by Janet Dailey
"Alex, I thought you were going outside. What are you doing here? What do you want?" she demanded sharply.
He backed up a step, his gaze falling under her glare. "I thought. . . maybe you'd want to come outside and watch me play with my new truck."
"No!" She knew she answered too angrily, but she couldn't help it. "Not now. I'm busy." Alex continued to stare at both of them as he backed up farther still.
"Maybe another time, sport," Ross inserted.
Rachel couldn't stand the way the child looked at her. Those pale blue eyes, the color of washed-out denim, seemed filled with hurt and condemnation. "Alex, please. Just go outside and play."
He took another step backward, then turned and ran for the front door. Rachel stood motionless, waiting until she heard the door shut and the clump of his boots on the porch outside; then, only then, did she hurry over and close the double doors to the parlor. She leaned weakly against them and half turned to look at Ross, a wild fluttering in her throat.
"You shouldn't have been so hard on the kid," Ross said gently.
"You don't understand. He doesn't like me. What if he tells Lane?" Agitated, she moved away from the doors, clasping her hands tightly together.
"What can he tell him?" Ross stopped her and loosened her clenched hands, holding them in his own.
"I can't help it." She sighed, feeling frustrated and confused. "You don't know how glad I am that you're here, but at the same time, I'm worried that Lane might find out about us."
He lifted her right hand to his mouth and pressed his lips into the center of her palm. "Would it be so terrible if he found out about us, Rachel? After all, I love you and you love me."
"I want to be with you, darling. You have to believe that. But it isn't as simple as you make it sound. If I walked out that door with you, I'd lose everything: my home, River Bend, Sirocco, and—" She had been about to say, "and all the rest of the horses."
But Ross broke in, "I know. . . your son."
"Yes, Alex, too." She felt guilty that she hadn't even considered him. But she'd always regarded him as Lane's son. River Bend, the horses—they were hers. But Lane would never let her have them; she was certain of that. "Darling, you know all you have to do is call and I'll meet you whenever and wherever I can. We love each other. Isn't that what counts?"
"I'm just greedy, I guess. I want you all the time."
"Silly, you have me all the time. I'm always thinking about you—except when I'm with Sirocco and my other horses," she teased.
Ross chuckled. "I never dreamed I'd have a stallion for a rival."
"Now you know." She laughed softly, relieved that Ross was slowly beginning to accept the idea that she could never divorce Lane. Naturally he didn't like it. She didn't either. But it was the only way things could be.
Looking back, she understood so well what Dean had gone through. This land, this home had been in his family for generations. How could he risk losing it in a divorce settlement? He had been deeply in love with her mother. Two people didn't have to be married to be happy. In time, Rachel was certain she could convince Ross that this arrangement was best. If he truly loved her, he'd accept it and not expect her to give up everything she'd ever dreamed of having.
"Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to sleep under the same roof with you and not in the same bed?" Ross drew her back into the circle of his arms and began nuzzling the little hollow behind her ear. "Let's go up to my room, lock the door, and make love the rest of the afternoon."
"You know we can't do that." Deftly she eluded his attempt to draw her into another embrace and stepped free of him. "Lane and MacCrea might come back anytime now."
"I've been here three days and all we've managed to do is steal a few kisses. Rachel—"
"I think we'd better talk about something else." She walked over to the front window and lifted the sheer curtain aside to gaze outside. There was no sign of Alex anywhere in the front lawn. A movement in her side vision drew her glance to the adjoining field west of the house. The dark ring of the oval track stood out sharply against the tan stubble of the former hayfield.
"Any suggestions?"
She ignored the faint edge to his voice. "Last night, when you were talking to MacCrea after dinner, did he give any reason why he suddenly decided to move back here?"
"No. Do you know?"
"I have the feeling he's gotten himself involved with Abbie again," Rachel said tightly, aware that he'd announced his decision shortly after he'd disappeared with Abbie that night Sirocco had won the championship. "He's a fool to get mixed up with her again."
