Jacquie backed up a step. “I’m really not dressed for lunch…I just got off the horse—”
Galen waved away the objection. “You look wonderful, all fresh and energetic. We’ll go to the Steeplechase Grille—everybody goes there in riding clothes. You’ll fit right in. Do you want to follow us in your truck?”
Rhys would’ve preferred to have Jacquie in the Mercedes, with no chance of escape. He’d have to trust that the incentive of a new account—a big, important new account—would keep her in line.
“Sure,” she said finally. “Lead the way.”
JACQUIE FOLLOWED the Mercedes at a safe distance, on the road and in her mind. She refused to be angry or—God forbid—jealous. Or even nosy. Rhys had done her a favor, that was all. He had a friend who needed farrier services and had arranged for them to meet. Period.
Of course, this “friend” looked like a movie star— Grace Kelly, to be exact. Blond, blue eyed and elegantly tall, Galen Oakley also happened to be one of the wealthiest horse owners in North Carolina. According to local gossip, she kept an eighteenth-century house and stable in the horse country of New York State, a penthouse apartment in Manhattan, plus Oakley Plantation near New Skye, where she wintered her fifty or so horses. A farrier could make a halfway decent living off Galen’s farm alone.
And she seems to be genuinely nice on top of everything else, Jacquie thought. Damn her.
In the parking lot of the restaurant, she took a minute to comb out her “helmet head” hair. Braiding would take too long, so she left it loose, tucked behind her ears. That, and replacing her safety vest with the dark green corduroy barn jacket she’d worn for warmth this morning, were the best she could do at dressing up her boots, breeches and turtleneck shirt. If the Steeplechase Grille wanted horsey atmosphere, she would give it to them.
Rhys and Galen stood just inside the door. “There’s a fifteen-minute wait for a table,” Rhys said. “We thought we’d step into the bar.”
They gathered around a tall, small table with no chairs. Rhys went to get drinks, and Jacquie took a business card out of her wallet. “Here’s the phone number and post office box for Ladysmith Farrier Service. That’s me. I trained at the University of Oklahoma and have certifications in advanced farrier work. I’ve been operating in this area for about twelve years now, and I can provide you references.”
Galen waved her hand. “Rhys’s word is all I need. He says you’re the best.”
Jacquie looked at Rhys as he set their glasses on the table. “Really? Based on a couple of shoes?”
He jiggled the ice in his whiskey. “I’ve asked around. I get nothing but rave reviews on your work.”
Her temper flared like a bottle rocket. He’d asked around? He didn’t trust her?
Galen sipped her martini. “I’ll have my trainer call you next week, Jacquie, and set up an appointment for the work we need. Now that’s settled, I think we should talk about this schooling day coming up. Rhys asked me to help you with the plans.”
At that moment, the hostess called them to their table. Galen went ahead but Jacquie hung back, gripped Rhys’s arm and turned him to face her.
“Were you always this unscrupulous, or is it a talent you’ve developed in the last decade?”
He had the grace to look uneasy. “Galen knows a lot of the owners around here. She can give me a list of people to invite.”
“That does not explain why you involved me.”
“Because you know other people, and between the two of you we can pretty much cover the horse community.”
“I told you I would not be a part of this.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you changed your mind?”
She stared up at him, speechless.
“We’re blocking the way,” Rhys said, taking her arm. “And Galen is wondering where we are.”
Jacquie didn’t resist as he eased her into the dining room. Crossing the floor, she returned smiles and nods from customers she knew until, all too soon, they’d arrived at Galen’s table.
“Sit down, both of you. Jacquie, you must be starved after riding in the cold wind all morning. They have a wonderful tomato-spinach bisque here. Do you like tomato bisque?” She kept up a running commentary on the menu, heedless of the fact that neither Jacquie nor Rhys replied. After a while, Jacquie glanced across the table to see that Rhys, too, was having trouble hiding a smile.
