Pas de deux

by E. J. Noyes

  After a pause and some muffled sounds I got an answer in the affirmative.

  “Great. Can you please tell him I’m coming down to see him and not to run off before I get there?”

  “Will do.”

  Despite me asking Diana to tell Eric I was on my way, which I was sure she had, as I approached the hospital I spotted him wandering toward the building I’d just come from. I quickened my pace. “Eric!”

  He stopped on the concrete path. “Thought you weren’t coming.” After a beat he added a not-entirely-sincere, “Sorry.”

  “I called literally three minutes ago. The only way I could have gotten here faster was by teleportation.” Pointing at the intensive care area of the building I said, “This way. I just need to run over this critical care case with you.”

  “Can’t I just read your notes?”

  “You can read my notes and listen to me tell you about the case.”

  “Fine,” he sighed. “But I haven’t eaten in five hours and I’m about to go full Hulk. Seth had me run his early morning consults again, after my night on call, and my carefully planned pancake bonanza went flying out the window.”

  How unsurprising. Our boss, Seth Ranger, had reached the stage in his vetting career where the unfun aspects of the game no longer appealed. And being the boss, he could simply delegate. Which he did. Usually with little regard for his staff. I offered Eric the Mars Bar from my back pocket and he practically melted with gratitude. It was worth sacrificing part of my lunch to stall his hangry Hulk-out. “I’ll be quick,” I promised.

  The stall was set up for a mare and foal where the foal needed intensive care without the mare’s interference. The mare looked up and nickered softly. I rubbed her forehead and she responded by pushing against my hand for more pats. The foal was contained in a small padded pen within the stall, which meant the mare could smell and touch it, but not pull out any of the IV, oxygen, and feeding lines or move the padded trough keeping the foal propped up to help her breathing. “Here’s that premature septic foal of the Wilkerson’s. Diana and Andrew will help you take her out for some time in the sun, so please try to do it at least a few times.”

  He rolled his eyes. I knew he wasn’t the only one who thought I wasted far too much time and effort taking sick foals and their assorted paraphernalia out to lie in the sun. But it gave the mares sunshine and grass too, and I really think it helps the foals. After a moment, Eric gave me a head bob that I took to mean he’d think about it and try if he had time. He probably wouldn’t have time, especially not with the added work caused by my nine-day absence. “Isn’t this foal out of their Stakes-winning mare?”

  “Sure is.” Said Stakes-winning mare nickered again when her foal attempted to stretch its forelimbs out, which resulted in a head-wobbly thud back against the padded trough. I crouched and checked the lines snaking out of the filly’s jugular and both nostrils were still intact then checked her heart, lung, and gut sounds. Not great, but not terrible. I’d delivered the foal myself and then in a desperate effort to save her life, wrapped her in blankets and put her tiny body on the passenger side floor of my truck with the heat blasting while I broke the speed limit to get her back to the hospital. Thirty-five days premature and septic as hell. I wasn’t optimistic, but I wasn’t giving up.

  I stood. “The damned thing keeps trying to die on me. Money’s no object, this is a million-dollar filly. Or it will be, if I can get her to an age where they can sell it. The mare’s a dream, easy to milk, quiet to handle.” I punched his bicep. “So don’t kill her foal.”

  “I’ll do my best. Don’t kill any really expensive irreplaceable Olympic dressage horses.”

  “I’ll try not to. And please don’t forget to stop in and feed my fish. If anything here goes south you can call and I’ll get back to you when I can, but if it’s not urgent I’m on email.” Always working, even when I wasn’t working.

  When I arrived home at a quarter to ten I fed my fish, apologized to them for yet another late dinner, then showered the grime from my skin and hair. Feeling clean for the first time since I’d left for work that morning, I popped a frozen meal into the microwave while I indulged in a large glass of pinot noir.

  The nervousness I’d been trying to ignore about my new position on the US Dressage Team bubbled up again. A mouthful of wine helped shove it back down. Coming on board as the team veterinarian so close to the Summer Olympics was a huge boost for my career and ego, but also disruptive to the dressage squad who’d been working closely with an established veterinarian. I’d have to work extra hard to get up to speed and to a place where they trusted me.

