Dark Garden

by Jennifer Fulton

  “He can be quirky, but he’s just messing with you,” Mason said as she saddled the Lipizzan. “Sedate walks aren’t his cup of tea.”

  “He wants a challenge?”

  “Exactly.” Mason looked up as if seeing her fully for the first time. “He’s a dressage horse. It’s in his blood.”

  Vienna glanced toward a large arena beyond the barns. She could imagine Mason putting him through his paces in full dressage turnout, that magical energy flowing between them. They were obviously bound by the perfect intuition that allowed horse and rider to work as one.

  “You seem to have a way with animals,” she said inadequately.

  “In general I find them a better class of company than people.”

  Disconcerted, Vienna tried again to reach out, not because of her agenda but because she yearned to close the strained distance between them. “Mason, there’s something I need to say.”

  “If it’s about yesterday, consider it said.” The tone was even, but a warning note vibrated at a lower frequency.

  Dúlcifal reacted immediately, turning his head to inspect Mason, ears flicking back and forth in a semaphore of concern. She stroked his neck and he seemed to become more beautiful with each caress, his eyes soft with love. The tenderness was mutual and none of it spilled over to Vienna. Mason’s touch was nothing more than an impersonal courtesy when she helped her onto Dúlcifal’s back, but her sexual energy was hard to ignore. In her presence, Vienna couldn’t trust her body. Every cell reacted. Tiny explosions went off as Mason checked the girth and adjusted the stirrups.

  “Relax,” Mason said and imparted the helpful information that the Lipizzan liked to get airborne if he saw a swan wandering across the lawn toward him. Opening the gate, she instructed, “Head for the lake and I’ll join you shortly.”

  Mason followed the fluid motion of Dúlcifal’s hindquarters as horse and rider departed. He was a muscular horse, long of shoulder and taller than most of his breed at over sixteen hands, but proportionately ideal. His bearing was that of a war horse, proud and gallant, his neck wide and finely arched and his stance powerful. He had eyes so dark and expressive, only a person dull of soul could not be lost in them and wonder what he was thinking. His temperament seemed to match her own. They were both strong-willed and loyal, but where Mason could be rapid in her emotional reactions, the stallion was slower to anger. Still, like her, he felt things deeply.

  Mason hadn’t planned to own a Lipizzan. The Cavenders had bred Andalusians since World War One, after a family member brought the first of their black stallions back from Spain, a gift from King Alfonso. With him came a gray mare, and over time, they had added several more mares and successfully bred other black colts, a rare color among Andalusians. The horses were registered in Spain, since there was no registry in the U.S. until the 1970s, after the breed become better known. Even now Andalusians were far from common and the black color was so rare that Mason had acquired Dúlcifal and two Lipizzan mares in exchange for one Shamal’s colts.

  She wished she could expand her breeding operation and work with her horses full time, but she lacked the capital, and dealing with the ailing Cavender Corporation had consumed most of her energy for the past two years. It would be a relief when she’d finally off-loaded most of the company’s assets and could think about what she really wanted to do with her life. For that reason alone, she was tempted by Vienna’s offer. If she could clear the debts and repay the money owing to the pension fund, Mason wouldn’t care if she was left with nothing. So long as she had Laudes Absalom and her horses, she could make a living as an owner and trainer. Animal Planet had invited her to propose a TV series about her supposed training “secrets.” Lynden had loved the idea. They’d planned that after they were back on their feet financially, she would follow up on that opportunity.

  Mason let herself daydream as she saddled Shamal and set off after Vienna. Maybe she could make a DVD and sell it to horse owners. She wouldn’t get rich, but she would be doing something she believed in, teaching gentle schooling methods for dressage and eventing.

  “Nice serpentine,” she said as she came alongside Dúlcifal.

  Vienna glanced at her sideways. “It was entirely deliberate, a real art form.”

  Her deadpan humor made Mason laugh. Apparently she knew she had too much tension on the inside rein. As a consequence, Dúlcifal was veering this way and that, following every cue with the patient forbearance of a horse feigning obedience for the sake of appearances.

