by Laura Moore
“So what do you need done today, Ned?”
“How about taking Turner down to the ring? Miss Margot and Andy are riding Saxon and Mistral.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “They’ll be just about starting their workouts.”
“Okay,” she replied, nodding. They’d been teaching Turner, another of their yearlings, to stand quietly in the center of the outdoor ring while the other horses circled him at a trot and canter. This was a fundamental lesson for a herd animal, whose natural instinct was to join the group, and essential for a horse destined for the show ring or the hunt course. “Should I take him down to the pasture afterward?”
“Yeah. We’ll probably be done with Solstice by then. They can play outside together.”
“What are you doing with him today?”
“He’s going to get a mid-morning snack on a plastic tarp,” Tito said.
“Sounds like fun.”
Ned moved the cloth he’d been rubbing over Solstice’s back to his neck and shoulders. “If you have time before you pick up the children, I’d appreciate your giving Sava a workout. You could take her for a trail ride, get out and enjoy the spring sunshine.”
Sava was one of their broodmares. She’d come into heat last week and had been covered twice by Nocturne. To keep her in condition throughout her pregnancy, she would be ridden several days a week on the flat. “I’d love to ride outdoors today.”
Ned nodded pleased. “Thought so. I heard you met the new owner of Hawk Hill.”
“Uh, yes, I did.”
“Travis said you were sure he’d let us continue to ride on the property. Next time you meet him, you might want to let him know we had an understanding with the Barrons. Hey, maybe you could ride over there today, see if there’s any sign of life. You don’t happen to have any idea if he’s a rider himself?” he ended hopefully.
“I wouldn’t know, but I doubt it.” And after learning how conniving Owen Gage could be, she’d rather walk over hot coals than set eyes on him again. “In any case, I think I’ll take Sava out toward the Gilchrists’. I haven’t been there in months.” Deciding it would be better to end the conversation now than answer any more of Ned’s questions about Owen Gage, she said, “I should get Turner down to the ring. Have fun with Solstice, gentlemen.”
JORDAN THREADED the lead shank through Turner’s leather halter before leading the colt out of his stall and down the barn’s spacious aisle. The stalls had been mucked and the aisle’s concrete floor swept clean of debris, everything as neat and orderly as when her father was alive. As she walked the bay colt down the wide aisle, Jordan wondered what he would think if he could see Rosewood now, his three daughters running the horse farm that, in his day, had been an exclusively all-male domain. Would he be pleased that they’d taken on responsibility for the business that had been in their family for generations and were even making a success of it?
Their father had been such a frustrating mix of arrogance and inflexibility, viewing the world solely on his terms, understanding very little about his daughters. His rigid conservatism had been especially hard for Margot, who, though craving his approval, rivaled him for stubbornness. Time and again they’d clashed as he tried to mold her to fit his notion of what she should be and do, she resisting his every attempt.
Sadly, predictably, the inevitable showdown came. Ironically, the battle began because Margot wanted to work at Rosewood with him, learning to train and breed their hunters and jumpers. He refused to consider the possibility, insisting she go to college. Doubtless he expected Margot to follow the path Jordan had just taken: college graduation and, a short month later, a lovely antique lace wedding. Had her father been remotely in tune with Margot, he would have known that she was already in love with Travis, at the time Rosewood Farm’s trainer, and an excellent horseman, though not exactly the husband RJ Radcliffe would pick for one of his daughters. The showdown culminated with Margot threatening to run away to New York and—horror of horrors—take up modeling rather than being packed off to college.
His response had been that of an enraged king bent on subjugation. He swore that if she left to pursue her harebrained scheme, she’d never be welcomed back at Rosewood. It wasn’t until eight years later, when their father was lying near death in a hospital’s critical care unit, that Margot saw him again. He had just a few brief minutes to gaze upon his adult daughter before his badly damaged heart failed.
