by Janet Dailey
"I wish there was something I could do to make her feel better."
Lane caught the wistful note in Alex's voice and understood the need he felt to contribute something, however small. "Maybe there is."
"What?" Alex looked at him hopefully.
"A lot of times when you're very sad, little things mean more than anything else. . . thoughtful little things that say you care. For instance, you could pick your mother some wildflowers and give them to her so she can place them on Sirocco's grave. Or you could make her a card—"
"I could draw her a picture of Sirocco and color it for her. That way she'd always have a picture of him to remember what he looked like," Alex suggested excitedly. "She'd like that, wouldn't she? I can draw really, really good, Mrs. Weldon says. And I'd draw this extra good."
"I know you would. And I think your mother would like that very much." Lane smiled.
"I'm going to do it right now." Before the sentence was finished, Alex had scrambled out of the chair. He took off at a run for the house.
Watching him, Lane couldn't help thinking that it must be wonderful to be young and innocent enough to believe that you could find the answers for life's sorrows.
Rachel sat on the grass next to the long rectangular patch of freshly turned earth, something childlike in her pose: her legs curled up to one side, her head and shoulders bowed, one hand resting on the clods of dirt. A soft breeze ran over her dark hair, lifting tendrils and laying them back down like a mother lightly playing with a child's hair in an attempt to soothe and comfort.
As Ross walked up to her, she gave no sign that she was even aware of his presence. He paused, struck for a few seconds by the stark grief in her expression. There were no tears. He almost wished there were. He had the feeling they would have been easier to cope with than this intense sorrow that went so much deeper.
"Hello, Rachel."
At first he wasn't sure she'd heard him. Then she looked up. Her eyes were dull and blank, with almost no life in them at all. Even though she looked straight at him, Ross wasn't sure she saw him standing there. Then she seemed to rouse herself to some level of awareness.
"This is where Sirocco is buried. I'm having a marker made—a marble one, engraved with his name and the dates of his life, and a verse from a poem I once read. I've changed it a little to make it just for him." Almost dreamlike, she quoted the line, "'If you have seen nothing but the beauty of his markings and limbs, his true beauty was hidden from you.'"
"It's beautiful."
"Feel the earth." She dug her fingers into the dirt. "It's warm. . . like his body was."
"It's the sun that makes it feel that way."
He started to worry about her, then she sighed dispiritedly and gazed up at him. This time the pain was visible in her expression. "I know," she said. "But sometimes I like to pretend it's from him."
"You can't do things like that, Rachel. It isn't good for you."
"I don't care. I want him to be here. . . with me," she declared insistently.
"Don't do this, Rachel. He's gone. You can't change that. I'm here with you. Please, come walk with me." Taking her by the shoulders, he gently forced her to stand up.
She offered no resistance, yet she continued to stare at the grave, reluctant to leave it as he turned her away. "He should be here, nickering to those mares in the pasture."
"I wish there was some way I could make you feel better—something I could say. . . or do. But I just don't know the right words." He felt helpless and frustrated, just like at the track. "You don't know how many times I wished that I hadn't left you that day, but I had to. There didn't seem to be anything I could do there. Lane was with you. I knew he'd look after you and see to everything."
"Lane's always there, every time," she murmured.
"I know." It bothered him that she had turned to Lane in those first shocked seconds after the accident occurred. She was supposed to be in love with him. "Look, I'm due back in Nashville tonight. My record company wants me to cut a new album and I have a meeting scheduled tomorrow with the producer. But if you want me to stay here with you, I'll cancel it."
"There's no need. It doesn't matter whether you're here or not. Nothing matters anymore."
She was so indifferent, so distant with him, as if he were a stranger, not the man who had held her in his arms and made love to her countless times in the past. They were walking side by side, his arm was around her, yet there was no sense of closeness. Somehow he had to change that.
"Come on. I have something to show you." He picked up their pace as they neared the palatial barn, but his statement sparked no interest from her. "Aren't you going to ask what it is?"