  “You’re just limbering him up,” Mason said generously.

  “Oh, please. I’m sadly overhorsed and he knows it.”

  “You’re welcome to take him out again,” Mason offered. “If I’m not here, just ask Mr. Pettibone and he’ll have one of the grooms take care of you.”

  “Thank you,” Vienna said stiffly. “I didn’t realize you had so many horses.”

  “Fourteen.” Mason had increased numbers since her father died, trying to arrest the total decline of the operation. Henry had preferred dogs. “There were nearly thirty each breeding season back in my grandfather’s time, but we were involved in horse racing then.”

  “You don’t breed for the track anymore.” Vienna sounded pleased.

  “No. I get asked to train a few Thoroughbreds, but I’ll only do that for owners I like.” Attempting to hold up her end of their bland conversation, she changed to another neutral topic. “I guess you don’t get much time at Penwraithe these days,”

  “I’m there every month.” Vienna sounded mildly defensive, perhaps bothered that her comings and goings were noticed. No doubt she thought Mason was spying on her.

  “I usually hack past the house every morning,” Mason explained, trying to place her observation in context. “That’s how I know whether you’re home or not. It’s a pity about…how things are, or I’d come by and invite you to ride with me. Those horses of yours could do with the work.”

  Predictably, Vienna was a little stung. “That’s why I hire a groom.”

  Mason nodded and didn’t say a word. She hung out frequently at the Penwraithe barn, talking horsemanship with Rick and helping him out with problems.

  “Are you telling me Rick isn’t doing his job?”

  “Not at all. He loves those mares to death. But let’s face it. There are four of them and only one of him.”

  “How do you know so much about my horses?”

  “I help out when there’s a problem. I delivered one of your foals last year.”

  “No one tells me anything,” Vienna muttered.

  “On that subject, I guess you wouldn’t know if anyone on your staff owns a Saluki.” Mason realized the question probably sounded pretty odd. In case Vienna had no idea what she was talking about, she explained, “That’s a dog.”

  Vienna nodded absently. “Yes…like the one in the statue.”

  It took Mason a few seconds to grasp what she was referring to—the statue of Estelle on the front steps at Laudes Absalom. She felt foolish to have forgotten it, and intrigued by Vienna’s recollection. She didn’t know what had happened to her great-great-grandmother’s Salukis after she drowned. Estelle was devoted to the breed. Salukis appeared in every portrait ever painted of her. Perhaps no one could bear to be reminded of her and the dogs had been given away. Estelle’s son, Thomas Blake Cavender, had started the Doberman tradition, importing a champion breeding pair from Germany in the early 1900s. Ralph was descended from those dogs and Mason planned to keep a puppy from the next litter he sired.

  Struck by the coincidence that one of the rare breed had wandered onto the property, she said, “I saw one in the grounds a couple of nights ago, that’s all. I wondered if it was lost.”

  Her thoughts shifted to yesterday. Had it made the same indelible impression on Vienna as it did on her? The possibility made her pulse accelerate so hard that Shamal reacted, briefly breaking his gait.

  Vienna shook her head. “It’s not one of ours. My mother has Yorkies and she doesn�
�t visit very often. The gardener adopted some kind of bulldog mix after his sheepdog died last year. But he’s the token dog, really. We have nine cats.”

  “Yes, of course.” The precious felines supposedly chased by Cavender dogs.

  Mason could remember Blake senior and her father ranting on the subject. They’d virtually come to blows after the old man wounded one of the Dobermans. It had to be put down. He was always climbing a ladder at the boundary fence, taking pot shots, and the dog had been wandering in the orchard between Laudes Absalom and Penwraithe, the strip of land at the center of a legal battle between the families. Henry thought nothing of thrashing his kids, Mason especially, but he adored his dogs and the incident had made him crazy. By way of revenge, he’d obtained several huge buckets of offal from a local butcher and spread the contents over the Blake’s front steps. He then shot out every decorative window along the front of the house while Mrs. Blake and the housekeeper looked on in horror. The police came to Laudes Absalom later that day and told him he would have to pay for the damage. When the bill arrived, he had the bank make the sum up in thousands of pennies. He transported these to Penwraithe in his car, throwing them from the windows as he swerved all over the Blake’s manicured lawns. Over the next month a team of workers had been there with magnets every day, trying to pick them all up. The Blakes were still finding coins years later, according to local gossip.