It had been so much easier for her, Jordan reflected, to satisfy her father’s expectations. She often wondered whether, as the eldest child, she’d internalized cues from her parents, noting how her father adored her mother and thus adopting her gentle ways. But perhaps she was simply more like Mama, her desire to please others an inherited trait, just as Margot and Jade’s steely determination and even their devil-may-care attitudes pointed straight to their father. The question couldn’t but fascinate Jordan as a mother, as co-owner of a breeding farm.
Whatever the reason, she’d done her best to embody their father’s conception of what a proper Radcliffe woman should be. She’d always been domestically inclined, happy baking cakes and tarts with Ellie to surprise Mama with a treat when she was weak from the medications the doctors prescribed to fight the cancer. Unlike Margot, she never complained when the rain drove down in silvery sheets, making it impossible to ride outside. Those were sweet, quiet days when she could curl up next to Mama on her bed, sewing clothes for her dolls, asking her what colors she should choose for the rooms in her dollhouse, listening to her tell stories about Rosewood.
Her mother had loved the old house and knew the history of the Radcliffe family probably even better than Dad, though he could recite the lineage of each of Rosewood Farm’s foals back to the first stud Francis Radcliffe brought to Virginia from England.
After Mama died, it seemed more important than ever to please her father by emulating her. So on that bright September morning of her senior year in college, when Richard showed up at her dorm with a box of fresh-from-the-oven pecan rolls with their tantalizing scent of cinnamon, brown sugar, and butter, and the news that James Saller, a senior partner at the lobbying firm of Hudson & White, had offered him a position as an associate, she’d felt a gush of pride that her handsome, clever boyfriend was going to make his mark on the world of business and politics. Pride blossomed into stunned elation when he pulled a square burgundy velvet box from his jacket pocket and set it on top of the bakery carton. “The salary’s good, too, babe. How about we call the folks after we eat these so they can start making wedding plans?” With that lopsided grin of his, which never failed to turn her insides to mush, Richard whispered huskily, “Say you’ll marry me, Jordan, or these sticky buns will go cold while I do my very best convincing.”
It had never occurred to her to suggest that they should perhaps wait to be sure of each other—or of themselves and their dreams—that perhaps they should grow up a little before taking such a big step. She was in love. And after all, her mother had married young; she’d been loved and cherished.
As Jordan cried with joy, kissing Richard over and over again while he fed her bites of sweet, buttery bun, she knew she could make a beautiful home with Richard, too, one that would be filled with love.
And like her mother, she’d been happy, blessedly so, married to the man of her heart, until the day came when she was no longer what Richard wanted. And nothing—not her love, not three wonderful children, not nine years of marriage—could keep him by her side.
The sight of the exercise ring’s wooden rails jarred her thoughts. Enough with the navel-gazing. She had work to do. It was a beautiful morning and she needed to concentrate on something besides herself and her failed marriage. She was darned lucky Turner was such an easygoing fellow. She’d walked the yearling down the gravel path without his causing a moment’s fuss.
“Whoa, Turner.” She brought the colt to a halt and lifted the latch but waited to open the gate until Andy had trotted past on Mistral. Margot, astride Saxon, a big dapple gray, sp
otted her and circled at the far end of the ring to give her plenty of time to lead Turner into the ring. Even though Turner was a mild-mannered colt, he still needed to have his learning situations carefully controlled so that nothing came at him too fast. Once a young horse was overexcited, its ability to learn effectively went right out the window. If the horse became rattled or spooked, it might then have negative associations with the experience, making the lesson wind up like the game of Chutes and Ladders, sending the youngster backward rather than forward in its development.
Jordan had already practiced opening and shutting the gate with Turner, and he was used to it from the daily trips to the pasture as well, so she met no resistance when she opened the gate wide enough to lead him through it, turned him in a half circle, and then brought him back slowly to the gate, again using her voice as an aid to halt him before she closed it.
