“Yes. I’ll fax my resume to you later today, if you’d like. I was driving in from San Antonio and decided to stop by. I’d seen your ad. Several days ago already.” He fluttered the clipping. “I didn’t want to wait too long.” His sincerity bordered on intense. Somehow not the tone she expected from an applicant. “I’m interested in your job, Ms. Rosales.”
“Why?” she asked, her tone as frank as his own.
He shrugged one shoulder, picked the hat up, and placed it idly on a jeans-clad thigh. “There aren’t a lot of jobs in the area that let you concentrate on breeding quality horses. Most ranches are cattle — or cattle and oil.” He paused, frowned a little. “I don’t want an indoor job.”
“Where had you been working?”
“Do you know Heaven’s Thunder Farms in Florida?”
“Ocala, right? Of course. Everyone does — well, everyone in horses, anyway,” Dell amended, thinking how few of her acquaintances would recognize the name. The racing stable had come out of the blue like the lightning bolt that graced their jockeys’ silks. At a time when the thoroughbred industry was depressed, especially in central Florida, Heaven’s Thunder Farms had sprung up and immediately become a force.
“I’m impressed,” Dell added truthfully. “Their horses took everything last year — the Derby, the Belmont — even the Breeder’s Cup Classic.” She tilted her head, studying him. “You couldn’t have been there long, though — they just got started what, four years ago? They were racing their own colts for the first time last year.”
“I was there when Dave and Griselda bought the farm, and I chose their broodmares. Love the place,” he said.
Dell leaned back a little in her chair, regarding him thoughtfully. He met her eyes evenly.
“You’re going to ask why I left, right?”
“I have to.”
“Yes.” He stood up, flipping the hat into the empty chair. Her question had agitated him, though she didn’t understand why. She watched through narrowed eyes as he walked back to the window and looked out for a minute or two before turning back.
“I had to,” he said. “I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” she asked, surprised this tough-looking man would admit fear so easily.
“Of doing something stupid.” He sighed, then came back across, reclaimed the hat, and sat down. “I fell for Griselda Cooper.” He looked down at the hat and brushed his fingers over the smooth, clean felt. Finally he looked back at her, his dark eyes grim. “Falling in love with the boss’s wife is stupid. Especially when the boss is a friend.”
Dell tapped a polished nail on the smooth surface of the desk. “Mr. Treviño, I’m sorry if I seem insensitive in an uncomfortable situation,” she said after a minute. “But I need references. Would that be a problem?”
“No.” He shook his head. “The Coopers will give me good references. My mother lives in Laredo. She’s been sick.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “They think that’s why I left.”
Dell pursed her lips thoughtfully. “So Mrs. Cooper didn’t know about your feelings? There were no problems?”
“No problems that had anything to do with my job,” he replied brusquely. “The rest is none of your business.”
“Actually, Mr. Treviño, what happened between you and Mrs. Cooper is my business.” Dell pulled open a desk drawer and dug out a folded newspaper. A group of teenaged girls sat on horses, and Dell stood next to one of them, a hand resting on the pinto’s neck. “I have some projects I’m trying to get off the ground. That’s why I need help. I intended to raise the horses alone, and when my last foreman just disappeared, I thought I’d hire another groom and run things alone. But I don’t have time to bring the breeding program back, because — well, I’m providing a temporary home for some troubled girls.” She tapped a finger again, this time on the photo. “I’ll be blunt, Mr. Treviño. I have to be careful about whom I hire. I’d actually prefer a woman for the position, but I need someone right away. The girls who stay here have problems — and I have to be sure that anyone I hire would be … safe.”
“Look, Ms. Rosales,” he said, his expression shuttered, “if you’re interested, I’ll send you my resume today. Check my references. Call me if you need me.” He stood, visibly irritated. “And don’t worry. I’m no threat to teenagers — or anyone else. Like I said, I recognize stupidity. Especially my own.”
Chapter Three
Dell glanced at the girl sitting next to her desk then down at the papers in front of her. “Well, Maribel,” she offered, “Welcome to Nueva Brisa.”
