by Janet Dailey
"Not happy? I've always considered becoming a father to be the happiest moment in a man's life," he declared. Then his face crinkled with a smile that was warm and deeply affectionate. "You have no idea how much it means to me that you would want to have my child. But at my age. . . I'd be a doddering old man by the time a child of ours graduated from college. That wouldn't be fair—not to you or our child."
"Are you sure? When you talked about Abbie—"
"I probably sounded a little envious. I admit that when I first saw her, for a split second, I let myself imagine it was you. But I also know it wouldn't be right." He paused to study her image in the mirror. "Do you mind? I assumed that you regarded the horses as your children, that they could fill that part of your life."
"In a way, that's probably true." She'd never thought about it and didn't now. Turning, she grasped the hand that rested on her left shoulder and gazed up at him. "I just want to make you happy, Lane."
"Darling, I am. You're all I need for that." Bending, he kissed her warmly and firmly as if trying to convince her that he meant it. But Rachel didn't believe him. "It's late," he said as he straightened. She recognized that ardent look in his expression. "Don't you think you should be getting ready for bed?"
"Of course."
Avoiding his eyes, she gathered up her toiletry case and went into the adjoining bathroom. She set the case on the marble-topped counter next to the sink and turned on the faucets. Letting the water run, she opened the case and reached for the jar of cleansing cream inside. She hesitated when she saw her container of birth-control pills. Not once had Lane denied that he wanted a child. She remembered the look on his face when he'd referred to Abbie, admitting that he'd wished Abbie had been her.
Silently vowing that that would never happen again, Rachel pushed the pills out of their cardboard holder one by one and flushed them down the toilet.
Every morning, Rachel went to the stables to check on her mare, Simoon. Finally, the day before they were scheduled to leave, the charcoal-dark horse did not lay back her ears or squeal and kick when she was led alongside the padded trying bar that separated her from the "teaser," a stallion of slightly inferior breeding quality used for trying mares and determining which were in season. This time, Simoon responded to the teaser stallion's interested nickerings and leaned against the protective bar. Standing with her hind legs apart, the mare lifted her nearly black tail and urinated, showing a definite "winking" of the clitoris. The mare was ready to be bred.
When the dark-gray mare was led into the indoor breeding yard, Rachel was as nervous, excited, and apprehensive as she had been on her own wedding night. Initially she felt self-conscious about being present, but none of the handlers paid any attention to her as they prepared the mare, wrapping a bandage around her tail to keep the hairs out of the way, attaching the covering boots to her hind feet, and finally washing her vulva, hindquarters, and dock with antiseptic solution.
Suddenly the shrill trumpet of a stallion rang through the barn. With a quickening pulse, Rachel turned toward the doorway leading into the enclosed yard as Simoon nickered an answer. The black bay stallion seemed to explode into the yard, all fire and animation at the end of the groom's lead. With the water-dampened sand floor muffling the sound of his hooves, the stallion appeared to float above the ground, his legs lifting high, his neck arched, and his long tail streaming behind him like a black plume. The groom led the stallion in tight circle and shook the whip at him as a reminder.
When the groom finally walked the snorting, plunging stallion toward the mare, Rachel experienced a faint shiver of anticipation. She remembered reading somewhere about an Arab sheikh who had invited guests to his tent to witness the mating of his prize war mare with a stallion of a valuable strain.
Standing on the sidelines, watching the courting stallion's sniffings and nuzzlings of the mare, she felt the same sense of moment. Amidst all the squeals and nickerings, she had the feeling she was about to observe the consummation of a royal union. All the ceremony was there: the ritualistic preparing of the bride, the grand entrance of the groom, and the presence of all the attendants.
Staring, Rachel waited for the moment when the stallion was fully drawn, not looking away or closing her eyes the way she did with Lane. This time she had to see everything. The instant the stud groom observed the tensing of the back muscles, the full erection, and the absolute readiness of the stallion, he allowed the eager stud to make his jump onto Simoon, the stallion instinctively swinging into position behind her as he did so.