"Speaking of Abbie, did you see the article on her in the March issue of the Arabian horse magazine?" With a wave of his hand, Ross indicated the magazine on the coffee table, the one with the color photo of Sirocco on its cover.
"This one?" Rachel picked it up, frowning in surprise. "I read the piece they wrote about Sirocco, but I haven't had time to look through the rest of it."
"I read it last night—while I was trying to fall asleep." His pointed remark indicated she was the cause of his insomnia as he took the magazine from her and flipped through the pages. After locating the article, he handed it back to her. "She's going to get a lot of mileage out of her decision to race her stallion. There are some great pictures of her training track under construction. 'Abbie's folly': isn't that what you call it?"
"Yes," she muttered absently as she quickly began skimming the article. Between the photos and the text, it was five pages long, a full page more than the cover story on Sirocco.
"You have to admit it's a good piece," Ross said when she'd finished it.
Rachel flipped back to the beginning and read it through again, her ire growing with each infuriating word. "They make that old Polack sound like some sort of a guru. And did you see this quote others?" Rachel read it aloud: "'Racing will have to play a major role in the Arabian horse scene in America the same as it does in Russia, Poland, and Egypt. It's part of Nature's selection process; the survival of the fittest. Races are won by the strong and the swift. Here, in the United States, we put too much emphasis on the beauty of the Arabian horse,' claims Ms. Hix. 'Too many of our recent national champions have had serious conformation faults—serious enough that they would automatically be eliminated as racing prospects by any knowledgeable horse trainer. Yet our judging system has proclaimed these stallions to be the best we have. If they are the best, then I'm afraid we're in serious trouble.' End of quote."
"She's only saying publicly what a lot of people in the business have been saying privately for years."
"Is that so?" Rachel angrily tossed the magazine onto the coffee table. "You are aware that she's referring to Sirocco in this article. She just doesn't have enough nerve to use his name. She can't stand it that her stallion lost to mine. Now she's doing everything she can to make Sirocco look inferior. I'd love to make her eat those words."
"Unfortunately, that's not likely to happen."
"Why isn't it?" she demanded, resenting his implication that Sirocco couldn't beat Abbie's stallion.
"Well, because. . . you're not going to be racing Sirocco. You've got the Nationals to get ready for. Besides, you don't risk injuring a valuable stallion like that on the racetrack."
"I suppose you think he'll break down, too."
"I didn't say anything of the kind." Ross raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Why are we arguing about this? You aren't going to race him, so—"
"Who says I'm not?" she retorted.
Totally bewildered, Ross sat down on the velvet cushions of the antique sofa. "I thought you did."
"Maybe I've changed my mind. If I put Sirocco in training, I'd get twice the publicity she would. Finding a trainer is no problem. I can hire the best in the country."
"You're not serious." He frowned.
"Why not? Sirocco's grandsires raced in Egypt. . . and won." The more she thought about it, the more determined she became. "She said something in the article about
entering her stallion in the Liberty Classic at Delaware Park the Fourth of July, didn't she?" She reached for the magazine again.
"I think so."
"Sirocco's going to be in that race, too." She scanned the article again, then underlined the name, date, and place of the race.
"He's your horse, Rachel, but. . . are you sure you know what you're doing?"
"I know exactly what I'm doing. It's going to work out perfectly—in so many ways. Don't you see, Ross? Not only will I get tons of publicity out of this for Sirocco, but it will also give us a chance to meet somewhere away from here—away from all the people who know us. I'll have to send Sirocco somewhere to be trained. And he'll have to run in a couple races before the Liberty Classic. Lane won't think a thing about it if I fly there every other week or so. We can be together—alone—the way we were in Scottsdale."
"You don't have to say anymore. I'm sold."
Rachel stared at the color photograph of Abbie. "I'd give anything to see the look on her face when she finds out." She laughed deep in her throat, relishing the thought.