  When the team vet, David West, had suffered a massive heart attack in France last week I’d been asked to step in. At such short notice, I’d assumed that the others they’d approached had been unavailable, which was just lucky for me. My qualifications were solid and I’d been involved with dressage over the years, being the lead veterinarian at various international-standard dressage events around the country.

  I needed to attend two qualifying competitions in the Netherlands at the start and end of June to get a feel for the nine horse-and-rider combinations on the shortlist as I had to assess soundness for final choice. Of course, my opinion was only one part of the selection process but my involvement could make or break a dream for someone. No pressure.

  It’d taken every ounce of charm I possessed to persuade Seth that not only would this give me skills that I’d be using for his practice, but also that it was a huge publicity boost for him. He’d rubbed his sagging jowls and I could almost see cogs turning as he worked out how it’d be most advantageous to him. After making me wait an eternity, he’d agreed. But not without a grumbling dig at the fact I’d be gone for almost three weeks total in the lead-up to the Olympics, as well as all of July so I could work with the team in their training camp before we moved on to Brazil in August.

  I’d packed the night before when I’d arrived home at a respectable eight p.m. so there was nothing to do now except more homework on the horses and riders. On my iPad I opened up the file that held the dossiers on my charges-to-be. Full health and training histories. As always when I looked at the files, one name stood out as if highlighted.

  Caitlyn Lloyd.

  I hadn’t spoken to her in twenty years but I had seen her ride in person at a number of events over the past three years when I’d been on staff. She rode much the same way she had when we were teenagers—calmly confident, elegant and with skill that was almost unreal. Breathtaking. I’d had to remind myself to watch the horse, study his movement and attitude, which were things, as I told myself, relevant to my profession.

  But I’d kept glancing back at Caitlyn, studying her expression, which was a mix of fierce concentration and calmness. From what I’d seen at a distance she looked much the same as she had all those years ago except she’d changed her hair from light brunette to honey-blond which made her brown eyes seem even more intense. Tall and slender with that long-legged grace so common among the dressage set, she was, in a word, hot. Really hot. The excited fluttering in my stomach was no longer from worrying about my new position but from thinking about Caitlyn.

  Soon I would see the object of my first crush. The person I’d admired so much as a teen. The person who—if the pictures I’d seen when Googling just for interest’s sake were correct—had certainly improved with age.

  I finished my wine. Caitlyn probably wouldn’t even remember me.

  Chapter Three

  Caitlyn

  In the middle of his field Dewey was enjoying a standing nap without his blankets. After the big competition in Florida almost two months ago, our intense training before leaving the States, the flight to Europe, the competition in France and then this week of training and scrutiny, I could tell he was tired.

  He’d even pretended to be asleep in his stall this morning, lying flat on his side with his eyes closed when Wren and I leaned over the half-door. The promise of a piece of licorice made him c
rack open an eye but he hadn’t moved until I’d rustled the bag. Then he’d rocketed to his feet like his butt was on fire. The guy had his priorities in order.

  Even Lotte had noticed Dewey seemed sluggish during our lesson that morning and been surprisingly lenient. I didn’t blame him. I was tired too and wanted nothing more than to skulk back to the cottage, shower and then nap until the end of the week. But I had a team meeting, a veterinarian to meet and then two of Lotte’s young horses to ride. My nap would be nothing more than wishful thinking.

  As I approached Dewey I took a few moments to gauge how he felt. I knew every part of him like I knew my own face, having watched him develop from an adorable foal to a hairy, gangly and frankly butt-ugly yearling and then into a huge, muscular Grand Prix dressage horse. I could tell exactly how he felt by the way he held himself and right now, despite his fatigue, he was relaxed and happy. If he was happy, I was happy. “Dew!”

  He raised his head, swung to face me, pricked his ears and nickered a greeting. I couldn’t recall a time when he hadn’t given me a vocal greeting, that throaty little sound I adored. I snapped a few photos. “Damn you’re handsome.”