“That’s better,” Galen declared, watching both of them. “The two of you stalked over here as if you were preparing to duel to the death. I figured if I made a fool of myself, you’d loosen up. Now we can order, and then we’ll talk.”
Somehow, in the process of eating lunch—including the excellent bisque—Jacquie found herself participating in the planning session for the schooling event. As an advisor only, she rationalized. Galen talked a lot, but she listened, as well, and incorporated several of Jacquie’s suggestions into the overall scheme.
“And you’ll be on-site as farrier, of course, in case we need one.”
She was being steamrollered. And Rhys was sitting over there grinning, damn him. “I don’t—”
Galen spoke over Jacquie’s protest. “Who would you recommend as the veterinarian for our show?”
“Did I hear somebody ask for a vet?” The new voice came from behind Jacquie. When she turned in her chair, she found Buck Travis, her preferred animal doctor, standing behind her. “How did two such good-looking women end up in the same restaurant, let alone at the same table?”
“Buck, how are you?” Galen gave him her hand with royal flair. “You know Jacquie already? And this is Rhys Lewellyn. I’m sure the name is familiar.”
“Imperator. Of course.” Buck shook Rhys’s hand and then bent to kiss Jacquie on the cheek. “How are you, sweetheart?”
His chestnut hair needed a trim and his hazel eyes looked tired, but his expression was warm, a little sexy. Jacquie suddenly wondered why she’d turned him down the last few times he’d asked her out.
Before she could answer his question, Galen said, “Can you sit down with us?”
Buck shook his head. “I’d love to, but I’ve got a call right this minute—a lame horse needing my attention.” He laughed and shrugged. “When isn’t there a lame horse needing attention? Anyway, Mr. Lewellyn, good to meet you. Ladies, it was a pleasure.” With a nod, he left them, taking his cell phone out of his pocket to answer a call as he crossed the room.
Galen looked at Rhys. “I’ll return the favor of your farrier referral and tell you that when you need a vet, you couldn’t do better than Buck Travis. I’ve seen him work wonders on everything from prolonged labor to chronic abscesses. He cured a case of founder in my favorite mare I truly feared was hopeless. I thought we would have to put her down, but Buck saved her. I rode her yesterday afternoon.”
“Sounds like a miracle man, indeed. I’ll put him on my list. I have had a few other recommendations.”
“Call Buck first,” Jacquie told him. “I’ve seen his work all over the county. He really is the best.”
Rhys stared at her a minute, his face blank. “Whatever you say. Are we finished with our meal?”
Outside the restaurant, Galen looked at her watch. “Oh, good grief, I’m late for my hair appointment. You can get a ride home with Jacquie, can’t you, Rhys? Your place is in exactly the opposite direction from my salon.”
In answer to Rhys’s enquiring glance, Jacquie could only nod. “We can do that. It’s on my way back to town.”
Galen nodded. “Lovely. I’ll get you that list of addresses this week, Rhys. And I’ll start talking with caterers for the party, plus the concessions. You’ll see—we’ll pull this together in great style. Bye!” Almost before the sound of her words had died in the air, the gleaming Mercedes pulled out of the parking lot.
Jacquie tilted her head toward her mud-spattered truck. “This way.”
They rode in silence for several miles. “Is this Buck Travis a local boy?” Rhys asked finally. “You’ve kno
wn him since childhood and all that?”
“No, I think he grew up in California. He was with the army, stationed over in Fayetteville at Fort Bragg. When he got out, he decided to set up practice here.”
“You work with him often?”
“He’s the one I call if I find a problem that needs veterinary care. And I call him for my own horses.”
“You see him socially?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to answer no, but she caught herself in time. “Yes.” Not a lie—at other people’s parties, she and Buck often spent time talking.
Rhys’s fingers drummed on the arm rest. “He kissed your cheek.”
She smiled at the final proof of his jealousy. “I didn’t get my hand in his face fast enough, like Galen.”
