. Getting through to a horse that was losing its mind without giving it away to the judge.

  But this time it wasn’t happening. Toccata was spooky—that was what made him so careful and round over fences. He was honest enough to keep going when asked despite his fear. But it wasn’t going to look easy. Not this time.

  Tommi’s mouth twisted into a small grimace as they chipped in, taking off way too close to the fence. She had to roach her back and throw her hands forward to stay with the awkward jump. The trip had started so well, but that one bad fence meant it had all been for nothing. Not even Toccata’s spectacular style could salvage the round now.

  As the horse landed, Tommi pushed the negative thoughts away hard and fast. So their shot at pinning was gone. That didn’t mean they had to embarrass themselves. Even if she was only competing for twentieth place at this point, Tommi wasn’t going to give up and accept less than that. Why come to the game at all if you weren’t there to play?

  With another cluck, she sent the gelding forward, staying out of the tack and letting him gather his wits back around him. That was what worked for Toccata. Staying patient, letting him know she was there without pushing too hard and sending him over the edge into panic. She’d had to learn that the hard way, getting impatient with him a few times when she was younger and stupider and ending up on her ass in the di
rt more than once as a result.

  The next fence, an airy oxer, was coming up fast. But Tommi stayed cool, waiting. Just waiting. Toccata’s canter rhythm hadn’t wavered despite the chip, and all it took was the tiniest nudge to get him to the sweet spot. He flew over the oxer in a perfect arc, and Tommi smiled.

  “Nice recovery,” Jamie Vos said as Tommi came out of the ring and dismounted. He was leaning against the rail, his whip-thin body relaxed but buzzing with barely contained energy, like a sports car running in neutral.

  Tommi unbuckled the chin strap of her GPA helmet. “Shouldn’t have happened in the first place. I knew he doesn’t like yellow flowers.”

  “Okay.” Jamie never argued with Tommi when she was hard on herself. He knew there was no point. His blue eyes wandered past her to the short, weatherbeaten man hurrying toward them. “Let Miguel take the Tokester, and get yourself back to the barn, then to the south schooling ring. I need you to ride Ellie for me—someone’s coming to see her at three.”

  “Really? Who?”

  But Jamie was already gone, sprinting across the crowded showgrounds in the direction of the pony ring. He never stopped moving for long on show days, even at a smallish local A like this one.

  “Ready for me to take him, señorita?” the groom prompted.

  Tommi reached into her pocket for a peppermint, which Toccata lipped off the palm of her deerskin glove, leaving behind a trail of foamy slobber. She gave the horse a pat, then handed over his reins.

  “Thanks, Miguel,” she said. “Don’t forget to let him graze a little on the way back to the barn.”

  The groom’s heavy jowls and drooping brows gave his face a perpetually sleepy look, but his dark eyes danced with amusement. “How could I forget?” he said. “He almost knocks me down to get a single bite.”

  Tommi laughed. Toccata was a character, that was for sure. He wasn’t always easy to manage, but they’d been together for a long time, and he was the one horse in her string who would never be for sale.

  She was still smiling as she and Miguel parted ways. The groom wandered off toward a patch of grass, chatting companionably to the big warmblood in Spanish, while Tommi headed for the colony of blue-and-white-striped tents that housed the temporary show stalls. On her way back past the main hunter ring she noticed a couple of younger junior riders she vaguely recognized from one of the big Virginia barns. They were leaning on the rail, unbuckled Charles Owens perched atop their perfectly sculpted hunter hair, watching her go by. Tommi didn’t remember their names, but she guessed that they probably knew hers. That was the trouble with being in her family. Everyone knew who you were whether you liked it or not.

  “Hi,” Tommi said with a polite half smile as she passed them.

  “Hi,” the taller one said, while the other just nodded.

  As Tommi rounded the corner of the announcer’s booth, she glanced down and saw that one of her field boots had come untied. She bent to fix it. Force of habit. Jamie ran a tight ship when it came to turnout, which suited Tommi’s perfectionist nature just fine. Her friends from school were always giving her a hard time about her habit of straightening the merchandise on the shelves while browsing through Upper East Side boutiques.

  “I don’t know what she’s looking so happy about.” The sarcastic voice drifted around the corner as Tommi straightened up again. It was one of the girls she’d just passed. “If I chipped in like that, I’d be using some of Daddy’s money to take a long trip somewhere far away.”

  “Yeah. Especially riding a packer like Toccata. That horse could win with my grandma on his back.”

  Tommi stiffened and her heart started pounding, though she was careful not to allow her expression to change one iota. No matter how many times she heard that kind of crap, it never got any easier to take. Who needs to learn to ride when her father owns half of New York? If I could afford horses like hers, I’d win all the time, too.

  If they only knew how fresh Toccata could be on a cool morning after a few days off, or had ever tried to stay with one of his big panicky spook-and-bolts when someone’s car backfired out in the parking lot. If they could only see Tommi wrestling with one of Jamie’s young, green sales horses when it decided it would rather be a rodeo bronc than a jumper. Maybe then they wouldn’t assume that she’d bought her way to the top.