  He trotted over to the fence to meet me and I offered him a piece of licorice. Then a second piece when he gave me his Is that really all you’re giving me? look. I was such a sucker and he knew it.

  I climbed through the wooden fence, careful to avoid the electrified wire attached to the inside of the rails. Dewey frisked me, realized I didn’t have anything more and dropped his nose to the grass. I leaned against his shoulder, scratching under his mane while he grazed. If there was a more relaxing place than being with Dew, I didn’t know it.

  Wren wandered over, eating an apple. She slipped through the fence and gave Dewey the core. “Hey. Mary’s assembling the troops for this meeting. I think we’re just waiting on a couple of the others.”

  Along with me and Dakota, seven other US riders based in Europe were on the shortlist. There was no doubt that living here would give me access to more high-level international competitions, international young-horse classes for my up-and-comers and a glut of coaches. If I hadn’t worked so hard to build up my barn in Kentucky, and if I could somehow find another five million dollars, give or take, then I might have considered shifting my operation to Europe too.

  I checked the time. “No problem. I should go. I heard Lotte mention she was making Bitterballen and Stroopwafels for the meeting and I do not want to miss them. Can you give Dew some Energy Boost with his lunch and dinner please?”

  Wren nodded. “Good plan. He only tried to eat my shirt once while I was grooming him after breakfast so I know he’s tired. I’ll bring him in for lunch and a massage blanket session while you’re in your meeting.”

  “Thanks. We might have to monitor him a bit more closely during these two competitions, check his energy levels. I think it’s just the intensity of these lessons on top of everything else that’s making him tired.” Poking Dew’s neck I added, “Or maybe you’re just an old man.”

  He raised his head and snorted, as if reminding me that twelve was nowhere near old for a horse and for a Grand Prix dressage horse he was just entering his prime, where he was old enough to have the training under his belt, err…girth, while still young enough that he could potentially have another six years or more at this highest level.

  Wren wiped horse snot off her shirt. “We’ll keep it all on track.” Her voice and expression turned soothing. “We’ve been here plenty of times, nothing to worry about.”

  No, nothing at all. Except everything.

  I mhmmed in way of response, hugged Dewey around the neck then left him in Wren’s capable hands so I could meet the veterinarian who would take care of Dewey for at least the next month, if not three. As I walked into the small staff room attached to Lotte’s indoor arena, I scrolled through the pictures I’d just taken and picked the photo where Dew didn’t have his eyes closed. It only took a few minutes to put it on Instagram and link to Twitter and Facebook.

  Midfields Adieu looking as handsome as ever - #ProHorse supplements and #EquinePower feeds keep him looking and performing his best! #TwoHearts #RoadToRio #LoveNetherlands

  The Two Hearts campaign had been started by the FEI—Fédération Equestre Internationale—the governing body of international equestrian sport, to raise awareness in the lead-up to Rio 2016, and was currently steamrolling its way around social media, mine included. Every time I added that and the Road To Rio hashtag to my social media posts I cringed but any interest that led to funding for the sport, which then trickled down to me, was a good thing. Without that funding from my sponsors and outside donors, it’d be almost impossible for me to compete on the international stage.

  Campaigning on the European dressage competition circuit was a necessity to make the team, and these few months ran easily to mid-six figures. Not to mention the cost of losing months of coaching and horse-training revenue. Every penny helped, even if it meant I spent more time than I felt comfortable with talking about myself, posting on social media, fundraising with raffles and auctioning off things like a lesson on Dewey. Two people had purchased those one-hour sessions for a combined total of almost ten grand, which made my discomfort worth it.

  Sometime this week I’d take some pictures of Dewey in his sponsor rugs and another in his custom-made saddle and bridle doing a workout. Hashtags galore. Emojis-a-plenty. Keeping everyone happy and sure they were getting bang for their buck took almost as much time as actually training and competing horses.

