Dark Horse

by J. Carson Black

  “But surely someone would have continued her training.”

  “Who? Dan’s got his hands full with the breeding operation.”

  “You think I shouldn’t run her?” Hadn’t he told her only yesterday that the filly had a chance to win the Ruidoso?

  “I’m not the one to make that decision.”

  It was all too much. She’d just paid a fortune for this racehorse, had no one to train her, and a pile of bills as high as the barn door. On top of that, here was her ex-husband, smirking about how she had to make some important decisions pretty damn fast! “Well, could you at least help me decide? Preferably before I send out the next payment?”

  “Hey, don’t bite my head off. If she was mine, I’d aim her for the Santa Cruz Futurity instead.”

  “The Santa Cruz Futurity. But you said . . .” Dakota was utterly confused now. If she stopped making payments on the Ruidoso, she’d lose all the money Coke had paid so far. “Why would you do that?”

  “She’d have a real good chance of winning it. You know how two-year-olds are at the beginning of the season. All over the track, bumping into each other and gawking at the crowd. But she’s got such raw talent that even if she doesn’t get a good trip, she’d probably make up for it. That wouldn’t happen at Ruidoso, with the best colts from all over the country running. When she’s more seasoned, I’d go to Ruidoso.”

  “The point’s moot, anyway, if I can’t find a trainer.”

  “You could start her out yourself, until you find someone.”

  Dakota stared at him, unable to believe what she’d just heard.

  “It’s easy enough to get a trainer’s license. You helped your dad train the Black Oak horses.”

  “Coke made all the major decisions.”

  “Coke said you’ve been training show jumpers in LA.”

  “As a hobby.” Training her stepfather’s show jumpers was a far cry from training a racehorse.

  “But if the money’s tight—”

  “It’s not that tight. Besides, I’m going home in another week.”

  “That soon?”

  “I have a life, Clay. It just doesn’t happen to be here.”

  “I suppose so. It’s been good seeing you, though. Better than I thought it would be. You’ve changed.”

  Part of her wanted to know what he meant by that, but she refused to play his game. “Thank you for the Clay Pearce seal of approval.”

  “Still sarcastic, I see. You always sniped when you felt threatened.”

  “I’m not threatened by you.”

  He shrugged.

  “Why would I be?” she added, and knew instantly she had made a serious mistake. The lady doth protest too much.

  “No reason, except for the fact we were once married, and we never did hammer out our differences.”

  “You really think you’re something, don’t you? Perhaps you should go on one of those daytime shows and talk about yourself, how irresistible you are to women. Get this straight, Pearce. Just because I fell for you once doesn’t mean that I haven’t learned a lot about men since then. We don’t have any differences anymore, because we aren’t even in the same universe!”

  To her surprise, he looked serious. “You never wonder if we gave up too soon? Not once in all these years? I have. There have been times, McAllister, when I’ve kicked myself for letting you go.”

  “You didn’t let me go, as I remember. You told me to go. Big difference.”

  “I told you to make a choice.”

  “My husband or my career? What kind of choice is that? You said I’ve changed. It’s a pity that you haven’t. Your knuckles are dragging on the ground, you’re such a Neanderthal. Does Rita get to have a career or is she confined to a hobby or two?”

  “I imagine Rita does what she pleases.”

  “I’m happy for her.”

  “You don’t sound like you are. And as far as Rita goes—”

  “Look, Clay.” Suddenly her head ached. “I’ve been through a rough couple of days. I just want to put my father’s affairs in order, find a trainer for Shameless, and go home. I don’t need any more complications, and I sure as hell don’t need a hard time from you. Surely you can understand that.”

  “You know I always got a kick out of hanging you out to dry, McAllister, but you’re right.” His mouth straightened into a line, and his eyes darkened. “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “Friends?”

  “Friends.” Again, bleakness swept over her. How could she be friends with this man?

  Speed bump.

  He fed a quarter into the candy-apple-red gum ball machine and a gum ball tumbled into his hand. He tossed it into the air and caught it. “Hope Spackman works out okay,” he said, walking toward the door.

  “Pearce.”

  “What?”

  “Thanks for looking out for me.”

  He saluted smartly. “Yo, General.” And then he was gone.

  Clay’s truck bumped along the road in the direction of the brick, ranch-style house on the hill. His ancestral home offered none of the nostalgic splendor of Black Oak. Built by his father, it was the second house erected on Pearce land. Plain and utilitarian, the modest dwelling was far more practical to keep up than the back lot hacienda of the McAllisters.

  McAllisters and Pearces had been friends close to one hundred years: ranchers who shared common backgrounds and attitudes. Marrying Dakota had been the most natural thing in the world for Clay.

  It was also natural for him to offer his help now that Coke was gone. But he had not expected to be attracted to her. He’d assumed those feelings had died a long time ago.

  So what was all that bull about how he regretted their breakup? Where the hell did that come from? He didn’t mean it. He didn’t even know her anymore, let alone love her.

