by Janet Dailey
“No. His presence would not have prevented you from making some outrageous comment,” Raul said. “Sometimes I forget how aggressive American women can be.”
Trisha experienced a warm rush of satisfaction that he had finally called her a woman. “All women can be aggressive,” she declared. “I don’t think it has anything to do with nationality.”
“Some are bolder than others, then.” The long grooves on either side of his mouth were deepened by a small smile.
“Perhaps,” she conceded. “I told you we’d meet again.”
“Since your brother plays polo, it was likely our paths would cross.”
“But I didn’t expect to see you here—in England.” She turned thoughtfully curious.
“Why not? Britain is practically the home of polo. The British are the ones who exported the game throughout the hemispheres.”
“But you are Argentine. There is that matter of the little fuss over the Falklands,” she reminded him.
“Polo has nothing to do with national politics. I am not here to play for the honor of Argentine, but for the victory of my team—which happens to be British.”
“Will you be playing against Rob’s team?”
“It appears we may meet in the finals.” His attention again centered on the game in progress. It never strayed from it for long, Trisha had noticed. Those keen blue eyes always seemed to be assessing the play of horse and rider, seeking out weaknesses and strengths.
“Then I’ll have to cheer for both sides.”
“Your host will not be pleased by your decision. Sherbourne prefers undivided loyalties.”
“I would love to be accused of consorting with the enemy,” Trisha declared, deliberately being provocative, but the faint twitch of his lip didn’t reveal whether he was amused by her or the idea. “You’ll be coming to the party Saturday night, won’t you?” All the participating teams had been invited, as well as a horde of other guests.
“Yes.”
“Will you be bringing someone?” She felt tense when he met her look.
“The final match is scheduled for the following day. I will have to leave the party early to be rested. It would not be fair to ask a lady to accompany me, then expect her to leave the festivities when I must.”
Trisha released a long breath of relief. “No, it wouldn’t.”
“You are too transparent, Miss Thomas,” he said dryly.
Her head turned sharply toward him, his mocking criticism coming as a surprise. “Why?”
“When you show your feelings, people will invariably hurt them.” His level gaze contained a warning, but she was more intrigued by why he so consistently kept her at arm’s length.
“Have you been hurt?” Trisha wondered.
“Not in the way you mean.” He’d been poor and hungry and ridiculed. Those were feelings completely outside her experience, feelings she could never understand. The struggle for survival rarely allowed time for sensitive emotions. The bell rang to end the game, and Raul straightened away from the car. “You will want to go congratulate your brother on his team’s victory.”
Before he could take his leave, Trisha reached quickly for his hand. “Come with me. I want you to meet Rob.”
At the pressure of fingers, he glanced down at her soft hand, so golden pale against his darkly tanned skin. “Another time.” Briefly, he admired her persistence, but he knew that for all her pseudo-worldliness, she would still expect more from a relationship than he could—or would—give.
“Later at the pub then.” She observed the arch of his eyebrow. “Sooner or later you’re going to learn that a Kincaid doesn’t take no for an answer.”
“I thought you once told me you were more Thomas than Kincaid.”
She was encouraged by his recall of a past statement. “I’m not sure what I am anymore.” Mostly because she didn’t know what a Thomas stood for—certainly not constancy. Her father had changed too much from the man she’d thought he was. “I heard James Armstrong say he’d see you at the pub. That should be a neutral ground to meet my brother even if you do end up opposing each other again. Which pub is it?”
“The Cygnet.”
“Then we’ll see you there later, too.” Trisha elected to quit while she had an affirmative response from him.
As Luz approached the picket line, grooms were walking down tired and sweaty horses. Among the dismounted riders, there was a lot of backslapping going on, and hearty voices filling the air. Rob’s face was wreathed in a smile of exhilaration. He was an emotional player, and this time he’d won.
“Congratulations, Rob.”