  Dakota glanced up as I slipped into the room, set up with two groups of chairs facing each other. It was just us there so far and typically she said nothing, aggressively typing on her phone. Probably OMG, Lloyd just arrived and is stinking up the place with her middle-classness. She was, as usual, immaculately presented, as if the only time she went near her horse was to get on, ride and dismount. In a sport where money was king, she went above and beyond. Even her socks were designer-label, pulled to mid-calf over her breeches then disappearing into designer loafers.

  I glanced down at my own socks which were a pale blue, orange, and white tartan of who-knows-what brand, and my worn and scuffed loafers. My glamour was reserved for inside the dressage arena. Just another way I sat on the fringe. High-level dressage was a big-big-money sport—if you couldn’t access talented horses, the best coaches, good gear, and everything in between you were at a disadvantage before you’d even put a leg over a horse. The unfortunate fact was that all the natural skill and drive to succeed meant nothing if you didn’t have the dollars.

  The only reason I’d come as far as I had was because of hard work and dedication, the goodwill of others who’d employed me as a teenager and those who’d believed in my abilities, supplying me with top-class horses. I’d also been blessed with an enormous chunk of luck thanks to my nana’s lottery tickets which, from my eighteenth birthday, she’d put in a card for me along with the message So you can build your own barn. Save me a seat at the Olympics. One year I’d won enough to set up my own dressage barn on eighty-four acres of prime Kentucky bluegrass, and build up my own team of horses to give my career a serious boost.

  I poured a cup of coffee and dropped some of Lotte’s amazing food onto a plate before settling on a seat at the end of the row. The seven other riders filtered in during the next few minutes. They were all nice enough, if not a little laconic, but we were more acquaintances than friends.

  Dakota eyed the others in much the same way she always looked at me. With disdain. She saw everyone as a rival. I’d never understood the attitude because my only rival was myself. If I rode the best I could, trained my horses to the highest standard then there was nothing more I could do. I thought it was also partly jealousy—I knew she would have loved to be part of the based-in-Europe crowd, but her husband refused to live anywhere but America. Which meant I saw far more of her than I cared to during the competition season back home.

  The door opened again and four people
conga-lined into the space. “Sorry to keep everyone waiting,” Mary said as she filled the room in her usual tornado-like fashion. Mid-fifties with steel-gray hair that I’d never seen out of a bun and a bearing that hinted at her former riding career, Mary exuded a mix of scary-as-shit and mother hen. Thankfully, I’d managed to keep myself on the mother-hen side of her.

  With Mary were Ian and Ken, the team farrier who’d take care of our horse’s hooves all the way through to Rio. Then there was a stranger who could only be our new veterinarian. She was about my age, dressed in heavy-duty work pants, boots, and a dark blue polo sporting the United States Dressage Federation logo. The group settled in facing us and the vet stared at me with a smile that showed a cute set of dimples, then averted her gaze when our eyes met.

  I did not avert my gaze, taking the opportunity to study her while she wasn’t looking my way. That smile had drawn my attention to her laughing, sensuous mouth and I had to force myself to stop staring at it. It’d been a while since I’d taken such an instant shine to someone, and the fact my libido was taking notice made me take notice. Her hair, pulled back in a ponytail, was a shade of deep rich brunette shot through with auburn and the color set off the bright brown of her eyes. I wanted her to look my way again so I could be sure they really were as unusual as they appeared. All cuteness aside, she had a sort of capability about her and not just physically. Her entire aura was that she was someone to trust—a good trait for a veterinarian.

  The more I checked her out, the more familiar she seemed, but she was nobody I could place. Out of the blue, something unpleasant nudged at the back of my consciousness, something that made me oddly anxious. The anxiety came into sharp, uncomfortable focus when Mary spoke, gesturing to the woman.

  “This is Doctor Addison Gardner, who is coming on board to replace Doctor West as our team veterinarian. Addison will be getting to know you and your horses in the coming weeks and will make sure all our equine athletes are in peak health come Rio. I know disruption this late in our preparation isn’t ideal, but since David’s health scare we’ve worked hard to find a competent and knowledgeable vet who will continue his excellent standards.”