"What?" It was obvious she asked only because he prompted her. "It's a surprise, but I can guarantee you're going to like it. Just wait and see if you don't."
But when Rachel spotted the truck and horse trailer parked outside the barn's imposing main entrance, she pulled back. "Somebody's here. I don't want to see them."
"It's okay. Honest. That's my rig."
"Yours? I don't understand." She frowned at him. For the first time, Ross had the feeling that he'd finally gotten through that wall of grief that insulated her.
"Remember I said I had a surprise for you." He motioned to the handler standing at the back of the trailer, gesturing for him to bring the filly out. "Well, here it is." Stopping, he turned to watch her face as the man walked the filly into her view. A puzzled look flickered across her face as she stared at the young Arabian, the morning sunlight flashing on her bronze coat. "It's Jewel," he said.
"Yes, but why did you bring her here?" She turned to him, her frown deepening.
"I want you to have her." As she drew back from him, still frowning, Ross went on. "I know how much you've always wanted her, and I meant it when I said she wasn't for sale. We're never going to have that foal out of her by Sirocco, so I'm giving her to you—as a present."
"No." She backed another step away from him, vaguely indignant and angry.
Puzzled by her reaction, Ross took the lead rope from the handler and offered it to her. "Please take her." But she shook her head and hid her hands behind her back. "I want you to have her, Rachel. I know she's not Sirocco, and. . . maybe I can't make it up to you for not staying with you after the accident, but let me try."
Something inside her seemed to snap. "Why does everybody always give me presents? Do you think you can buy me?" she cried in outrage. "Presents don't make up for all the hours I've been alone. I'm not a child that you can give a bauble to and think that will make the hurt go away. It won't work anymore!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Ross said, confused and taken aback by her sudden outburst. "I'm not trying to buy you. I—"
"Then what do you call it? You feel guilty, so you want to give me your horse so you can ease your conscience. Well, I don't want your horse! And I don't want you! Just take your horse and get out of here. Don't ever come back! Do you hear? Not ever again!" Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides as she stood before him, trembling with anger, tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Rachel, you don't mean that. You're just upset." Stunned, Ross struggled to find an excuse for the abrupt change in her. "You don't know what you're saying."
"I know precisely what I'm saying," she retorted, her voice quivering with anger. "And if you don't have that horse loaded up and out of here within five minutes, I'm calling the sheriff and ordering him to escort you off this farm." She turned on her heel and headed for the barn, breaking into a run when she was halfway to the door.
"Rachel. . ." Ross took an uncertain step after her, unable to believe any of this was really happening.
"I think she means it," the handler said behind him.
Ross was forced to agree.
Sobbing in despair, Rachel ran straight to the section of the barn that housed the broodmares, not stopping until she reached the third one from the end. Hurrying frantically, she unhooked the webbed gate and went in
side, pausing long enough to fasten it behind her, then throwing her arms around the neck of the dappled gray mare inside and burying her face in the charcoal-streaked mane.
"Simoon, Simoon," she cried brokenly. "Why do they always do this? Why? They keep trying to give me presents, when all I want is their love. Nobody really cares about me. Nobody." As she sobbed out her anguish and hurt, she felt the mare nudging her anxiously, accompanied by a soft whicker of concern. "No, that's not true, is it? You care, don't you, my beauty?" Rachel murmured, moving to face the mare and taking her head in both her hands, smiling faintly as the mare nuzzled at the tears on her cheeks, then, with a slurp of her big tongue, licked curiously at the salty wetness. "I love you, too, my Simoon. You've never let me down, have you?"
Straw rustled in the adjoining stall as the aging red gelding moved closer to the dividing partition and nickered for attention. Turning, Rachel scratched the underside of his grayed lip through the bars while she continued to rub the hollow behind the mare's ear.
"I know you care, too, Ahmar. I haven't forgotten you," she crooned, still intensely sad.