“It’s the Argentine horses Henry bought. They are the best ponies I’ve ever ridden.” He shook his head in a marveling gesture as he glanced at a sweat-slick bay being led away by a groom. “I thought the gray couldn’t be beaten in his prime, but these mounts … someday I hope I can have a couple of them on my string.”
“Maybe we’ll look into the possibility.”
“Do you mean it, Luz?”
“A player is only as good as his ponies.” Luz didn’t feel she was indulging him in a whim. Rob had already proved to her that he was serious about the sport. As in any other sport, he needed the proper equipment and coaching. She had discussed the latter on several occasions with Henry Sherboume, getting his recommendations on possible mentors. But this wasn’t the time to tell Rob of her future intentions. After the tournament, she would talk to him about them.
“Good game, Rob.” Trisha joined them.
Her congratulations didn’t make much of an impression. “Can we start looking as soon as we get home?”
“Looking for what?” Trisha asked.
“Rob needs to improve his polo string. He’s so impressed with these Argentine horses of Henry’s that I suggested we might buy some.”
“I know who you should talk to, Rob.”
“Who?” He looked skeptical.
“Raul Buchanan. He and a bunch of other players are stopping at a local pub for a beer. I was going to ask if you wanted to go there with me.” She knew Rob was aware he was being used as a means of seeing Raul again.
“You don’t mind, do you, Luz?” Of late, Rob had become reluctant to be away from Luz for long, behaving as though he had to make up for Drew’s absence.
Maybe that was normal under the circumstances. And maybe Trisha resented Luz’s turning to Rob for comfort instead of her. She didn’t know. She simply didn’t think it was wise of her mother to let her life revolve around Rob so much. Maybe it was too soon, but she still felt Luz should go out on her own more.
“I don’t mind,” Luz insisted blandly. “Go enjoy yourselves.” But it was her expression—or lack of one—that made it seem like a sacrifice. Not for a minute did Trisha believe it was deliberate.
“You should start dating, Luz,” she said impulsively.
The snapping sharpness was suddenly there. “Which old fart would you suggest I pursue? Simon Thornton-White, who belches like a foghorn, or maybe old Mr. Tynsdale, who wheezes climbing two steps? In case you haven’t noticed, there is not exactly a surfeit of unmarried men my age. Although I suppose I could always take a young lover.”
“Luz, I—”
“You meant well, Trisha. I shouldn’t have …” The anger dissolved in a weary sigh. “It’s the sun. It’s given me a rotten headache. I think I prefer a quiet evening. And if I’m lucky”—her lips twisted in a wry, humorless smile—“Fiona won’t ask me to be the fourth at bridge tonight.”
“We don’t have to go to the pub,” Rob said.
“Maybe some of his string will be for sale. These Argentines are always selling their ponies. Henry would like it if you bought some of the opposition’s mounts before the big game. You two have a good time tonight. And don’t come early or I’ll think it’s my fault,” she declared and walked away before Rob could protest further.
“I guess we have our orders,” Trisha murmured as she watched her mother leave. The hat, the gloves, the f
lat-heeled shoes all created the proper image of sophistication and poise, yet something was missing.
“Have you noticed how frightened and lost she looks sometimes when she doesn’t know you’re watching her?” Rob observed grimly. “That’s what he’s done to her.”
“It must be like losing half of yourself,” Trisha guessed. “Do you think Dad will ever come back?” The possibility seemed so remote that her question was almost a childish wish, but Trisha longed for the even tenor of her former life.
“No, and good riddance to the bastard,” Rob muttered and caught at her arm. “Let’s go to your pub.”
The public house was on a narrow, winding street, cobble-stoned and old. Above the timbered door of the wood-and-stone building was the weathered sign depicting a young swan, the royal bird that inhabited the noble Thames. The popular meeting place was half filled with customers and there was a low but steady din of voices. Heavy old furniture and raftered ceilings and bulky wood trim, all darkened by age, combined to give a certain gloom to the ancient drinking establishment, an aura that wasn’t improved by the dusty-paned front windows and inadequate lighting.
