“No, Mom, it’s all right.” Erin shook her hand. “Look, he’s okay.”
Just as Jacquie opened her eyes, Imperator lifted himself off the ground to land safely on the other side.
“Yes!”
And then the horse disappeared into the trees, and there was silence. No hint as to what was happening, what might be coming up. Jacquie had walked the course yesterday with Terry and Rhys, Erin and Andrew, discussing options, lines of approach—the technicalities the rider needed to take care of for the horse to do its best. Now, everything depended on Rhys’s judgment and Imperator’s spirit.
The object of the ride was to take all the jumps cleanly, within a certain time frame. Too fast was considered unsafe and penalized. Too slow deducted points from the overall score for the event. Jacquie had deliberately left her watch at home this morning. She did not want to know if Rhys’s pace was on, or off.
In the far distance, a cheer sounded, and then another. Spectators had stationed themselves all along the course, so she could only conclude they were applauding Rhys’s jumps.
At last, the beat of hooves against the earth announced Imperator’s return. Yet another cheer hailed his presence at the bottom of the hill on which they stood. Then there he was, charging up the slope, his coat lathered, his mouth flecked with foam. The expression in his eyes was one of pure joy. Rhys bent over the stallion’s neck, urging him to the next fence—a huge chair built of logs and lattice, painted a silver gray. Up, up, up…and over.
One more. One more jump to go.
Rhys looked ahead to the last fence—easy enough, three giant logs with brush ahead and a ditch behind. His watch showed their time a little slow. With a flick of his crop and the press of his heels, he asked Imperator for everything. Easing the reins, he looked ahead to the finish line.
Three strides to the fence, two, one…over, with room to spare. A wild gallop, green grass rushing underneath him, with people screaming on either side. Standing tall in the stirrups, Rhys pumped his arm in the air. He’d done it, by God. They’d done it. He and Imperator.
And Jacquie. Erin. Andrew. Terry. All his friends.
Imp was breathing hard, needed a long cooldown. Completely out of breath, Rhys turned the horse and they trotted back to the top of the hill, where everyone waited. They mobbed him as soon as he slid out of the saddle, before he could give Andrew the reins.
The boy fought his way to Rhys’s side. “Awesome, Dad. Just totally awesome.”
Rhys grinned. “Yeah. Cool him down?”
“Sure.” Andrew hesitated a second, then gave Rhys a quick hug. “You’re back,” he said, taking the reins without meeting his father’s eyes.
Then Terry stood beside him, gripping his hand. “Good job, son,” he said. “A damn good job.” Before Rhys could answer, the Irishman blinked, sniffed and faded away to follow Andrew and the horse.
The crowd pressed in again, shaking his hand, patting his back. Rhys nodded, laughed—God, it felt good to win again. But all the time he searched the crowd. Where was she?
A tap on the shoulder turned him around. And, yes, finally, Jacquie stood before him, her face the best, brightest sight he could have imagined.
“You’re back,” she said.
“You’re damn right I am,” Rhys told her. Then he took her in his arms and swept her with him into a wild, triumphant kiss.
IMPERATOR’S RUN was not the fastest over the cross-country course, which left the winner of the event in doubt until Sunday morning and the stadium jumping competition. Again, Rhys and Imp went tenth, and though several of the horses ahead of them rode clear rounds, with no poles knocked off the fences, Imperator, in his flawless style, turned in the best time by several seconds to win the Advanced Class of the Top Flight Horse Trials.
The crowd, the judges, the volunteers for the event and all of the competitors applauded as man and stallion rode their solo victory lap, the blue ribbon on Imp’s bridle flying like a banner in the wind.
Once back at Fairfield Farms, the celebration began in earnest. Cases of champagne appeared by magic— Galen’s work, no doubt. Rhys hadn’t bought any in case he jinxed his chances. Food appeared, brought by the Bells, Phoebe and Adam, and Jacquie. And Erin’s victory hug was a sweet, simple moment he would remember all his life.
Late in the afternoon, his dad gripped him by the arm and pulled him into the hallway, away from the crowd. “Fahed and I will be leaving. The limo’s outside.”
Rhys tried to be generous. “I’m glad you came, and could see Imperator win.”