Simultaneously, the handler on the other side grasped the mare's dark tail and held it out of the way, cautiously avoiding the stallion's hooves, while the man at Simoon's head checked her initial forward movement, preventing her from moving more than a step or two away from the mounting stallion. Rachel tensed in empathy and talked to the mare in her mind, mentally offering all the assurances she would have spoken to Simoon if she could.
Easy, my beauty. Don't be frightened, she thought, unconsciously straining against the imagined invasion, yet knowing it had to come. I know it hurts but it won't last long. He knows what he's doing. It'll be over soon. It always is. Just hold on a little bit longer. That's the way, my Simoon. As if hearing her thoughts, the dark-gray mare stood passively beneath the humping stallion. Rachel felt a quickening rush as the stallion's long tail flailed the air in an up-and-down motion, signaling his ejaculation. Yes. Yes, accept his seed, she told Simoon silently. Let it in now. You won't be sorry. I promise. Just let it come in. There, now, it's over. It wasn't really so bad, was it?
The bay stallion rested a moment atop the mare, then swung off. Rachel felt oddly flushed as the stud groom led the stallion away from Simoon and rinsed the stallion's sheath with a specially prepared wash. When she turned back to her mare, a handler unbuckled the boots on her hind feet and walked the horse out of them. As they started to remove the white bandage wrapped around her tail, Rachel noticed the man in a cowboy hat standing on the other side of the indoor yard.
In that stunned instant, when she recognized Ross Tibbs, she felt as if she had just touched an electric fence. Even though she had known he was in Phoenix, she had thought. . . she had hoped she wouldn't see him.
"Mr. Tibbs, what a surprise to see you here." She put on the brightly fixed smile she'd acquired since attending so many social functions with Lane.
"Mrs. Canfield." He mimicked her formality—deliberately, she suspected. "I read in yesterday's society column that you and your husband were here. It's been a long time since I've seen anyone from home. It gets lonely on the road after a while. You get to where you'd give anything just to see a familiar face."
Loneliness was something she'd known all her life, but she couldn't admit to it—not to him. A groom led her mare over to the exit. "Excuse me. They're taking my mare back to her stall. I want to see her settled in."
"Mind if I come along?"
She did, but she found it impossible to refuse. "Not at all."
Ross fell in step with her as she crossed the sandy yard, following behind the darkly dappled rump of the charcoal-gray horse. "I really like the look of your mare. I've been thinking about buying that stallion, Basha 'al-Nazir, off Charlie. But with the price he's asking, I'm not sure I can swing it yet, even though he's offered me some good terms."
"You were really serious when you talked about wanting to buy some Arabians last year." At the time, she thought he'd just been saying that to make an impression on her.
"Serious? Hey, it's been one of my dreams for. . . I don't know how long," he declared with an expansive wave of his hand. "Don't get me wrong. Music is my life, and always will be. But horses are my love. I can't explain it. That's just the way it is."
"I understand." Completely. The only difference for Rachel was that horses were her life as well as her love.
He asked her about Simoon's breeding, then about the other mares she owned. One question led to another. Rachel didn't remember leaving the stud b
arn or passing the broodmare barn or entering the separate facility where the outside mares were stalled. It was as if she had been magically transported from one place to the other. Although Lane had always willingly listened to her expound on her favorite subject—Arabian horses—she discovered it was different talking to someone who shared her obsession with the breed. Even when she and Ross disagreed on the attributes of a particular type or bloodline, it was enjoyable.
Once Simoon was back in her stall, together they looked over the other mares in the stable. As they approached the iron grate of one of the stalls, a mare the color of silver lifted her head and blew softly, her large, luminous dark eyes gazing at them curiously. Unconsciously, Rachel stopped short of the stall's partition.
"Now this one's a beauty," Ross declared, walking up to the stall to look over the barred top.