  Tommi did her best to push the thoughts aside and swallow down the bitterness. She couldn’t waste time worrying about what people thought of her. Right now, she had a job to do.

  “Thanks, Miss Nilsen.”

  “Kate,” Kate corrected with a smile. “I keep telling you, Javier. You should call me Kate.”

  The young guy smiled back tentatively. He was the newest groom on the staff, and while he was a whiz with the horses, he didn’t seem completely comfortable dealing with the customers yet. Or even Kate, who was really more coworker than customer.

  “Okay,” he said. “See you later.”

  He hurried out of the barn leading the big, flea-bitten gray gelding that Kate had just finished grooming and tacking. As they disappeared out the end of the aisle, Kate checked her watch. Javier and the horse should make it up to the hunter ring in plenty of time to meet Jamie, who was probably going over the Adult Amateur Hunter course with the horse’s owner right now. Not that that should be necessary. Most hunter courses were so simple that the horses probably knew them by heart. Outside, diagonal, outside, diagonal. It was amazing how many of Jamie’s clients had trouble remembering that, making Kate wonder how they managed to hold down their mentally demanding jobs as attorneys or surgeons or research scientists or whatever.

  Kate tightened the band on her blond ponytail as she looked around for her next task. Jamie liked to tell everyone that Kate put the working in working student. He counted on her to help him and the grooms keep things running according to his exacting standards, both at home at Pelham Lane Stables, his top Westchester County show barn, and at the A circuit shows he and his clients attended up and down the East Coast.

  But as far as Kate was concerned, she could never work hard enough to pay Jamie back for all he’d given her. He was the best trainer and mentor she could ever hope for. No, more than that—he’d changed her life.

  Kate had loved horses since she knew what one was, but her dad’s modest salary as a local cop meant that her parents hadn’t been able to afford to do much about it. That hadn’t stopped her. She’d saved up her tiny allowance, along with birthday cash from relatives, to pay for her first few rides at a local up-down lesson mill. After that she’d been hooked. She’d paid for extra saddle time with odd jobs and mucking stalls and babysitting, and was always first to offer to ride anything with four legs. But even back then, stinking of manure and banged up from schooling the latest half-broke auction-special-cum-lesson pony, she was always dreaming of more.

  Then at age fourteen a friend’s parents had invited her to come along to spectate at the Hampton Classic. It was by far the biggest, fanciest horse show Kate had ever attended, and she’d been awed by the gleaming, gorgeous horses and perfectly turned out riders—just like the ones in the books and magazines she devoured at the school library. Her friend’s family had been more interested in shopping and eating than actually watching the horses, and Kate had ended up wandering off by herself.

  She’d recognized Jamie from seeing his picture in all the horse-showing magazines. He was standing at one of the schooling rings watching his riders warm up. It had taken every ounce of courage she had, but she’d walked up to him, introduced herself, and asked for the chance to prove to him that she could ride. He’d looked her over for a long, silent minute with those keen blue eyes of his, then tossed her up on a horse to see what she could do. She’d been at his barn ever since, trading hours and hours (and hours) of hard work, early mornings and late nights and no social life, for the chance to ride and train with the best.

  And Jamie was the best—everyone said so. Sometimes Kate wanted to pinch herself to see if she was really here,
showing under Pelham Lane’s colors. Except that stopping to pinch herself would take up valuable time that could be spent lungeing a frisky horse or scrubbing water buckets or cleaning tack or …

  As much as Kate loved every aspect of her job, it sometimes seemed there was no end to what needed to be done. Especially on show days. To her surprise, though, Javier’s departure had left the shed row deserted, the only sounds the distant crackle of the loudspeaker and the horses chewing hay in their stalls.

  Kate’s stomach grumbled, and she realized she hadn’t eaten a thing since the dry toast she’d grabbed on her way out of the hotel at o’dark-thirty that morning. She headed into the tack stall, which was draped in Jamie’s clean and classic hunter green and tan barn colors. Matching tack trunks lined up neatly beneath tidy saddle racks; ribbons won by Jamie’s clients hung on the back wall. One of the longtime grooms, Elliot, had a real green thumb, and an array of lush ferns and other potted plants finished off the tack stall’s elegant look.

  Noticing that the wood chips covering the floor were uneven from people walking in and out, Kate grabbed a rake and smoothed out the rough spots until it was perfect again. Only then did she dig a granola bar out of her bag, which she’d stowed in the bottom of the staff trunk.

  She sank down onto one of the leather director’s chairs in the middle of the stall. A moment later she heard a soft grunt and glanced up just in time to see Jamie’s elderly English bulldog, Chaucer, lumber in. Jamie always had several dogs roaming around at home, but Chaucer was the only one of the pack who came to all the shows.

  “How you doing, buddy?” Kate said with a smile, leaning down to give the bulldog a pat on his broad head. “Let me guess, you’re sniffing around to see if the horses dropped any food in the aisle, right?”

  At the word “food,” Chaucer’s mouth dropped open in a doggie grin, allowing a trail of drool to escape. He wagged his stubby tail, his round haunches wriggling back and forth.

  Kate laughed. “How can I resist that face?” She broke off part of her granola bar and leaned down so he could slime it off her palm.