Call Me Softly

by D. Jackson Leigh

  Swain turned at the sound of her footsteps, her smile fading as she looked at Lillie. “You feel okay? You look a little flushed.”

  “No, really. I’m fine. A little nervous, but excited about riding again.”

  Swain studied her, then nodded. “Okay, but it’ll be a few minutes. The mare I want you to exercise is in one of the outer pastures, and John’s bringing her in. Would you like that tour I offered yesterday while we wait?”

  “That would be wonderful,” Lillie said, a little too brightly.

  Swain turned out to be an apt tour guide. Most of the barn’s large office was a museum of the nearly one hundred years of Wetherington polo. Long glass cases on both sides of the room held shelves of trophies, awards, and framed photographs dating back to the early 1900s. “There’s a lot of history here,” Lillie commented.

  “The Wetheringtons got out of the breeding business about thirty years ago, but a fireproof vault in the basement of the main house has stud and breeding records dating back to 1930, kept in vacuum-sealed cases.”

  “Amazing,” Lillie muttered, studying the photographs and trophies.

  Swain pointed to a framed black-and-white photograph. “That was the original stable. It burned to the ground in 1940 when a visitor violated the cardinal rule against smoking in the barn and left his cigar butt smoldering in the feed room. Twelve top polo ponies died that night. Rumor has it that, after the fire, the rest of the wealthy community shunned the man so thoroughly that he finally moved his family to Canada.”

  “I’ll be sure to confine my cigar smoking to the house,” Lillie deadpanned.

  Swain grinned and pointed to another photograph. “This building replaced the burned stable. But sixty years later, the plumbing was shot and the wiring dangerous. So Abigail had it torn down and replaced it with this more modern structure. I think it was mostly a project to keep her occupied after her husband died.”

  “Did you know Granddad?”

  “No, I didn’t. He died a few months before Abigail offered me this job.”

  Swain led Lillie out into the corridor. The post-and-beam construction of the main part of the barn was reminiscent of a mountain lodge.

  Lillie closed her eyes as she stepped into the feed room and inhaled the smell of fresh hay and molasses-coated oats. Equipment rooms in both wings held rows of polished saddles, bridles, polo equipment, and assorted shovels, rakes, and brooms needed to keep the barn tidy. Everything was impeccably clean, right down to the high-tech rubber flooring of the hallway where the gray-haired groom she’d seen earlier had Nor’easter and Finesse cross-tied for saddling.

  “I can’t believe how tidy everything is,” Lillie observed.

  “She fired a damn good farrier once because he left a hoof file in the hallway,” the groom said.

  “Lillie, this old goat is John, the head groom. Don’t worry about his grumpiness. He’s always that way.” There was affection rather than irritation in her voice. “If he’d forget an expensive file, he’d likely forget a nail that could end up in the bottom of a horse’s foot.”

  “I suppose your living quarters are just as neat,” Lillie said. “Didn’t you say your apartment is here in the stables?”

  Swain gestured toward the ceiling with her chin. “Upstairs.”

  “Would it be too much of an imposition to see that part, too?”

  Swain hesitated. “I need to saddle the horses so we can finish our ride before it starts getting dark.”

  “You go on ahead. I’ll saddle the ponies,” John said.

  “Thank you, John,” Lillie said, smiling at Swain.

  John ignored Swain’s glare, so she pointed to a door across from the office. “That way.”

  The door opened to a narrow staircase that led to a second door. As they started up the stairs, Lillie put her hand on Swain’s arm to stop her.

  “You don’t have to show me. I don’t want to invade your privacy. I just love the architecture of this building and was curious to see what the living area looks like.”

  Swain shrugged, but smiled. “It’s beautiful. Maybe I’m afraid you’ll like it so much you’ll decide to send me to the main house so you can live here.”

  Lillie smiled back. “I make no promises.”