Trisha scanned the room, searching the tables in the dark corners, skipping over the locals in their workclothes and worn business suits. A handful of men in riding clothes sat at a far table. “There they are.” She pointed them out to Rob, then led the way across the planked floor, dodging tables, chairs, and milling customers.
The air was pungent with the smell of ale and stout, spiced with pipe smoke. They approached the far corner where Raul was seated with his polo-playing friends. When he saw Trisha making her way to his table, he pushed his chair back and rose to meet them. He clasped her hand in greeting, and she felt a tingle of excitement at his firm, warm grip.
“My brother, Rob Thomas. Raul Buchanan.” As she watched the two shake hands, she noticed the stark differences between them.
Only an inch or so separated them in height, yet Rob looked smaller, more wiry and slim, while Raul had a filled-out completeness, his chest and shoulders flatly roped with muscle. Maturity and experience were stamped in Raul’s dark face, but her fair-skinned brother looked young and untried. Rob had been the older brother for so long that she had expected more equality between the two, but Rob was a boy next to a man.
“There is no room at this table. Shall we sit over here?” Raul suggested the adjacent empty table.
“That’s fine.” Trisha sat in the chair he pulled out for her, while Rob dragged out the wooden chair on the opposite side of the table.
The barmaid came by as Raul transferred his mug of ale from the other table and took the side chair, placing Rob on his left and Trisha on his right. “What’ll it be for you, luv?” The barmaid’s red-lipped smile was automatic, matching the boredom in her eyes.
“A Guinness,” Rob ordered. “How about something to eat? I’m starved. Do you have Cornish pastry?”
She nodded affirmatively, then glanced at Trisha. “And you, miss?”
“A bitter.” Which was the English name for the standard draft ale Raul was drinking. Before leaving, the barmaid looked at Raul, but he shook his head, declining to order. His glass mug was still half filled. “I think this may turn out to be an opportune meeting. Rob was just discussing the possibility of buying some Argentine ponies for his polo string. I thought you might be able to offer him some advice or recommendations if you didn’t have any horses for sale yourself.”
“I always have horses for sale, but much depends on matching the horse with the rider—and the price you are willing to pay.” Raul directed his response to Rob.
“That’s true, but a player is only! as good as the pony he rides,” he said, repeating the phrase Luz had used.
“The reverse is also true. A pony is only as good as the man who rides it.” Raul’s long brown fingers gripped the glass handle of the mug and lifted it in Rob’s direction. “I did notice today that your game has improved since we played.” He raised the glass to his mouth and took a drink.
“I plan to improve a lot more,” Rob asserted. “I’m taking a year at least to concentrate on polo. That’s why I want to get some better ponies.”
The barmaid returned to the table with their drinks as well as a plate holding a half-moon-shaped pie stuffed with meat, onions, and vegetables. Rob took pound notes from his pocket and laid the necessary amount on the table for the girl. While she made change, he took a bite of the savory regional specialty and washed it down with a swallow of the Irish stout.
“Who is your coach?” Raul asked as Trisha sipped at her dark ale. She didn’t mind being ignored in the conversation, since it gave her an opportunity to study Raul more closely without being observed.
On the surface, his face seemed to give away little. Yet there was a hard, relentless quality about the set of his jaw that she’d seen matched by his play on the field. And there was little softness about his mouth or the deep slashes that flanked it. Perhaps most revealing of all were his keen blue eyes with their trace of aloof arrogance. He was a dispassionate man, viewing life from atop his horse and untouched by it. Trisha smiled to herself, wondering if she wasn’t becoming fanciful because he seemed so indifferent to her pursuit of him.
“I don’t have one—at least, not at the moment. At the academy the team coach worked with me privately on my game, and I’ve taken classes at the polo club with various professionals.” Rob shrugged.