The girl ignored her, looked at her blue-enameled nails, and then methodically began to chip the polish off one of them.
Dell bit back her frown. The girl had chopped her hair off, and makeup that could have made her attractive coarsened her appearance. The girl’s skimpy tube top bared virtually everything, including a cobra tattoo that slithered across her bosom and onto her left arm, and she wondered which overtaxed social worker had let her walk out the door in that attire.
The girl continued to ignore her, and Dell counted silently to ten then stood and walked to the front of the desk. She leaned against the edge, hoping either her height or proximity might intimidate the girl, who stubbornly kept her head down, working on the nail with detached determination.
“Maribel, this isn’t getting us anywhere. The judge sent you here — ”
The girl’s head came up then, and she fixed Dell with a remorseless, dark stare. “Don’t give me no shit about sending me back to juvenile. Just do it.”
Dell smiled. “You’d like the center, wouldn’t you? No, Maribel, you didn’t let me finish. She thought I could help you.”
“Should have left me alone. I wasn’t hurtin’ no one.”
“Except yourself.” Dell fought the urge to tell the sixteen-year-old just how badly she was hurting herself. Lecturing wouldn’t work.
“You get paid a lot?” Maribel looked around the study, taking in the shelves of books, the richly upholstered furniture, and the Amado Peña prints on the paneled walls. “Guess if you send me back, you lose money, huh?”
Dell didn’t argue the girl’s mistaken ideas. There was no point in describing how or why she had become involved in this project, not yet. Not to Maribel.
“Bet it ain’t the place the judge thinks,” the teenager went on, apparently annoyed Dell hadn’t refuted her suspicions. She ran her eyes over Dell insultingly. “Think you’re hot, huh? Maybe this is just like where I was, no? Your vatos come over for a good time, too?” Maribel’s eyes glittered dangerously. “I don’t mind doin’ it for money — you know that. But I choose who I work for.”
Dell shook her head. “No, you don’t. You gave up your choices the first time you slept with someone just to prove you could. You’re just too young and stupid to see it.”
“You — you can’t call me stupid — ” Maribel sputtered, flustered. “Who the hell you think you are, talking to me like — like — ”
“Like someone who just called me a ho?” Dell suggested blandly. “Look, Maribel, insults aren’t going to get either of us anywhere. You made stupid choices. Change them if you’re smart enough.” She shrugged. “Up to you, either way. Let’s get you settled so you can do other things.”
“What other things?” Maribel asked suspiciously.
Dell grinned. “You’ll see,” she said, picturing the defiant girl mucking stalls. “Let’s show you your room.”
• • •
A few minutes later, blowing out her frustration in a couple of short puffs, Dell walked back down to the den, idly straightening a picture on the hall wall as she went before slumping into the chair behind her desk. What have I put my foot in? she asked herself. Selina, Amy, and Michelle were girls with temporary problems — too little parenting, mostly. She’d been there, but her path had been differe
nt than theirs — she’d had a father who loved her and money to pave her way. Those girls had so little, and when her high school friend, now family judge, Patricia Ovalle, asked for her help — she’d agreed without hesitation.
But Maribel. Dell’s lips twisted. The girl was a piece of work. She picked up the unfamiliar papers with their legalese. Being asked to keep a high-school dropout who’d been working the streets was new. The other girls were part of a pilot project to get them away from family discord, substance abuse, truancy — light stuff. But being asked to keep a street kid who’d been turning tricks — that was new. And scary, in a way, though Judge Ovalle assured her this placement would be brief. The detention center was overfilled, and arrangements were in the works to move the girl out of the county.
Still … she drummed a finger on the polished desktop. Did she want someone like that around Becky, even for a few days? As if she’d heard her name cross Dell’s mind, the toddler appeared in the door with Rosa right behind her.
“Go spend time with Dell,” Rosa ordered, bussing the little girl’s dark head before heading off down the hall.
“Hi, gorgeous!” Dell went across the room, picking the child up and hugging her. “How’s my princess?”
“Fi,” the child answered, squeezing Dell’s neck and kissing her wetly on the cheek before struggling to be put down.