She stared at the mare that belonged to Abbie, watching the flare of the large nostrils as the young Arabian tried to catch their scent. Every time she'd come into the barn, the mare had nickered to her. Once Rachel had walked over to the stall, but the instant the mare had smelled her hand, she turned and hobbled to the far corner of the corral. Rachel hadn't gone near her since then.
Ross peered over the top of the stall, then turned back to Rachel, frowning in surprise. "Her front legs. . . she's crippled."
"Some freak accident, I heard." She didn't want to talk about the mare or her owner.
"That's too bad."
"Yes." Rachel walked on to the next stall, without waiting for him. A moment ago, she had been so relaxed with him. Now, she was all agitated and tense again.
"Remember the last time we were in a stable together?" The pitch of his voice changed, becoming more intimate.
"Please," she said in protest, remembering too clearly how she had felt when he'd touched her that day.
She felt the probing of his gaze, but she refused to meet it. "Charlie tells me that all Canfield knows about a horse is that it has four legs, a head, and a tail. What do you have in common with someone like him?"
"Please don't talk that way, Ross."
"You'll never convince me that you love him. You couldn't."
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the movement he made toward her and turned sharply to face him.
"What do you know about it? You don't know me and you don't know Lane," Rachel protested in a voice choked with her warring emotions. She briskly walked away from him, breaking into a near run before she reached the barn doors.
Chapter 32
A booming clap of thunder from the May storm drenching Houston rumbled through the office building as MacCrea Wilder entered the reception area, his dark hair glistening from his dash through the rain, its wave more pronounced. "I know I'm late, Marge." He held up a hand to stave off any comment from Lane Canfield's secretary. "The traffic's backed up all the way to the airport this morning."
"You should have seen it when I came to work," the redhead sympathized and reached for the intercom to announce him as she waved him to the inner door. "Go right in. He's expecting you,"
"Thanks." He crossed the space with long, loping strides and pushed open the door to Lane's office. Lane was just getting up from his desk when MacCrea walked in. "Sorry I'm late."
"With this storm, I wasn't even sure your plane would be able to land." Lane came around the large desk to shake hands with him. A sheeting rain hammered the windows behind him, obscuring the rolling, black clouds that darkened the sky over Houston.
"Neither did I." MacCrea shrugged out of the damp linen blazer and tossed it over one of the two armchairs in front of Lane's desk. Hitching up his trouser legs, he sat down in the other, uncomfortable in his rain-soaked silk shirt. "I have some good news to report. Just before I left this morning, I got word that the number three well came in. So far, we're batting a hundred and it looks like it's just beginning."
"Well, it appears congratulations are in order all the way around." Smiling widely, Lane reached back and picked up a wooden box containing hand-rolled cigars and held it out to MacCrea. "It may be a few months early for a proud father to be passing out cigars, but have one anyway."
Surprised by the announcement, MacCrea halted in the act of taking a cigar. "A father?"
"Yes." The smile on his face seemed to grow wider. "Rachel's expecting a baby." After MacCrea had taken a cigar, Lane snipped off the end for him, then struck a match and held the flame under the cigar to light it for him.
"I'll be damned," MacCrea said between puffs.
"That's what I said," Lane chuckled. "Rachel's been deathly sick for nearly two weeks now. She thought she had a bad case of the flu. Finally, three days ago, I convinced her to see the doctor. He suspected she was pregnant, and yesterday, the lab tests confirmed it."
"When's the happy event to take place?" Recovering from his initial surprise, MacCrea settled back in the thickly cushioned armchair and studied his financial partner, vaguely amused by Lane's obvious pride and delight. His reaction seemed totally out of character for the no-nonsense man MacCrea had become accustomed to dealing with. Maybe he'd act the same way if he found out he was going to be a father.
"The latter part of January. Imagine me. . . a father after all these years." Lane shook his head in amazement and walked back around his desk and sat down. "Most men my age are awaiting the birth of their first grandchild. And here I am, about to become a father for the first time in my life. I have to admit I've never been so excited about anything in my life."
"Congratulations—to both of you. Or maybe I should say all three of you," MacCrea suggested wryly.