  The stairway was a back door of sorts, leading into a laundry room, then to the small but well-equipped kitchen. Separated from the kitchen by a tall counter, the huge living area had the same warm oak siding on the walls and ceiling as the stables below. Though the room was beautiful, Lillie immediately noticed the baby grand piano that sat where a dining table should have been. She walked over and pushed the cover back to caress the keys.

  “Abigail intended to put that in storage when she redecorated some rooms in the main house, but I talked her into storing it out here. Do you play?” Swain asked.

  “Poorly, but I love to listen.” Lillie murmured. She looked up. “What do you play?”

  “I can play most anything after I hear it a few times. But I prefer classical.”

  “Dad did, too. He played beautifully. He said all the Wetheringtons were musically inclined.” All who were true Wetheringtons.

  Swain’s cell phone rang and she checked the phone’s display. “Ah. This is about a horse I may want to look at, so I have to take it. Make yourself at home and continue to look around if you like.” Swain walked into a room that appeared to be a small personal office, leaving Lillie standing by the piano.

  A fireplace with gas logs was cut into the wall on the right of the living area. Straight ahead, eight-foot-tall windows flanked French doors leading to a deck that overlooked the paddocks.

  A doorway on the same wall as the fireplace was open and Lillie peeked in at a large bedroom decorated in soothing shades of blue. It was beautiful, except for the ratty faux-fur rug thrown on the otherwise pristine queen-sized bed.

  *

  Swain was tucking her phone back into her pocket when a shriek sent her running for the bedroom. Lillie slammed into her, nearly climbing up Swain’s body in her attempt to escape.

  “It moved. Oh, my God. It moved!”

  “What? What moved?” Swain pushed Lillie behind her and scanned the floor for a mouse that probably had found its way up from the feed room.

  Lillie pressed against her back, clutching Swain’s shirt. She reached around Swain to point at the bed while still hiding her face between Swain’s shoulder blades. “There. On the bed. Something’s in that rug. It moved.”

  Beau sat up and yawned.

  Swain chuckled. “That isn’t a rug. At least not yet.”

  “What is it is?”

  “A dog. My dog.”

  Lillie peeked over Swain’s shoulder as Beau stood and jumped down from the bed. He paused to stretch—his chest touching the floor with long legs in front of him and his butt in the air—and yawn again, exposing huge white teeth.

  “Are you absolutely sure that’s a dog?”

  Swain was suddenly aware of Lillie’s breath on her neck. “Uh, I’m not totally sure, but he barks and licks himself like a dog. He may be a cross between an Irish wolfhound and a golden retriever.”

  “He’s huge.”

  “Don’t say that so loud. He’s very sensitive about his size. He thinks he’s a poodle.”

  “A poodle?”

  Beau’s long hairy tail swept back and forth. Swain grasped Lillie’s hand to pull her alongside. “Beau. Come introduce yourself to Miss Wetherington.”

  Beau sat in front of Lillie. He woofed softly and politely raised his front paw. Lillie looked uncertainly at Swain, then took the large paw in her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Beau.”

  Beau’s tail thumped against the floor.

  Lillie straightened and stared at the bed. “He’s very nice, but you keep the barn and your flat so neat, I can’t believe you let him shed all over that beautiful quilt.”

  Swain shrugged. “He gets a bath weekly. More often if he gets into mud or something nasty. I’ve had dates who left
more hair in my bed than him.”

  “Perhaps you should go out with men who aren’t so hairy.”

  Swain was caught off guard by Lillie’s apparent assumption that she was heterosexual. Was she that naïve? People often mistook Swain for a man on the phone or from a distance, and she was accustomed to people assuming she was gay. Not that it bothered her. She never hid her sexuality. Life had already cheated her of too many things. She’d decided at a young age that she wouldn’t let it cheat her of being who she was, too. She didn’t plan to change that now. Still, something other than her ego was at stake here. If Lillie found her desire for women offensive, she’d never get a chance to persuade her to stay in South Carolina. Then again, if Swain didn’t tell her, someone else surely would.