  Not long after the pennies vandalism, Blake senior returned to his anti-Doberman campaign and was firing across the fence one day when he fell off the ladder and broke something. He then caught pneumonia and died. Smote, Mason’s father said. In fact, he’d expressed that sentiment in the sympathy card he sent along with the vet’s bill for the euthanization.

  “I don’t know of anyone around here who owns a Saluki, but I’ll mention it to Bridget.” Vienna glanced nervously toward Shamal, who had drifted within biting range.

  Mason tugged down slightly on one rein, letting him know she was paying attention, and he tracked left, but not before tossing his head and flashing his teeth at his perceived rival. Dúlcifal ignored the unsubtle alpha display. Mason had trained the two stallions to coexist with good manners. They could even feed together without incident. When she bought the Lipizzan home, she hadn’t expected them to become such good friends, but Dúlcifal tolerated Shamal’s bouts of intimidation, and his optimistic nature seemed to boost Shamal when he got into one of his moody spells.

  “He seems quite…compliant,” Vienna said, eyeing Shamal.

  “I bribe him.” Mason grinned.

  “So this is his best behavior?”

  “Absolutely, but as far as stallions go, he’s not mean, just high maintenance.”

  “You’ve built trust in him.”

  “He’s never been mishandled and I don’t isolate him. He gets his privacy, but he’s not treated as a pariah. Outside of the breeding season, I stable him with his mother and his favorite mares.” Mason added, “You rode his father once. When we were kids.”

  She half expected a blank stare or a dismissive shrug, but a sweet smile flitted across Vienna’s face. “Yes, I remember. Such a fast mover…so powerful…just breathtaking.” With an air of innocence, Vienna added, “The horse, too.”

  Mason fumbled with her reins like a beginner. “Very funny.”

  Vienna wasn’t just teasing, she was flirting. Her kissable mouth was slightly parted and her cheeks were infused with pink. She looked carefree in her jeans and sweater, her red hair coming loose from its careless ponytail, her eyes bright with daring.

  Did she know how desirable she was? Mason doubted it. Vienna’s sophistication was effortless, yet she seemed strangely unawakened. Mason decided she probably only had sex between clean, white sheets with a partner she could control. No doubt she’d already reinvented their encounter the day before as an aberration, sex foisted on her by a woman who led innocents astray.

  “This is nice,” Vienna said.

  Holding Mason’s gaze, she smiled, not the calculating, sharp-edged smile Mason was used to, but something more honest and spontaneous that pierced her defenses and made her stomach roll. Unable to look away, she smiled back. She wasn’t capable of an intelligent comment.

  A tiny frown settled on Vienna’s brow and she blinked as if she’d just awakened from a long dream. Emotion clouded her eyes before she could shutter them. “I can see why you love it here.”

  Mason searched for an agenda in the quietly spoken words but could only see that beautiful child from her past, now grown-up and riding at her side. She had a crazy urge to reach across and take Vienna’s hand. Halt and dismount. Walk her to the temple and stand on the steps, looking out over the lake and the house, then lay Laudes Absalom at her feet as a gift.

  Shocked, she turned her gaze straight ahead and summoned to mind Vienna’s vow to kill all the livestock on the property. A hollow threat, surely. Vienna wasn’t made of the same stuff as her crazy dog-hating grandfather. Still, if the worst happened, Mason wasn’t going to take any chances. She would move every living soul off the property before Vienna set foot inside the gates. Give Laudes Absalom to her? Hell would freeze over first.

  She glanced sideways again and noticed Vienna had finally relaxed in the saddle. Dúlcifal detected the change and lifted his tail a notch. Mason loosened her reins and tapped her heels, moving into a sitting trot. Vienna followed suit, providing Dúlcifal with the cue he was transparently hoping for. At any moment she would surely transition to the passage, the piaffe, and finally the pesade, accompanied by the usual lavish praise. Admittedly, they weren’t in the dressage arena where he usually performed his ballet and there was always the possibility of those hated swans, but he had his head down and ears pricked regardless, his whole body poised in anticipation.