"Thank you. Rachel is as happy about it as I am, I'm glad to say. Of course, this morning sickness has really gotten her down." When he glanced at the photograph of his wife on his desk, MacCrea's attention was drawn to it. As always he was unsettled by that initial resemblance to Abbie: the dark hair, the facial structure, and especially the deep-blue eyes. "She's anxious about her horses and the work going on at the farm."
"How's it coming?" He tapped the ash from his cigar into the crystal ashtray on Lane's desk, the question dictated by politeness rather than any desire to know.
"The contractor expects the house to be completely finished by November. Which means we'll be able to spend the Christmas holidays there. Rachel is really looking forward to that."
"Then you haven't had any more problems?"
"You mean with Abbie?" Lane guessed.
Dammit, MacCrea cursed silently, knowing that was exactly who he had meant. Before he'd left Louisiana this morning, he'd sworn to himself that he wasn't going to ask about her.
Taking his silence as an affirmative response, Lane said, "You know she's expecting a baby, too. . . sometime in early fall, I think."
Abbie pregnant—with that farmer's child. "No. No, I didn't know." He suddenly felt sick inside. He couldn't explain it, not even to himself. He just knew he wanted to get this damned meeting over with and get back on that plane and fly the hell out of here, fast. It was over. Any lingering doubts he may have had vanished in that instant.
It was one thing when she had another man's ring on her finger. But when she carried another man's child. . . MacCrea laid the cigar down in the ashtray and let it smolder. Sooner or later, it would burn itself out. "You said you had some papers we needed to go over," he said, reminding Lane of the purpose of his visit.
Part Two
Chapter 33
The wind-driven dust swirled about the legs of the brightly festooned Arabian horses and whipped at the tassels and fringes that adorned their fancy bridles, breast collars, and long saddle blankets—elaborate trappings that were rivaled only by those of their riders, dressed in native costumes of flowing kuffieyahs and abas. The crowd outside the entrance to the main arena on the Scottsdale showgrounds parted to let the prancing horses pass.
"Look at all the beautiful horses that are coming, Mommy," Eden said excitedly.
Quickly, Abbie grabbed the hand of her five-year-old daugh
ter and pulled her out of the path of the oncoming horses. "I swear I'm going to put a lead rope on you if you don't start listening and stay right beside me like you've been told."
Inadvertently Abbie glanced down at Eden's hand. . . and the crooked little fingers that curled ever so slightly higher than the others—from her father, from MacCrea. She had inherited the trait, along with her wavy hair, from him. Abbie wished she hadn't. She wished she could forget Eden had any father other than Dobie. She didn't want to be reminded that MacCrea Wilder even existed, but this had become impossible. His oil strike in Louisiana almost five years ago and his subsequent successes had placed his name on the lips of practically everyone in Houston.
"But I can't see," Eden pouted.
Abbie could appreciate that for a child, this crowd must seem like a forest towering around her. "You can see. The horses are going to pass right in front of you."
Single file, the horses and riders paraded by them, a glitter of gold, silver and copper ornamenting costumes of brilliant red, blue, purple, and shiny black. With a swing of her dark ponytail, Eden turned to look up at Abbie and pulled at the sleeve of her blouse.
Obligingly, Abbie leaned down so Eden could whisper in her ear. "Windstorm is more beautiful than these horses, isn't he, Mom? If we dressed him up like that, he'd win for sure, wouldn't he?" she said, referring to the five-year-old stallion out of Abbie's mare River Breeze.
"I bet he would, too." Abbie smiled and winked in agreement.
"He's the best horse in the whole world," Eden asserted without a trace of doubt.
"Maybe not the best horse." Although deep down she believed that, too.
"He is, too." Eden stubbornly refused to listen to such disloyal talk.
"We'll see." Only Abbie knew how close that statement was to being the truth. All the top stallions in the country were here at Scottsdale to compete in the prestigious show. Windstorm had already won several regional championships, but a win here would give him the recognition he deserved.