The big difference between Turner’s experience in the pastures and in the riding ring was that in the ring he was being taught to understand that he would be working with humans, and still under their control. As yearlings were deeply inquisitive creatures, Jordan took her time walking him, letting him see the other two horses and the wooden jumps positioned at various angles and distances in the center of the ring. Both Margot and Andy had slowed their mounts to a walk, and would resume trotting and cantering once Turner was comfortable with the goings-on.
The colt held his head high, pricking his ears forward as he gazed around, his gait over the raked sand quick and lively. Walking on his left side, careful to stay in his line of vision, Jordan kept her stride deliberate and the tension on the lead rope light.
“That’s a boy. Nothing new here. You’ve seen this all before. Soon you’re going to be like Saxon here, getting ready for the show season, making sure those flying changes are as smooth as silk. The judges are going to love you, you’re such a clever, handsome fella. It’ll be nothing but blue ribbons for you.” She prattled on, her voice as confident as her steady stride, letting her body language communicate to the young horse that there was nothing to fear. After another tour of the ring she angled their path toward the center and again brought him to a halt. Casually she delved into her pocket, brought out a dried carrot treat, and let him swipe it from her open palm as she patted his neck.
“All set?” Margot asked, as she and Saxon passed near them.
“Yeah, he’s doing great.” She stroked his neck just beneath his halter’s leather strap.
“He’s always good for you,” Andy remarked. “He’s not nearly as happy when Felix takes him out.”
“Jordan, hon, I saw Jade as she was leaving for school. I’m so sorry—”
She shrugged and continued scratching Turner’s neck. “Don’t be. It’s Nonie’s loss. I had some good ideas, but she obviously preferred Owen Gage’s. That’s the name of the game.”
“I am sick to death of Nonie and her spiteful ways. What is it with the women around here, behaving as if they’re still in junior high? I’d understand if she wanted to stab me in the back, but you didn’t have anything to do with getting Blair suspended. And now Jade’s upset, convinced she’s cost you your first job—”
Knowing Jade and Margot were blaming themselves made it all the worse. “Margot, this really doesn’t have anything to do with what happened between Jade and Blair at school—as I already told Jade. You two are far more upset about this than I am.”
“Because we love you.”
“Which I’d have to be dense not to know. But even so let’s keep a sense of proportion, okay? Nonie is not the only woman who has a house in need of redecorating in Warburg. I’ll get in touch with Marla Hamilton next week. Her youngest is going off to college in the fall, so I’m sure she’s got it in the back of her mind to do a major renovation project. And Marla would be fun to work with. So you see, all is not lost.”
“No thanks to Nonie,” Margot muttered.
“Again, this is not a big deal. I’ve got other things to focus on right now. Like this colt here. Ned won’t let me go near Turner again if I don’t do a good job with him.”
“As if you’d ever do a bad job with any of the youngsters or mares. They go all mellow when you handle them. You’re soothing.”
“Or so boring I put them to sleep.”
Andy, walking Mistral on the rail, shook his head. “Not so, Jordan. A bored horse isn’t a happy horse. Just look at Turner. He’s paying attention to everything that’s going on but he’s relaxed. A happy horse,” he added deliberately.
“Let’s see whether I can keep him this way while you guys are cantering. Oh, and did you know that Miriam’s a big fan of the band Airborne Toxic Event? They’re playing in D.C. next month. I think she mentioned that tickets go on sale this Saturday.”
He was such a sweet guy, trying to fight back the grin that spread over his face. Surrendering, he beamed. “Good to know. Thanks, Jordan. You’re all right.”
She smiled. “And don’t you forget it.”
Jordan hadn’t intended to ride Sava in this direction. It was doubtless because of the conversations she’d had with her sisters about Nonie Harrison and of being forced to extol Owen Gage’s skills and his firm’s excellence that she found it so difficult to get the dratted man out of her head or to squelch her curiosity about Hawk Hill.