  “If you have any moves, now’s your chance,” Mason invited dryly. “He’s desperate to show off.”

  Laughing, Vienna said, “Trust me, the only airs above the ground you’re likely to see will be me flying over his head, and it won’t be pretty.”

  Mason took the lead as they reached the pine forest, skirting the edge of the lake. The buckshot snap of twigs corrupted the quiet air and the soft thud of hooves made the dry leaves vibrate. They followed a serpentine up the slope toward the fork at the farthest boundary. There, on the hill, the trail divided, skirting Penwraithe on one side and Laudes Absalom on the other. Mason dismounted in the clearing, looped Shamal’s reins over a shrub, and looked back down toward the lake. A fine mist clung to the surface and swirled around the pines and the temple. The dome glowed whitely, and with its edges shimmering in the morning sun the temple looked like a mirage resting on the water.

  “It’s beautiful.” Vienna tied Dúlcifal to a branch several feet away.

  “My brother and I had a tree house up here.” Mason pointed to a few rotting planks in a huge pine. “We could see everything.”

  Vienna stared out toward Penwraithe. “You watched us, too?”

  “I watched you.”

  “It’s strange. Sometimes I felt that.” Vienna paused, lowering her gaze. “For a while, I tried to send signals.”

  “The dolls?” Mason queried.

  “You knew?”

  Vienna looked up again with startled delight. Her eyes were not the glassy emerald sometimes seen with her coloring, but a drown-in-me deep chrysoprase as dark as a winter sea. A shadow floated beneath the surface of her stare, as though cast by some inner cloud. Mason had always been intrigued by that dreamy stare, even as a child. The first time she’d looked into Vienna’s eyes, from the back of her horse, she’d wanted never to look away. She felt just as powerless now, twenty-five years later.

  “Did you ever notice the flags I tied in these trees?” Mason asked. “I was signaling you back.”

  “I didn’t realize. I thought it was a game you and Lynden played. I used to wish I could sneak away and play, too.”

  “You should have.”

  “I wasn’t brave like you.”
<
br />   Mason shook her head. “You were brave. I know you came over here when you weren’t meant to. Mrs. Danville told me.”

  “Why wouldn’t you see me? I knew you were at home.” Vienna touched Mason’s hand. “Was it because of your father?”

  “Our fathers were both…”

  “Irrational,” Vienna completed softly. Her hand remained in Mason’s.

  Lifting it, Mason held it to her cheek. The fingers were cool and smooth. Vienna didn’t withdraw from her clasp. Mason pressed her lips into the soft palm. “I was afraid for you. See…not so brave after all.”

  “My father would never have raised a hand to me,” Vienna said.

  “I know.”

  Comprehension brightened Vienna’s stare. “Ah…you mean your father.” Her fingers drifted over Mason’s cheek in a tender caress. “I was frightened for you, too.”

  She moved in, letting Mason’s arms close around her as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And it seemed that time stopped and spread out like a blank scroll on which the future was not yet written. Mason could almost believe they were free of the past, if only they chose to be. That they could stake a claim on a different tomorrow, starting right here on the boundary that divided their land, their lives, their destiny. Vienna felt so warm and contented in her arms, she couldn’t let this moment pass without trying.

  Crushing her close, and with a desperation she couldn’t hide, she whispered, “Can we stop fighting?”

  For the longest time Vienna didn’t speak. Her breath fanned Mason’s cheek and Mason could sense she was struggling with something. A film of sweat broke, making her shirt cling to her. Mason felt her own, damply glued to her back. Gentle fingertips traced her hairline, followed by the soft brush of lips on her cheeks. The corner of her mouth. Vienna’s tongue teased her lips open. Silken heat invaded her mouth. Their kiss was slow and hot and slippery. Throbbing, aching, she could feel Vienna’s breasts brushing hers, her heart pounding against the flesh and bone that confined her own.