Owen nodded. “I’m still selling the horse.”
A wave of dizziness struck, so hard and fast that Rhys thought he might fall over. “You said—”
“I know what I said. I changed my mind.” He slipped a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. A check. “I’ve signed the bill of sale. The horse’s papers will be in the mail tomorrow.”
“When…where is he going?”
His father shrugged. “How should I know? Ask your friend Galen.” He winked at Rhys. “She’s quite a woman.” Without waiting for a reaction, Owen strode down the hall and through the door to the front of the house.
When he thought his legs would hold him up, Rhys went back into the gathering room. Across the room, Galen stood by herself, a glass of champagne in one hand. When she saw him, she smiled and lifted her other hand to wave a piece of paper.
Even at this distance, he recognized the bold slash of Owen Lewellyn’s signature on the page.
AROUND MIDNIGHT, Jacquie abandoned the party for the peace and quiet of the barn. Imperator’s blue ribbon glinted in the distant light from the house windows. Down the aisle, a white ribbon fluttered on the stall where Mirage was spending the night. Erin had taken fifth place in her own class at the Top Flight trials, an achievement as significant as Rhys’s in some ways. They hadn’t been sure Mirage could compete, but with Erin home he’d been back to his old self in a matter of days, fit and ready for the ride of his life.
Footsteps at the door of the barn turned her around. There was no mistaking that silhouette. “Rhys.”
“I couldn’t find you, and decided you must have come out here.”
“I needed a little peace and quiet. It’s been a crazy weekend.”
He nodded. “I’ll be glad when things settle down tomorrow. We can get back to ordinary work.”
“Ordinary sounds good.” The silence was uneasy, but she didn’t know what to say to break it. Rhys moved to sit down on the hay bales she herself had once occupied. “You must be tired.”
“A little.”
“Did your back bother you this weekend?”
“Not much. That massage of yours seems to have made a permanent difference.”
“Oh, come on.” The memory of that night flooded through her.
“Honestly, I think the…er…mental and emotional massage might have been as important as the actual muscle work.”
“Oh.”
After another pause, he said, “You’ve made a big difference in my life, Jacquie. In every possible way.”
She wouldn’t say “oh” again, so she didn’t say anything at all.
“I regret the way I left your house that night. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”
That, she had to answer. “No, you were right. I wasn’t realistic in my expectations, that summer. I was eighteen—what did I know? I thought romance meant happily ever after.”
“It should.”
“At the right time, in the right place. With people who are free to love.” She sighed. “None of that really applied to us that summer.”
Rhys stirred. “How about now?”
“Now?” Her voice sounded like a mouse squeak.
“We’re free to love.” He reached out to take her hand. When he sat back, he drew her nearer. “I think the time is right. And the place. I’ve written the owners of Fairfield Farm to extend my lease for at least a year.”
“You’re staying?”
“If you’ll have me.” He placed her hand on his chest, set his hands on her waist and drew her to stand between his legs. “Finally, wholeheartedly, proudly, I can ask you to marry me. Only fourteen years late.”
Jacquie touched his face with her fingertips—his forehead under the dark hair, his temple, the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the soft curve of his mouth. “I love you.” She leaned forward to place a soft kiss on his lips.
Rhys closed his eyes and smiled. “Ah. I forgot that part. I love you, too. Ever since you were eighteen and ‘snippy.’”
“I’m still snippy.” Skimming her mouth over his cheek, she went back for another kiss.
“Good. I’m a little sharp-tongued myself, as you may have noticed.” Rhys returned the kiss, offered one of his own.
“A time or two.”
“And so…” The conversation wandered, got lost in the pleasure of touching, tasting, trusting.
Finally Jacquie pulled back to see his eyes. “I do have one last question.”
“Anything.”
“Would you have turned to me—would you have asked me to marry you—if you’d lost today?”
He met her gaze with only honesty in his own. “Yes. Only you,” he said quietly. “Today…forever.”
“Today and forever,” she repeated. “Yes.”
ISBN: 978-1-4592-3189-4
THE FAKE HUSBAND
Copyright © 2004 by Cheryl B. Bacon.
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The Fake Husband Page 24
