by Lisa Jackson
“I don’t know,” Rod was saying, rubbing his bearded chin. “I suppose it will take...what?” He eyed Jeanette for input. “An hour, maybe two. I want to ask you some questions and then we need a quick tour of the buildings.”
Tiffany’s throat went dry. No matter how crazy Zane’s story seemed, she had to talk to him, find out what he wanted and why he thought that Devil’s Gambit might still be alive.
“I have a meeting at noon,” Zane stated, his calculating gaze never leaving the worried lines of her face. There was something in Tiffany Rhodes’s manner that suggested it would be to his advantage to stay. But he needed to be with her alone in order to accomplish everything he had planned for six long years. He’d given her the bait, and she’d swallowed it hook, line and sinker. The satisfaction he had hoped to find was sadly lacking, and he felt a twinge of conscience at the worry in her clouded eyes.
“Look, Ms. Rhodes—can we get on with it? We’ve got another story to cover this afternoon,” Crawford interjected.
“Of course.” Tiffany returned her attention to Zane’s proud face. She hoped that she didn’t sound nearly as desperate as she felt. “Could you come by tomorrow, or would it be more convenient to meet you somewhere?”
“I have to catch an early flight.” His angular jaw was tense, his muscles rigid, but there was the glimmer of expectancy in his eyes. He’s enjoying this, she thought and she had to work to control her temper. She couldn’t blow up now, not with Rod Crawford in the room, but there was something infuriating in Zane’s arrogant manner.
Trying not to sound condescending she asked, “Then tonight?” He couldn’t just waltz into her life, make outrageous statements, and then disappear as if nothing had happened. She had to know the truth, or what he was attempting to portray as the truth. She wanted to forget about him and his wild imaginings, but she couldn’t dismiss him as just another publicity seeker. What did he want—really want from her?
Zane’s gray eyes narrowed a fraction. “All right. What time?”
“How about dinner—seven-thirty?”
“I’ll be here.”
He picked up his jacket and flung it over his arm. Tiffany escorted him to the door and let out a long sigh of relief when he was gone. At least he had no inkling why the reporter was there, although it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out, especially once the article was printed. “Maybe he’ll be back in Ireland where he belongs by then,” she muttered with false optimism.
Louise was serving coffee and scones when Tiffany returned to the den. After accepting a cup of black coffee, Tiffany seated herself at her desk, feeling uncomfortably close to Rod Crawford, who sat across the desk. While Jeanette snapped a few “candid” shots of Tiffany at work, Rod began the interview.
“How long have you actually managed the farm?” he asked.
“About four years.”
“Ever since your husband’s death?”
Tiffany felt her back tighten. “That’s right. Before that I helped Ellery on the farm, but he ran it.”
“I don’t mean to bring up a sore subject,” the wily reporter went on, “but ever since you took over, you’ve had quite a few bad breaks.”
Tiffany smiled grimly. “That’s true, but I don’t like to dwell on them. Right now I’m concentrating on Journey’s End.”
“The three-year-old, right?”
“Yes. He has all the potential of being one of the greatest horses of the decade.”
Rod Crawford laughed aloud. “I doubt if you’re all that objective about your own colt.”
“Obviously you’ve never seen him run,” Tiffany replied with a slow-spreading grin. The tense air in the room dissolved, as she talked at length about Journey’s End’s impressive career.
“What about the recent string of deaths in the foaling shed?” Rod asked when the conversation waned. Though Tiffany had been bracing herself for the question, she found no easy answer to it.
“Three foals died shortly after birth,” she admitted.
“And you don’t know why?” Skepticism edged Rod’s question.
Tiffany shook her head. “So far the autopsies haven’t shown anything conclusive, other than that the cause of death was heart failure.”
Rod settled into his chair and poised his pencil theatrically in the air. “Were the foals related?”
Here it comes, Tiffany thought. “They had different dams, of course, but both colts and the filly were sired by Moon Shadow.”
“And he stands at stud here, on the farm.”