She realized that it had been ages since she’d ridden out this way, what with her pregnancy with Olivia, and then with the turmoil of the divorce and settling into a new life at Rosewood. And from what she could see as she slowed Sava down to a walk and emerged from the wooded trail into the clearing around Hawk Hill’s open fields, it had been an equally long time since anyone had done the most basic maintenance on the Barrons’ old house.
Drawing the mare to a halt, she loosened her grip on the reins, letting Sava rub the side of her head against her foreleg. While the mare stood docilely, Jordan took in the sorry state of the Federal-style home. Its wood shutters hung askew, some torn off their hinges entirely, giving the façade a dilapidated look. The twin chimneys were in dire need of attention. From her perch on Sava, she could see daylight streaming through large chinks where the bricks were missing. That either chimney was still standing was a miracle, and Jordan had a sudden vision of Olivia’s red sneakered toe shooting out, connecting, and sending the remaining weathered bricks flying through the air as easily as one of her cardboard towers.
The roof was hardly in better shape, with shingles missing or warped, curled like the dried leaves that spilled out of the damaged gutters that, wrenched by winds and dislodged by ice, listed drunkenly. The elements had taken their toll on the paint and siding, too. Near the damaged gutters she saw ugly black patches, the discoloration a telltale sign of rot. Many of the clapboards were badly split or warped. They, too, would have to be replaced.
Nudging the mare forward with her boot heels, she said, “Come on, Sava, let’s take a closer peek at the old lady.”
She knew she was being fanciful to anthropomorphize the house, but she couldn’t help it, any more than talking to horses. Sava had listened to her thoughts these past twenty minutes, twitching her chestnut ears in silent, sisterly sympathy, and she seemed more than willing to listen to Jordan discuss the house as they approached it.
And the house did resemble an old lady’s careworn face, a sad and lonely old lady with no one to love her. Those shutters hanging crookedly looked like mascara streaked by tears. Jordan felt a shiver of sympathy course through her. If the interior was in as sorry shape as the outside, it was going to take a lot of money and even more hard work to restore the house to its former beauty. However much she resented Owen Gage right now, as someone who loved architecture she had to be grateful that he was making the effort.
As they approached the broad lawn ringing Hawk Hill, her eyes roamed over the façade’s details, taking in the double-hung windows with six-over-six muntins. The front of the house had an elliptical fanlight and sidelights bracketing the center door. On the second floor was a large Palla
dian window. Despite its neglected condition, it had a lovely symmetry, with graceful proportions. “Like Mama used to say about Rosewood, Sava, this house has really good bones.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. Hawk Hill’s going to take a lot of work, but I’m optimistic we can give the old house new life.”
Jordan started in surprise, her abrupt movement causing Sava to sidestep and toss her head.
She concentrated on her horse first, settling her weight more solidly in the saddle and gathering the braided reins that had slipped through her fingers. “Easy, Sava, atta girl,” she said, giving her horse a quick pat just below the neck strap of the martingale before acknowledging the man who’d approached them. “I didn’t notice you were here. There’s no car.” Oh, God, she couldn’t believe she’d been caught talking to her horse by him.
No, Owen thought, she’d been too busy studying the dilapidated house he’d bought. He had noted that about Jordan yesterday: how still and intense she got when she looked at something, focusing on it as if she were absorbing its essence. “I parked my car over by the barn,” he said by way of explanation. He hadn’t been especially visible, crouched behind one of the evergreen shrubs, inspecting one of the corner pilasters for rot. Hearing the snap of twigs and then the snort of an animal, he’d risen slowly so as not to startle the animal.
Even with her hunt cap strapped on, he’d recognized Jordan. It was something about her posture. Some part of his brain had already committed to memory the way she held herself. She possessed the same graceful posture in the saddle as she did standing. While he probably could have continued his scrutiny undetected for another few minutes, he’d stepped out from behind the bushes in order to look at the horse she was riding. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d also been happy to take a closer look at those long legs of hers, encased in rust-colored breeches and knee-high black riding boots. He’d be a fool to pass up such a fine sight.