Overhead, circulating fans whirred, constantly moving the air and stirring up the strong smell of horse, hay, manure, and grain. Rachel turned back to the mare and rubbed her head against the mare's cheek, cuddling close to the Arabian, enjoying the slickness of her coat and the heat from her body, and breathing in her stimulating odor, finding a reassurance in the equine contact that she needed.
"Are you all right, Miz Canfield?"
Startled by the human intrusion, Rachel caught a quick glimpse of the groom standing at the stall entrance, then ducked back behind the mare, keeping her face hidden so he couldn't see her tears. She didn't want him or anybody else feeling sorry for her. She didn't need or want their pity.
"Yes, I am," she asserted. "I'd like to be alone. Please. . . go."
"Yes, ma'am."
Ahmar snorted as the groom passed his stall. When the gelding's attention swung back to her, Rachel knew they were alone.
"It always was the three of us, wasn't it?" she remembered, then reconsidered her statement. "Not always. For a while there were four. Now. . . Sirocco's gone. I miss him so much." She could feel the sobs coming again and hugged Simoon's neck. "Why did he have to die like that? It isn't fair. Your son's gone, Simoon. Do you understand that? Your son. . . and mine, too."
She began to cry softly, her tears wetting the dark gray hairs on the mare's neck. Here, she felt free to pour out her sorrows and her pain, free to grieve over the death of her beloved stallion and the betrayal by yet another man who hadn't truly loved her.
Simoon snorted and swung her head toward the stall opening, warning Rachel of someone's approach. Sniffling back her tears, she wiped frantically at her wet cheeks and eyes and struggled to summon a modicum of composure.
"Mommy?" Alex appeared, moving slowly down the wide aisle between the box stalls, cautiously looking to the right and left. "Are you here?"
She wanted to pretend she couldn't hear him, to slink into the far corner of the stall and hide from him—from everyone. But she knew she couldn't do that.
"Yes, Alex. What is it?" she demanded, her voice tight and choked from her recent cry.
At first he didn't know which stall her voice had come from, then he saw her. "There you are." He trotted eagerly to the webbed gate, trying to hide the sheet of paper in his hand behind his back. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
"If it's time for lunch, tell Maria I'm not hungry," she retorted sharply, impatient to be rid of him and be alone again. It was too difficult trying to hide all the hurt and pain she felt. She remembered the terrible agony of all his questions during the flight home: Why did Sirocco die? Why did he break his neck? Why did Mommy race him? Why was Mommy crying? Why did she love Sirocco? Why, why, why. She couldn't bear the thought of going through that ordeal all over again. Lane should be here to answer his questions the way he had on the plane.
"It isn't lunchtime yet. At least, I don't think it is. I brought you something." Stretching, he reached over the webbing, all smiles and eagerness, as he held out the paper he'd been hiding behind his back. "It's for you. I wanted to wrap it in pretty paper with a bow and everything, but Mrs. Weldon said we didn't have any."
Another present, Rachel thought bitterly. Why were they all trying to buy her? "I don't want it."
His smile faded abruptly. "But. . . Daddy thought—"
"Daddy was wrong! I don't want any presents! Not from you. Not from anyone. Do you understand?" She was too blinded by the angry tears that scalded her eyes to see the stricken look on his face. "Go. Go back to your daddy. I don't want you here!"
Whirling around, she sought the comfort of Simoon's warm body. Distantly, she heard the sound of his racing footsteps as Alex ran from the stall, the paper fluttering into the stall to land on the bedding of wood shavings.
She was alone with her horses again, and that was the way she wanted it. She didn't need anybody. And she spent the next hour trying to convince herself and them of that.
When she heard footsteps in the brick aisle approaching the stall again, she railed silently at the world for not leaving her alone. She saw Lane come into view, his leonine mane of silver hair distinctly identifying him as he glanced anxiously around.
"Alex?" he called.