With a chuckle, Rhys relaxed. “I quit.”
“Good idea. Have you known Galen long?”
“We grew up together, as a matter of fact. Went to the same schools in New York.”
“Private schools.”
He gave her a surprised glance. “Yes. Why?”
Jacquie shrugged. “I guess I forget sometimes how rich you really are. But Galen reminded me.”
“You don’t have to be wealthy to go to private school.”
“Of course not.”
“And because my father has a lot of money doesn’t mean I do. I make a living with my riding and teaching, like other people.”
“You have a pretty solid backing, though. And easy access to excellent horses.”
“I’m earning my way the same as you are. Or Buck Travis.”
This time, she didn’t think before she spoke. “Maybe we’re all fooled by your aristocratic good looks.”
He was quiet for a minute. “That’s the first nice thing you’ve said to me since I arrived in North Carolina.”
“Well…don’t get used to it.”
“I wouldn’t presume. But I like it when there’s not so much friction between us.” He paused a beat. “Then again, friction can be a very good thing, in the right circumstances.”
The timbre of his voice hinted at the circumstances he referred to. Jacquie glanced at his face, then quickly away. The truck swerved toward the shoulder of the road as she fought to recover her poise. She couldn’t speak over the lump in her throat, which was probably just as well. Who knew what trouble she would get into if she opened her mouth again?
When she finally stopped the truck beside Rhys’s barn, she expected him to get out right away. But he seemed in no hurry to leave. “Have you reconsidered allowing Erin to help paint the fences this weekend?
She hit the heel of her hand against the steering wheel. “Do you ever give up?”
“Do you really want me to?”
A treacherous part of her answered no. Suddenly she felt completely worn out by the struggle, tempted almost beyond her strength by the urge to give in and let Rhys have his way.
He must have seen her weaken, because he leaned closer and put a hand over hers. “I told you I wouldn’t say anything to Erin, and I meant it. So what would be the harm in letting her come over for some fun and some work? She and Andrew can get a lesson in the morning, then spend the afternoon painting.”
“And let me guess—I come to take Erin home and you suggest we stay for supper.”
“Not a bad idea. Will you?”
Jacquie leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. What would she do on Saturday night, otherwise? What had she done all these long, lonely years? Dinner with Erin, TV or maybe a movie. Phoebe joined them sometimes, but she would be a married woman soon. Anyway, the truth about Erin seemed to stand between her and all of her friends, even her family. She was so careful watching what she said—or even implied—to other people these days that half the time she couldn’t think of anything to say at all.
Rhys knew the truth, and he hadn’t given up, hadn’t drawn back. She could be with him and not worry about telling lies. He might be the only adult she could be herself with these days. She desperately needed that freedom.
“Okay. We’ll be here Saturday.”
“You’re painting, too?”
Maybe she’d misunderstood. “If you don’t mind.”
He reassured her with a squeeze of her hand. “I’d have made the suggestion myself, but I was sure I’d get my nose bitten off.”
“No. Not this time.”
“Okay.” He got out of the truck and came around to the driver’s side, where she rolled down her window. “How about a kiss to seal the bargain?”
She frowned at him. “Don’t push your luck.”
“Oh, Jacquie.” He slapped his hand on the edge of the door and stepped back. “Surely you remember—a winner always pushes his luck.”
A PHONE CALL in the middle of Friday night changed their Saturday plans. Heart pounding, Jacquie fumbled the phone to her ear. “Mom? What’s wrong?”
“Not a thing, honey. We just wanted to tell you that Sandy has left for the hospital. The baby’s on its way.”
She fell back against the pillows. “Right on time, too. That’s terrific.”
“Yes. So your dad and I are going down to wait. Jimmy will be in with Sandy, of course.”
“I’ll wake Erin—”
“You don’t need to do that. It’ll be hours yet, no doubt, before the baby’s born. We’ll call and let you know.”
“Well, okay. Give Jimmy and Sandy my love.”