A warm breeze, heavy with moisture from the Gulf, lifted Windstorm's silvery mane and sent it rippling back across Abbie's hands as she rode the stallion across the field, holding him to a trot. With the afternoon sun beating down out of a pastel sky, the heavy fisherman's sweater provided all the warmth she needed. It was one of those rare, fine days East Texas natives bragged about to their friends and relatives in the North, still shivering in March from the bitter chill of winter.
Slowing the stallion to a walk, Abbie started him around the training track, moving in a clockwise direction. Eden quickly joined her, the pony traveling at a jog-trot to keep pace with Windstorm's long strides. "If they had races for ponies, JoJo would win for sure, wouldn't he?"
Accustomed to her daughter's nonstop chatter and endless questions, Abbie let them wash over her, answering when it was necessary and nodding absently when it wasn't. The afternoon was too beautiful to let anything irritate her, least of all Eden's company.
As they rounded the first turn and started down the backstretch, Eden grew impatient with the slow pace Abbie set and cantered her pony ahead. Watching her, Abbie smiled. Eden always wanted to come with her when she exercised Windstorm, but invariably she grew tired of riding around the track and looked for something more challenging to do—like exploring the wooded creek bottom or stacking the leftover boards from the track rail in a pile for her pony to jump.
Somewhere a horse whinnied shrilly. Abbie glanced at the group of yearlings that crowded close to the white fence of the adjoining pasture at River Bend. The twin turrets of the Victorian-style mansion drew her attention, the peaks of their cone-shaped roofs poking into the pale blue sky.
"Hey!" Eden's sudden, sharp call snapped her attention back to the track. "What are you doing? Who said you could play here?"
Twenty yards ahead, Eden had stopped her pony and turned it crosswise on the track, blocking the trespasser from Abbie's view. Abbie dug a heel into Windstorm's side and the stallion bounded forward, quickly covering the short distance.
Before she reached her daughter, Abbie spied the young boy, Eden's age, with a toy truck clutched in his arms. The boy backed up quickly as if afraid she was going to run him down as she reined Windstorm to a halt beside Eden's pony. His eyes were saucer-round as he apprehensively glanced from Abbie to Eden and back, then darted a quick look over his shoulder as if gauging the distance to the track's outer rail and his chances of making it.
"What's he doing here, Mommy?" Eden demanded with proprietorial outrage.
"I. . ." The boy's mouth worked convulsively as he tried to get an answer out. "I was. . . just playing in the dirt with. . . my new truck. I didn't hurt anything."
Feeling sorry for him, Abbie smiled gently. "Of course you didn't. You just scared us. We didn't know you were here." But the boy didn't look altogether sure that they could possibly be as scared as he was. "What's your name?"
"Alex," he said reluctantly, backing up another step.
Abbie unconsciously lifted her head and glanced toward River Bend. Rachel's son was named Alex. Turning back, she studied him thoughtfully. Except for his light blue eyes, she could find little resemblance to Rachel. Yet he had to be her son.
"You live at River Bend, don't you?"
He bobbed his head in hesitant affirmation, then qualified his answer. "Sometimes."
Abbie vaguely recalled hearing that, even though Rachel spent a great deal of her time here, she sent her son to a private school in Houston during the week. "Does your mother know you came over here to play?"
"No." He stared at the ground. "She doesn't care. She doesn't care about anything I do." The mumbled answer carried with it a jumble of self-pity and resentment that caught Abbie by surprise.
"Oh, I'm sure she cares a lot," Abbie insisted, but Alex just shook his head in silent denial, forcing Abbie to consider how much more time Rachel spent at River Bend with her horses than she did in Houston with her son. "I'm glad to meet you, Alex. My name's Abbie and this is my daughter, Eden."
"How come that truck has such big wheels? It looks funny," Eden declared, frowning curiously at the truck he held.
"It's supposed to. That way it can go anywhere and run over anything. And it's fast, too. Faster than any horse," he retorted, eyeing her pony.