  “I don’t date men,” Swain said.

  Lillie raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t act as though she was offended. Swain wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  “I date women.”

  Lillie nodded and pursed her lips. “That would be the logical alternative to men, wouldn’t it?” she said absently.

  “If that makes you uncomfortable, I’d rather talk about it now and clear the air.”

  “No. That’s not what I’m thinking at all.”

  Swain waited for more of a reaction. God, this woman was frustrating. “Then what are you thinking? It can’t be any worse than I’ve heard before.”

  “If your girlfriends shed that much hair on your sheets, perhaps you should recommend a better shampoo or encourage them to use a razor for that unwanted body hair.”

  Swain’s laughter rose so fast that she nearly choked on it. “I need to keep an eye on you, Miss Wetherington. I’m not sure our little Southern town is ready for a British invasion.”

  Chapter Seven

  The ribbon that had held Lillie’s hair had long been lost, and her curls flew around her head like a golden halo as she cantered her mare across the meadow to where Swain and Nor’easter waited.

  “That’s no fair. Your horse is much faster than mine.”

  Despite her admonishment, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes alight with pleasure. Swain imagined her as a Celtic queen galloping across the moors.

  “Nor’easter’s the fastest in the stable. The fastest I’ve ever trained,” Swain said, smiling. “I didn’t mean to leave you behind, but I needed to stretch his legs.”

  “He’s beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful.” The words were out of her mouth before Swain could censor them. That seemed to happen a lot around Lillie.

  Lillie ducked her head, her flushed cheeks turning an even brighter red.

  “I’m sorry. It seems whatever runs through my head comes out of my mouth around you. It’s just…riding across there, your hair flying…but you must hear that a lot.”

  “Thank you, but, no, I don’t.”

  Swain cocked her head. “Then your countrymen are blind, undeserving heathens.”

  Lillie laughed. “I never knew Americans were such charmers.”

  Swain dipped her chin in an abbreviated bow, acknowledging the compliment. She squared her shoulders and sat straighter in the saddle. The breeze carried the faint scent of freshly mown pastures, and if she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself a knight escorting her lady across a field of heather.

  They walked their horses side by side down a broad, shaded path. The silence was comfortable, but didn’t last long. Lillie was full of questions.

  “Was Nor’easter bred here in South Carolina?”

  “No. In New York. This little town is somewhat of a secret to all but the equine community. We have world-class polo and steeplechase, as well as Thoroughbred racing. Some really famous horses ran their first race as two-year-olds right here in Aiken.”

  “Really? I’m no expert, but I do watch the Triple Crown on the telly every year. Any names I would recognize?”

  “Summer Squall, Nor’easter’s great-granddaddy, is one. Conquistador Cielo, the 1982 Eclipse Horse of the Year, and Swale, who won the Kentucky Derby and the Belmont Stakes in 1984, were both trained here.”

  “Amazing.” Lillie was quiet for a moment. “Ah. Summer Squall, Nor’easter. I get it. Clever. So, do all your ponies come from famous racehorses?”

  “Not all, but most. Bloodlines are important. The best sires are the ones with genes strong enough to pass their best traits to their offspring.”

  Bloodlines. Although Swain’s coloring was different from that of Eric and Abigail, she looked very much like the photograph of Jim Wetherington in Abigail’s bedroom. She had the same dark hair and blue eyes, the same strong chin and intelligent brow. Lillie tried to imagine how Abigail must have felt when she looked at Swain and saw the features of her late husband. Did Swain even suspect she was a Wetherington? Her grandmum had feared how Swain would react if she learned Abigail had been the one to decide Jim’s bastards would be left to grow up in an orphanage. She had already missed out on years of her son’s life. She apparently had been afraid Swain would disappear, too.

  “So, how does a horse bred for the track end up on the polo field?”