Reluctantly Dell put her back on the carpet. The little girl needed to be active and explore — she’d lost months of stimulation to an environment of neglect, unloved by a mother addicted to drugs and alcohol. She rubbed her arms as the memory of the child she’d first seen made her shiver.
“You angel,” she murmured, but Becky plucked a magazine off a coffee table and trundled over to the loveseat, oblivious to anything Dell said. She made a half-hearted attempt to climb up before sliding down and turning a page. Careful not to disturb Becky, Dell pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and snapped a picture of the toddler “reading” the magazine. Someone should have memories of Becky later, she thought. And wondered, as she occasionally did, if there were pictures of a baby Adela anywhere. Real pictures, not the formal sittings at yearly intervals that graced her childhood room.
The desk phone shrilled, distracting her. She glanced around to be sure nothing dangerous was within the child’s reach and lifted the receiver.
“Nueva Brisa,” she said into the phone, a little breathlessly. “Dell Rosales speaking.”
“Oh, good!” a woman’s voice said pleasantly. “Griselda Cooper at Heaven’s Thunder Farms, Ms. Rosales. I’m returning your call — how can I help you today? We have some excellent two year olds — ”
Dell laughed. “Slow down, Mrs. Cooper! I’m not buying thoroughbreds — at least, not right now.”
“Sorry,” the voice said unrepentantly. Dell thought back to the races she’d watched last year, trying to remember what the woman had looked like there in the winner’s circle. A calm woman, Dell recalled, married to a man delightfully ignorant of how to behave around the Kentucky blue bloods when his Gladiator’s Rose became only the fourth filly in history to win the legendary Kentucky Derby. He managed to carry a bucket of some icy liquid to the winner’s circle and dumped it over his trainer’s head, football style. Gladiator’s Rose shied, ditching the blanket of roses and her jockey and knocking down a cameraman. Griselda Cooper had laughed, kissed her husband on the cheek, quieted the nervous filly.
“So, what can I do for you, then?” Griselda asked, calling her back to her purpose. Dell found herself unusually reluctant to broach a difficult subject.
“I’m calling about an employee of yours,” she admitted. “He applied for a job, and — ”
“Oh, Jovi!” Griselda said instantly. “Worked for us until his mother got sick. He chose our broodmares, you know. If you have horses, hire him!”
“Is he reliable? Were there ever any problems?”
“Dave and I really should have given him a letter of reference. Would you like us to fax you something? He’s absolutely trustworthy,” she assured Dell, as enthusiastically as she had tried to sell horses moments before.
Dell toyed with a pen, then picked it up and began an abstract doodle. “I have Western stock, primarily. A couple of thoroughbreds and some Arabians, but mostly quarter horses and Appaloosas. Could he manage the switch?”
“Absolutely,” the voice on the other end affirmed. “He’s knowledgeable already, and a fast learner to boot. Dedicated, too. Dave and I are Texas stock ourselves. Dave’s dad owned quarter horses, and he lived with us ’til his death. You know they talked shop.”
Dell hesitated, frowning. According to his ex-employer, the man had no faults. “Mrs. Cooper — ”
“Griselda,” the woman insisted cheerfully.
“Griselda, were there ever any personal problems with Jovi?” She hesitated, not sure how deeply she should delve.
“Personal problems? I’m not sure what you mean. Look, Jovi’s a hard worker, and he’s honest and reliable. Nobody’s better with horses.”
Clearly the other woman either didn’t know about or wouldn’t admit to the feelings Jovi claimed he’d developed for her. Dell thanked her and hung up, then walked over to sit on the floor with the toddler. Becky clutched the magazine to her tummy like a blanket, crooning to herself in a strange, low monotone. Another mark, her case worker explained, of growing up without normal communication with people who cared for her.
Dell sighed. She needed someone to take care of the horses. That had been her father’s one passion, raising and selling quality horses. Quarter horses, Appaloosas, Arabians — even the thoroughbreds he’d belittled as being too delicate for the south Texas climate. She’d tried to walk away, but horses must be in her blood … and Becky’s, she thought, smiling at the little girl who was now trying to tear a page out of the glossy journal.