“Yes, although we’re not breeding him...until all this is cleared up.” Tiffany’s hands were beginning to shake again, and she folded them carefully over the top of the desk.
“You think he might be the cause?”
“I don’t know.”
“Genetic problem?”
Tiffany pursed her lips and frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. He’s stood for almost eight years, and until now he’s proved himself a good sire. Devil’s Gambit and Journey’s End are proof of that.”
“Moon Shadow was the sire of both stallions?”
“And many more. Some not as famous, but all perfectly healthy and strong horses.”
“So, what with Journey’s End’s success, you must be getting a lot of requests for Moon Shadow’s services.”
“That’s right. But we’re turning them down, at least for a while, until we can prove that whatever is happening here is not a genetic problem.”
“That must be costing you—”
“I think it’s worth it.”
“Then you must think he’s the cause.”
“I don’t know what’s the cause. It may just be coincidence.”
Rod snorted his disbelief, and Tiffany had to press her hands together to keep from losing her temper. To Rod Crawford, Moon Shadow was just another story, but to Tiffany he was a proud stallion with an admirable reputation as a racehorse and a sire. She would do anything she had to—short of lying—to protect him and the reputation of the farm.
“Have you had him tested?” Rod asked.
“Moon Shadow?” When Rod nodded, Tiffany replied, “Of course. He’s been given a complete physical, and we’ve taken samples of his semen to be analyzed.”
“And?”
“So far, nothing.”
Rod twirled his pencil nervously. “What about mares that were brought to Moon Shadow and then taken home?”
Tiffany felt a headache beginning to pound. “As far as I know, only the horses on this farm have been affected. However, it’s still early in the year and there are several mares who haven’t yet dropped their foals.”
“Have you been in contact with the owners of the mares and explained the problem to them?”
“Mr. Crawford,” Tiffany stated evenly, “I’m not certain there is a problem, or exactly the nature of it. I’m not an alarmist and I’m not about to warn other owners or scare them out of their wits. What I have done is written a letter inquiring as to the condition of the foals involved. I’ve had seven responses, and all of them indicate that they have beautiful, healthy horses. Two owners want to rebreed their mares to Moon Shadow.”
Rod frowned. “And have you?”
“Not yet.”
“Because you’re afraid?”
“Because I want to be certain of what is happening before I do anything that might cause any stress or trauma to the horses or the owners.” Tiffany looked him squarely in the eye. “This is more than a business for me. It’s a way of life, and there’s more at stake than money.” Rod’s blank stare told Tiffany that he didn’t understand anything she was saying. Perhaps no one did. Rod Crawford, or anyone else for that matter, couldn’t know about the agonizing years she had spent growing up in musty tack rooms and dingy stables where the smell of ammonia had been so strong it had made her retch. No one knew that the only comfort she had found as an adolescent child was in working with the Thoroughbreds her father had been hired to train.
Before her thoughts bec
ame too vivid and painful, Tiffany spread her hands expressively over the desk and forced a frail smile at the reporter. “Look, until I know for certain what exactly it is that’s happening, I’m not about to make any rash statements, and I would appreciate your cooperation—”
Rod raised a dubious blond brow. “By withholding the story?”
“By not sensationalizing the deaths and creating a story. I agreed to this interview because I know of the Clarion’s reputation.”
“I have to report the truth.”
Tiffany smiled stiffly. “That’s all I can ask for. Now, if you have any further questions about the horses involved, you can call Vance Geddes, the veterinarian who was with the mares when they delivered the foals.”
“Fair enough,” Rod replied.
Tiffany led the reporter and his assistant through the broodmare barn and the foaling shed, before returning outside to the brisk March air. While Rod asked questions, Jeanette took some outside shots of a field where mares grazed and spindly-legged foals ran in the shafts of late-morning sunlight.