Rachel nearly laughed out loud. She should have known he wasn't worried about her. He only cared about his son. She shrank back against the wall, trying to make herself small, hoping he wouldn't see her. But the movement seemed to draw his attention. He turned and looked directly at her.
"Rachel, have you seen Alex? Lunch is ready. But when Maria called him, he didn't answer."
"I don't know where he is," she replied flatly, her voice sounding as dull and dead as she felt inside.
Lane frowned and stepped closer to the stall. "But he must be around here somewhere. One of the grooms said he was positive he saw him come—What's that?" He stared at something on the stall floor. Reluctantly Rachel moved around to the other side of the mare to see what he meant. A paper crumpled in the center by a hoof, lay among the shavings. Rachel saw it, but she made no attempt to retrieve it as Lane unhooked the gate and entered the stall. "Isn't that the picture of Sirocco that Alex drew for you?"
I guess." She shrugged as he picked up the paper to look at it.
"Then he was here? He brought this to you?" He glanced at her questioningly, seeking confirmation.
"Yes." She stared at the paper Lane held, resenting all that it represented "I told him I didn't want it. I thought he took it with him."
"You what?" Lane glared at her in cold, disbelieving anger "How could you do that? He made this for you!"
"I don't care!" she hurled angrily. "Why should I? All my life people have given me presents, thinking that would make up for everything. Well, it doesn't! It never has."
"My God, Rachel, he's just a child. He wanted to do something that might make you feel better. Are you so wrapped up in your own self-pity that you can't see that we hurt because you hurt? This was more than a child's drawing. It was his way of letting you know he cared!"
Never in her life had Rachel ever seen Lane so angry. All his angry words hammered at her like blows to the head. For a second, she thought he was actually going to strike her. She shrank from him, cowering a little.
"I didn't know," she said faintly. "I thought—"
"You thought," he repeated harshly. "You thought only about yourself. I wonder if you ever think about anybody else." He left her standing there, still reeling from his angry condemnation.
As MacCrea drove past the massive white pillars that marked the entrance to River Bend, he glanced at the clock on the car's dashboard. He was five minutes late for his one-thirty meeting with Lane. As he sped up the wide driveway, he noticed two, no, three men, spread out in a line, walking through the pasture on his left. Initially it struck him as strange, then he dismissed it, deciding they were probably trying to catch
one of the horses.
When he pulled into the yard, he saw Rachel come riding in astride the dappled gray mare she frequently rode. The horse's neck was dark with sweat. MacCrea frowned, wondering what Rachel was doing out riding in the heat of the day like this. . . and those men in the pasture. . . something was wrong. Quickly, he turned away from the house and headed for the barn, arriving just as Rachel dismounted and handed the reins to one of the grooms.
As he climbed out of his car, MacCrea caught the last part of the question she asked the groom: ". . . seen anything?" The groom responded with a negative shake of his head and led the horse away.
"What's going on?"
Rachel turned with a small start, a frantic look on her face. "MacCrea. I didn't know that was you."
"Where's Lane?"
"He's out with the others, looking for Alex. He's disappeared. Nobody's seen him since before lunch. We've called and called but"—she paused, drawing in a deep shaky breath—"I'm worried that. . . something's happened to him. I'll never forgive myself if it has."
MacCrea started to tell her that he thought he might know where Alex was. After all, the boy didn't know Eden wasn't living at the neighboring farm anymore. But there was the chance he could be wrong. If he was, telling Rachel his suspicion would just stir up more trouble. It would be better to check it out himself.
"He'll turn up."
"I hope so," she replied fervently.
"If you see Lane, tell him I'll be back later."
"I will." She nodded.
But MacCrea doubted that she would remember, as he walked back to his car and climbed in.
Abbie carried the last box of their belongings out of the farmhouse and stowed it in the backseat of her car. Pausing, she wiped the beads of perspiration from her forehead and glanced at the rental van parked in front of the broodmare barn. Two of the grooms were systematically going through the barns and loading up all tools, tack, implements, and equipment they found. From the looks of it, they were almost done.