“Sure will. Love you.”
Jacquie let the phone rest on her chest. A new baby in the family would be wonderful. Her mom and dad were born to be grandparents. They’d been Erin’s slaves since their first glimpse of her, and their hearts would expand for each and every grandchild.
But what if they knew the truth? The skeptic inside her brain never failed to take advantage of a moment of weakness. Would they feel the same about an illegitimate child? And what would they think about the lies, the evasions…about you?
With those thoughts for company, she didn’t get back to sleep until almost 6:00 a.m.
Her mother called again at eight. “It’s a boy! Mother and son are doing just great.”
“I’m so glad. And what did they decide to name him? Last I heard, it was Thomas or Garrett.”
Her mother laughed. “They named him after his granddaddies—Edward Bruce Lennon. Both of those old men are strutting around here like peacocks, with their chests puffed out.”
“When can we come see?”
“Anytime—Sandy will be here until tomorrow morning, and she’s rooming in, so the baby’s right there. None of the rest of us can tear ourselves away.”
“We’ll get dressed and be there before lunch,” Jacquie promised, and hung up as Erin shuffled sleepily into the kitchen. “Who was that?”
“You’ve got a new cousin—Aunt Sandy’s baby was born early this morning. Edward Bruce. I don’t know what they’re going to call him.”
“That’s so cool.” Erin rubbed her eyes with one hand and reached for a cereal box with the other. “I can’t wait to see him.”
“Me, too. I thought we’d get the chores done, get cleaned up and go straight to the hospital.”
Her daughter jerked around, eyes suddenly wide. “But I’m supposed to go to Fairfield Farm this morning, to help Mr. Lewellyn paint the jumps.”
Jacquie carefully avoided any kind of extreme reaction. “We’ll have to cancel, I’m afraid.”
“But I don’t want to cancel. Once I’m there, he might let me ride—even give me a lesson.”
“Now we have something more important to do.”
“We can see the baby tomorrow.” Her tone approached a whine—so much for maturity.
“No, we’re going this morning.” She turned toward the mutinous face across the kitchen. “We’re talking about your family, Erin. Nothing’s more important than family.”
Her stomach twisted as that internal skeptic took the upper hand again. Family? You mean, as in father?
“Great. Just great.” Jaw set,
eyes flashing, Erin shoved the cereal box back onto the shelf and stomped out of the room. “I wish I’d been born without a family,” she yelled, punctuating her thought with the slam of the bedroom door.
Jacquie’s laugh came perilously close to a sob.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ON FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH, Rhys and Terry stood by the jumping ring as Andrew took Imperator around the course.
“He’s better,” the Irishman said. “But not right.”
“No.” Rhys shook his head. “There’s a lack of confidence and an unpredictability that worries me. With Andrew, and with Jacquie.”
“We’ve got three weeks before the schooling day. You could be riding him by then.”
“Could be.” An admission of defeat, and they both knew it.
“Who, then?”
Andrew brought the horse to a stop in front of them before Rhys could answer. “That was a good round, right? He’s feeling better all the time.”
“It was a good round.” Rhys put up a hand to rub Imperator’s cheek. “You’ve done well by him, son. He’s responding to you more every day.”
Under the helmet brim, Andrew’s eyes were bright. “Let me try him cross-country, then. I’ll start on the easy jumps, and I know he’ll do it for me. Please, Dad? It’s time.”
Rhys was tempted—Jacquie had made progress with Imp, and the horse might, indeed, jump for Andrew. He had it in his power to earn his son’s gratitude—his love?—with one word.
As long as he didn’t mind risking the boy’s life, or his physical well-being. In an instant, Rhys was back in the hospital bed, lying flat on his back, unable to move his legs or even relieve himself without help. Despite the brisk wind and the bright sunshine, he felt as if he were suffocating.
“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t think you’re ready for the solid jumps yet.”
The Fake Husband Page 12