Tiffany’s face lifted with pride as she watched the dark foals run and shy behind the safety of their mothers’ flanks. The newborns always held a special place in her heart. She loved to watch them stand and nurse for the first time, or run in the fields with their downy ears pricked forward and their intelligent eyes wide to the vast new world. Maybe that was why the deaths of the foals affected her so deeply.
“I’ll send you a copy of the article,” Rod promised just before he and Jeanette left.
“Thank you.” Tiffany watched in relief as the sporty Mazda headed out the long drive. The interview hadn’t been as bad as she had expected, but nonetheless, she felt drained from the ordeal.
After changing into comfortable jeans and a sweatshirt, Tiffany returned to the den and pulled out the checkbook. But before she could concentrate on the ledgers, she let her eyes wander to the portrait of Devil’s Gambit, the horse that Zane Sheridan insisted was alive.
“It can’t be,” she murmured to herself. Devil’s Gambit had been a beautifully built colt with a short, sturdy back, and powerful hind legs that could explode into a full stride of uncanny speed and grace. Jet-black, with one distinctive white stocking, Devil’s Gambit had taken the racing world by storm, winning all of his two-year-old starts by ever-increasing margins. As a three-year-old his career had taken off with a flourish, and he had been compared to such greats as Secretariat and Seattle Slew.
Then, a month before the Kentucky Derby, it had all ended tragically. Devil’s Gambit suffered a horrible death while being transported from Florida to Kentucky.
Tiffany had learned that Ellery had been driving and had apparently fallen asleep at the wheel. Dustin, his brother, had been a passenger in the truck. Miraculously, Dustin had survived with only minor injuries by being thrown out of the cab as the truck tumbled end over end, down an embankment, where it exploded into flames that charred beyond recognition the bodies of Ellery Rhodes and his fleet horse. Dustin’s injuries had included a broken leg and minor concussion, which were treated at a local hospital. He had been out of the hospital in time to stand by Tiffany’s side at Ellery’s funeral.
Tiffany swallowed against the painful memory and shook her head. It had taken her several months to come to accept the death of her husband and his brave horse. And now a total stranger, a man by the name of Zane Sheridan, was trying to make her believe that it had all been a treacherous mistake.
But he didn’t state that Ellery was alive, she reminded herself with a defeated smile, only Devil’s Gambit. And when Zane had mentioned Ellery, it had been with a look of barely veiled contempt on his rugged black-Irish features.
What can it all mean? She slanted a glance at the portrait of Devil’s Gambit and frowned. How could someone hide a horse of such renown? And who could have come up with such a scheme? And why? Certainly not for kidnapping ransom. Get hold of yourself, she cautioned, you’re letting your imagination run away with you, all because of some stranger’s outlandish remarks.
With a grimace she turned her attention back to the checkbook and finished paying the month-end bills. She wasn’t exactly strapped for money, but each month her assets seemed to diminish. There was still a large, outstanding mortgage against the property, and several major repairs to the barns couldn’t be neglected much longer.
If she regretted anything, it was allowing Ellery to build the expensive house. “You can’t be a horse breeder unless you look the part,” he had said with the confidence of one who understands the subtleties in life. “No one will bring their mares here if we don’t look like we know what we’re doing.”
“It’s not the house that counts, it’s the quality of the stallions and the care of the horses,” Tiffany had argued uselessly. In the end, Ellery had gotten his way. After all, it had only taken a quick signature at the bank—his signature—to get the loan to rebuild the house into a grand, Southern manor.
“This is California, not Kentucky,” she had reminded him. “No one cares about this sort of thing.” But her protests had fallen on deaf ears and Ellery had taken up wearing suits with patches on the sleeves and smoking a pipe filled with blended tobaccos.
The house was finished only six months before the accident. Since that time she had lived in it alone. It was beautiful and grand and mortgaged to the hilt. Ellery hadn’t seen fit to purchase mortgage insurance at the time he took out the loan. “Money down the drain,” he had commented with a knowing smile.