"That can't be faster than JoJo," Eden scoffed. "It's just a toy."
"Well, if it was real, it would be."
"Where'd you get it?"
"It was a present."
"Can I see it?" Kicking free of the stirrups, Eden jumped off her pony and walked over to look at his toy.
Abbie started to call her back, recognizing that Rachel would be upset if she knew Alex was here. Then she asked herself what harm it would do if Alex stayed a little while. Eden would certainly enjoy playing with someone her own age, and Alex probably would, too. Just because she and Rachel had had their differences in the past, there was no reason to drag the children into it.
When Abbie suggested that the two of them play in the track's infield, Eden blithely agreed and bossily shepherded Alex into it, leading the pony in tow. It never occurred to Eden that Alex might not want to play with her. Once again Abbie started the stallion around the track, this time at a rocking canter.
As Abbie cantered Windstorm past the first furlong pole, she noticed the white Mercedes driving slowly along the country road that ran past the field. She knew of only one car like it in the area, and it belonged to the Canfields.
Instinctively she checked Windstorm's stride and turned in the saddle to glance at the boy and girl playing in the infield, making mountains out of the clods of dirt for the toy truck to climb. She suddenly realized that she had no idea how long Alex had been playing here before she and Eden arrived. Someone might have discovered he was gone and come out to look for him. Why hadn't she obeyed that first impulse and sent him home? Rachel would be furious when she found him here.
As the Mercedes rolled to a stop, the trailing plume of dust ran over it, enveloping the vehicle in a hazy cloud. Abbie reined the stallion in and swung him back toward the infield. She started to yell to Alex to run for home, then she saw how flat and open the stretch of ground between the track and the white-fenced boundary of River Bend was. He'd never be able to cross it without being seen.
The settling cloud of dust partially obscured the man who climbed out of the passenger side of the car. Then, strangely, the Mercedes pulled away, leaving him behind. Abbie recognized that long, easy stride that had all the grace of a mountain lion. She felt a new tension race through her.
Unconsciously she tightened her grip on the reins and Windstorm sidestepped nervously beneath her, his ears flicking back and forth as his attention shifted from her to the man vaulting the fence and starting across the field toward them. As MacCrea approached the track, Abbie observed how rested he looked, compared to the last time she'd seen him. His handsome features now emanated strength inst
ead of tiredness.
"Hello." He stopped on the opposite side of the track rail, his hands pushed negligently into the pockets of his leather jacket.
As she looked down at him from astride the stallion, she found the height advantage unsettling. She was too used to looking up at him. She swung out of the saddle and stepped onto the dirt track, gathering together the loose reins to avoid looking at him. "You were with Lane?"
"Yes, we had some business to finalize. You obviously meant it when you told Rachel you intended to race your horse." His glance made a cursory survey of the completed track.
"Yes."
MacCrea ducked under the rail and absently stroked the stallion's warm neck. "Looks like he's coming along all right."
"He is." She was conscious that his attention never really left her, not even when he seemed to direct it elsewhere.
"I got the picture of Eden you sent me."
Abbie was relieved that he'd finally mentioned Eden. She was tired of talking around the reason he was here. At the same time, she didn't want to be the one to introduce Eden into the conversation. "It's a school picture. I thought you might like to have one." She had hoped it might placate him a little and keep him from demanding to see Eden too often.
"Where is she?"
"Over there, playing." Abbie nodded her head in the direction of the infield.
A frown flickered across his face. "Who's the boy with her? That can't be Alex."
"I know I should have sent him home, but I didn't think it would hurt anything if they played together a little while." She turned as Alex hesitantly petted the pony's nose.
"I'll be damned," MacCrea swore softly. "Now I've seen everything."
Stung by the amused disbelief in his voice, Abbie reacted angrily, regarding it as another dig against her. "And just what does that mean?"
"Alex. He's always been afraid of horses. Now look at him."