“If you mean to improve, you need someone to criticize your play and point out mistakes before they become bad habits, You should have your own coach to work with you every day, both on your form and in team play.”
Trisha brightened at his advice, the possibility occurring to her that something might be arranged whereby she could see Raul on a regular basis instead of these hit-and-miss meetings. “Do you give private instruction to young players?”
“I have in the past.” There was a knowing glint in his eyes when he met her look as if he was fully aware of the direction her thoughts had taken. “Now, I mainly give courses in advanced polo for the serious player at my rancho in Argentina. The minimum course is two weeks and the longest is three months. We work on form, technique, and tactics. All lodging, meals, and horses are furnished, so you need only bring your riding clothes. The course begins in the spring—our spring, which is, of course, your autumn,” he explained, switching his attention back to Rob. “You might consider enrolling. Either way, I recommend that you come to Argentina if you intend to purchase our ponies. There are several polo estancias that specialize in raising and training horses for the sport, including my own. It is our high-goal season as well, so you will have an opportunity to see polo played at its best.”
“You Argentines unquestionably have the best polo team in the world,” Rob conceded almost grudgingly. “Your record in defeating the Americans in the Cup of the Americas competition proves that. I probably could gain a lot from taking lessons from the best. And I’d have firsthand knowledge of the methods your gauchos use to train the horses.”
“The true gaucho vanished long ago, the same as your cowboy. Only the myth remains,” Raul stated dryly. “You are likely to find the gaucho of today driving a tractor.”
“Or riding a polo pony?” Trisha suggested.
A dark brow arched briefly. “The comparison could be made, I suppose.” Raul leaned back in his chair, an arm sprawling over its back while he absently stroked the mug handle. “The gaucho of old had little regard for life and limb. His only need was a horse to ride, and he usually had a string of thirty so he could travel far and fast. Danger was his companion, and he loved her. It was said about the gaucho that his wants were few and basic. His bed was his saddle. And he ate with a knife, because a fork would mean a plate and a plate would require a table, and a table would mean a dwelling with a roof and walls.”
“Much of the same could be said about a professional polo player.” Trisha was intrigued by the analogy she saw. It made her wonder how much of his attitu
de was inbred, a throwback to the past.
“I remember Jake’s saying that poverty was the only cure for polo,” Rob recalled with a half-smile quirking his mouth. “And that didn’t always work.”
“It gets in the blood and leaves little room for anything else,” Raul agreed.
“That isn’t very encouraging,” Trisha protested.
“It wasn’t meant to be,” Raul informed her.
Her tongue had an acid taste, and she let it taint her mood. “Since you’re never in any one place too long, what’s your next stop after England?”
“I leave next week for France.”
“What a coincidence! We seem to be on the same itinerary. We’ll be in Paris next week as well.” Trisha was amazed by her luck.
“I’ll be in France, not Paris,” Raul corrected pointedly. “Staying in the country at the chateau of a friend … playing polo.”
“But surely there’s a way we can get in touch with you while we’re there,” she reasoned.
“For what purpose?”
She glanced at her brother as he lowered his glass and wiped Guinness from his upper lip. “If Rob is interested in any of your horses or wants to attend your polo school, he’ll need to contact you somehow.”
“Here.” Raul took a business card from inside his pocket and handed it to Rob. “My address in Argentina. Hector Guerrero will supply any information or make any arrangements you might need. And he knows where I can be reached, if necessary.” He signaled the barmaid for another round of drinks.
“I’ve heard about these polo colleges in Argentina.” Rob studied the printing on the card. “But it’s game experience I need.”
“That is a slow way to learn, because you cannot control what the other side does and no two plays are ever alike. In practice games, we can recreate a sequence of events to show how and where you got out of position and teach you to anticipate the actions of your teammates as well as the opposing players. Polo is more than just skill with a mallet and a horse. It’s knowing where every rider on the field is at a given moment and where he is likely to go next. I am certain your previous coaches have explained this.”