“I must have been out of my mind to have listened to him,” Tiffany thought aloud as she pushed the ledgers aside and stood. How many years had she blindly trusted him, all because he had saved her life? She shuddered when she remembered the time she had seen Ellery, his face contorted in fear, as he dived in front of the oncoming car and pushed her out of its path.
Maybe it had been gratitude rather than love that she had felt for him, but nonetheless they had been married and she had depended upon him. And now there was a chance that he was still alive. The thought made her heart race unevenly.
After grabbing her jacket, she sank her teeth into her lower lip, walked outside and turned toward the broodmare barn. A chilly wind was blowing from the west and she had to hold her hair away from her face to keep it from whipping across her eyes. Mac was leaning over the railing of one of the stalls in the barn. His sharp eyes turned in her direction when she approached.
“I was just about to come up to the house,” he stated, a worried expression pinching his grizzled features.
“Something wrong?”
“No...but it looks like this lady here—” he cocked his head in the direction of the black mare restlessly pacing her stall “—is gonna foal tonight.”
Instead of the usual expectation Tiffany always felt at the prospect of new life, she now experienced dread. The mare in question, Ebony Wine, was carrying another of Moon Shadow’s foals.
“You’re sure?” she asked, surveying the mare’s wide girth.
“Aye. She’s a week overdue as it is, and look.” He pointed a bony finger at the mare’s full udder. “She’s waxed over and beginning to drip.”
“Has she starting sweating?”
“Not yet. It will be a while—sometime after midnight unless I miss my guess.”
“But everything else looks normal?” Tiffany asked, her knowing gaze studying the restless horse.
“So far.”
“Let me know when the time comes,” Tiffany ordered, patting the mare fondly.
“You’re not going to wait up again?”
“Of course I am.”
Mac took off his hat and dangled it from his fingers as he leaned on the railing of the stall. “There’s nothing you can do, you know. What will be, will be.”
“You can’t talk me out of this. I’ll give Vance a call and ask him to come over.” She took one last glance at the heavy-bellied mare. “Come up to the house and get me if anything goes wrong, or if it looks like the foal wil
l be early.”
Mac nodded curtly and placed his frumpy fedora back on his head. “You’re the boss,” he muttered, placing his hands in the back pockets of his trousers. “I’ll be in the tack room if ya need me.”
“Thanks, Mac.” Tiffany walked outside but didn’t return to the house. Instead, she let herself through a series of gates and walked through the gently sloping paddocks away from the main buildings.
When she neared the old barn, she halted and studied the graying structure. Once the barn had been integral to the farm, but the vacant building hadn’t been used for years. Ellery had insisted that the horses needed newer, more modern facilities, and rather than put money into modernizing the old barn, he had erected the new broodmare barn and foaling shed.
The weathered building with the sagging roof was little more than an eyesore, and Tiffany realized that she should have had it torn down years before. Its only function was to store excess hay and straw through the winter.
She walked toward the barn and ignored the fact that blackberry vines were beginning to ramble and cling to the east wall. The old door creaked on rusty rollers as she pushed it aside and walked into the musty interior.
It took a few minutes for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. How many years had it been since she had first seen Ellery? She had been standing near the stalls, making sure that the horses had fresh water when he had startled her.
Before that fateful day, she had seen him only from a distance. After all, she was only a trainer’s daughter. A nobody. Tiffany doubted that Ellery Rhodes realized that when he hired Edward Chappel, he took on Edward’s eighteen-year-old daughter, as well.
Perhaps her mistake had been to stay with her father, but Edward Chappel was the only family she had known. Her mother, Marie, had abandoned them both when Tiffany was only five. She could remember little of Marie except that she had thick, golden hair and a beautiful but weary face that very rarely smiled.
Fragments of life with her mother had come to mind over the years. Tiffany remembered that Marie insisted that her daughter’s hair always be combed and that her faded clothes always be neatly starched. And there was a tune...a sad refrain that Marie would sing when she helped Tiffany get dressed in the morning. Twenty years later, Tiffany would still find herself humming that tune.