She wouldn’t give up the horses, even if it meant hiring the first applicant for the vacant foreman’s position.
She stood up and hoisted Becky into her arms then paced around the room, reviewing her options. Jovi’s resume had been neat and concise. He’d worked in the military and for DEA. Griselda gave him glowing references, and Rosa disliked him. She nudged Becky’s head, blowing into the dark hair and letting the child’s giggle soothe her. She needed a foreman, and he was available. For the moment, she’d go with that. Decided, she walked over to dial his number.
Chapter Four
Jovi stood at the window in the office, looking out at the girls cantering around the nearby training ring. Selina, the tall, quiet one, was sitting easily on the leopard Appaloosa, laughing and looking happy. Michelle and Amy were riding with confidence, though neither seemed particularly outgoing or cheerful. But Dell told him they tended to be quiet and serious, still troubled by the problems that had brought them here. He’d been surprised the three girls were on the ranch on a judge’s informal agreement with their mothers and were participating in what amounted to a summer camp for troubled teens.
His mouth twisted as his gaze turned to Maribel. She sat rigidly on the big, gentle bay she rode, and unlike the others, her face was etched into hard, unfeeling lines, her mouth tightly compressed. He didn’t know her story, he realized; he’d barely seen Dell since he started, and she’d said nothing about this bitter young woman who showed up one afternoon using a vocabulary that made Pete, the elderly groom, shake his head and mutter “perdida” whenever he saw her.
Jovi grimaced. Pete was from a time of manners and respect, in spite of his job or circumstance. The man was probably right, too — he suspected Maribel truly was a lost cause. He squinted back in the direction of the ring, watching the players moving unknowingly across their stage. Not for the first time, he felt a small prick of guilt over being here to find evidence of Dell’s innocence — or guilt — in drug running.
Maribel’s horse was trailing the others, and he
frowned as she suddenly slashed the bay with her reins, making him lunge forward to overtake Amy and Michelle. She turned her head and said something, and he saw Michelle pull her horse in, ducking her head. Amy instantly reined her horse around, coming back and putting her hand on her friend’s arm in a comforting way. He bit back an expletive as he headed for the door, but saw Dell walking into the corral, holding up her hand for the girls to pull up their horses. He narrowed his eyes again, and his lips tightened involuntarily.
Dell didn’t look like a criminal, he thought again. She looked … gorgeous. She was tall, slender, and graceful, with lively dark eyes and dark, glossy hair that fell to her shoulders when she didn’t tie it up out of her way. He thought of the little he’d learned about her since he started working for her just a week ago. Not much. Apparently she hadn’t lied when she said that managing her other affairs didn’t leave her time for the horses, though he could tell she loved them — and the girls she was trying to help.
Would a drug smuggler help girls like these? Girls who might well have been referred here for problems with substance abuse? He sighed. That would be ugly, if the judge were unwittingly sending troubled youngsters right into something worse. Out in the ring, Dell had taken the horse away from Maribel. The girl shrugged her shoulders insolently and turned away from whatever she was being told. The other three girls were clustered together, seemingly finding comfort in each other.
The riding session was over; the girls loosened the girths on their sweaty horses and began walking them around the ring. Maribel took the bay’s reins back unwillingly and began to circle alongside the fence, lagging behind and aiming occasional kicks at the thick sand under her feet.
Dell turned and headed toward the barn, and he left the window and went to the desk, hurriedly pulling a sheaf of papers he’d been working on from a desk drawer and picking up his pen.
He was bent over his work, pretending to be engrossed with the papers, when Dell came through the open door. He looked up, and she greeted him with a slight smile and nod. He remembered the sketchy preliminary report he’d received on her had said they called her la inalcanzable. Unattainable. He wasn’t sure how she’d received the nickname, or how many used it, but it fit. There was a remoteness about her, a distance, as if she were holding herself away from something she didn’t want to touch. He realized he must have frowned when she shook her head and sank into the chair in front of the desk.
Unattainable Page 2