  “A trainer may bring a half dozen yearlings to train here, knowing probably only a few will actually go on to race. Those first months of training weed out the ones who don’t show the potential their pedigrees promised. The trainers sell them here cheap before they pack up their hopefuls and head to the tracks in Florida or New York. Even though they didn’t work out on the flat track, most are excellent hunter-jumpers. Some make very good polo ponies.”

  Lillie pondered what Swain had said. “If Nor’easter is so fast, why didn’t he make a good racehorse?”

  Swain rubbed the horse’s neck. “Too aggressive. Nor’easter liked to lean into and bump any horse racing next to him. That’ll get you disqualified and fined on the flat track, but it’s exactly the quality I’m looking for in a pony.”

  Lillie eyed the horse’s long legs. “He’s not exactly a pony.”

  Swain chuckled. “He’s nearly sixteen hands. The horses originally used for polo were pony-sized, closer to fourteen hands. But as the sport developed, the players began to use taller, faster horses to get downfield quickly.”

  “That doesn’t explain why they still call them ponies.”

  “Polo horse? It doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

  Lillie laughed and shook her head. “Simple as that?”

  “Some things are simple, Lillie.”

  *

  Lillie remembered how to sit a horse, but her leg and back muscles apparently had forgotten. She gritted her teeth and tried to hide her stiffness, but was unable to stifle a low groan when she dismounted.

  While Swain unsaddled Nor’easter and carried the equipment to the tack room, John hooked Finesse into the cross ties. “Don’t use the liniment she’s gonna give you for that soreness,” he said. “It’ll burn your backside off. Take a long, hot bath, do some stretching, and pop a few ibuprofen.”

  He pulled the saddle from Finesse and pointed to a bucket of water and a large sponge. “Use that to wipe down her sweaty areas, especially where the saddle was. The salt will irritate her skin if you don’t. I’ll clean up your tack.” Swain returned and John disappeared into the tack room.

  They worked in silence for a while, then Swain led Nor’easter into a stall and returned. When she unhooked Finesse from the cross ties and squatted to massage her front legs, the mare relaxed and rested her chin on Swain’s back while she worked.

  “Is she all right?” Lillie asked.

  “She’s fine. She’s well into her twenties, and she gets a little stiff. So she enjoys a good rubdown after her exercise.” That was clear. The mare’s eyes were nearly closed. When Swain stood, Finesse blinked as though just awakened and heaved a big horsey sigh. “Go on with yourself,” Swain said. She slapped the mare affectionately on the rump, and Finesse walked down to an open stall door and went inside.

  “Well, she’s certainly well trained.”

  “Abigail rai
sed that mare from a baby,” Swain said, picking up their buckets and sponges. Lillie followed her to the wash stall and watched her rinse them and put them away.

  “Are you always so neat?” Lillie asked.

  Swain shrugged. “It comes from growing up in the orphanage. Our keepers were very strict.”

  “Your keepers?”

  “Yeah. The turnover in the staff was pretty high, so we didn’t have a chance to get to know them very well. So we called them the keepers. Not to their faces, of course.”

  Swain pulled several brushes down from a shelf and handed a stiff dandy brush and a soft finish brush to Lillie. She slid a stall door open and the black gelding inside nickered to them. He stepped toward Swain and rubbed his forehead against her chest affectionately. “This is Black Astor. After Nor’easter, he’s the best in our string.”

  “He’s very handsome.” Lillie held out her hand and Astor sniffed at it before turning back to Swain.

  “You familiar with the brushes?”

  “Yes. I know how to use them.” Lillie began to move them over Astor’s already gleaming coat.

  “Okay, then. You give him a good brushing while I comb him out,” Swain said, moving to the horse’s long tail.

  They worked in silence for a few moments. Lillie wondered briefly why Swain was grooming horses when she had Rob, John, and two other full-time employees to do the work. But she was enjoying spending time with someone other than just herself, and she had to admit Swain was attractive and interesting company.

  “How old were you when you left the orphanage?”