  Dakota had every right to be angry. No wonder she called him egotistical. She must have thought he was flirting with her just for the hell of it, when in reality the words had just . . . slipped out.

  Clay passed the house, glancing at the far hill. Some trees and plants had been delivered for the wolf enclosure. It had been Rita’s idea, even though the run already had plenty of native oak and grassland. He thought the increased activity might do more harm to the reclusive animals than good, but somehow Rita had gotten permission from US Fish and Wildlife to put the plants at the far edges of the enclosure to enhance the wolves’ “natural habitat.”

  The truck phone rang. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours,” Rita said. “Did the plants get there?”

  “I’m looking at them.”

  “There was no trouble? I’ve been having a terrible time getting that nursery to do anything. I don’t even know if the grasses are the right kind.”

  “I’ll check on them later. I’m on my way to the barn.”

  “Maybe I should come by.”

  He rubbed his eyelids. “It wouldn’t be a good idea. I have to play catch-up with the horses.”

  “Oh, all right. I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

  When he paused, she muscled through. “You said you’d take a look at the horses. They came in today, and I want to know they traveled well. If you won’t train them for me, the least you could do is look them over. I sure don’t know anything. You chose them, after all.”

  “It’d be early. Before the track opens.”

  “How early?”

  “Six thirty.”

  “I’ll set my alarm.”

  “All right.”

  “You know, Clay, you could still go to the rally. I haven’t canceled the room yet.”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “If you change your mind, I’ll be leaving around four on Friday.”

  When he didn’t reply, she added, “You’d make a big difference, Clay, How many people actually have a mating pair of Mexican wolves?”

  “They’re not mine. You know that as well as I do.” The Mexican wolves didn’t belong to anybody. Clay h
ad only donated acreage to the government for the wolves’ temporary home, since a portion of the Bar 66 Ranch offered enough space for them to roam in their natural habitat. But freedom was only an illusion; the area was enclosed by a ten-foot-high chain link fence. Clay had come to call it “the compound.”

  “You could take more of an interest,” Rita said.

  “I thought the point was to leave them alone.”

  He was greeted by a long period of silence. When at last she spoke, her voice was brisk. “Well then. I’ll give you a call.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  Her goodbye was cool.

  Rita was used to getting what she wanted. He wondered if anyone had ever said no to her before.

  He’d noticed—too late—that Rita never did anything halfway. She threw herself into a cause, bringing to it all the considerable resources of a widow of a prominent Phoenix developer. Right now, she wanted to save the Mexican wolf from extinction.

  As Clay drove toward the stable, he avoided thinking about Rita and thought about the wolf instead. Although the Mexican wolf had ceased to be a threat well over thirty years ago, memories around here were long. There were things you just didn’t do, and harboring wolves was one of them. A lot of people viewed him as a turncoat.

  He didn’t completely understand why he was doing it himself. Such a cause should be an anathema to him. He had seen enough kills—by mountain lions, since there were no wolves left—to have a visceral hatred for any predator. He’d seen cows searching for their calves, their agonized cries excruciating, while their offspring lay nearby, torn to pieces.

  His instinct had always been to protect the young and weak. Three generations of ranchers had bred it into the bone. Every time he saw a calf or colt being born, every time he doctored an animal or reunited a baby with its mother, he was overwhelmed by a warm feeling of pride and a joy so deep it choked him. They were so helpless, so gentle, so trusting— and they depended on him to keep them safe. He was their shepherd.

  But wiping out a whole species sat wrong with him. His view was ruled by logic, not emotion. If a man started tossing out undesirable species right and left, the world would be a lousy place to live. If it survived at all.

  He shook his head. You’d think God-fearing Christians would understand that, but a lot of them couldn’t get beyond the man’s dominion over the earth crap. It didn’t take a genius to see every living thing had been put here for a reason, and if you fiddled around with it long enough, the whole thing would come down like a house of cards. There would be no calves, no colts. No people, for that matter. Which, judging from the current state of the world, might be a good thing.

  He parked beside the barn and checked on the horses. Although his racers had regular grooms. Clay liked to brush down each one himself every couple of days or so. It was important that he be familiar with them, know them physically and mentally. He checked their legs every day.

  Clay led his All American hopeful Dangerously out of his stall and cross-tied him in the aisle. “Let’s see what we’ve got,” he muttered to the chestnut colt, running his hand along the animal’s legs and squeezing gently. All the while he spoke in soft, calm tones. No heat, and the puffiness was just about gone.

  Training two-year-olds, who were technically still babies, was akin to weight training in humans. A young horse’s legs were never meant to carry his own weight at a full-out run; they had to be built up artificially, just like the muscles of a weight lifter. You stressed them slightly, then rested them, then stressed them again, until the blood supply to the feet increased and the joints, muscles, and ligaments became stronger. No pain, no gain.

  The irony wasn’t lost on him that the whole idea of racing two-year-olds was unnatural.

  Clay put the colt back in his stall and headed up to the house. His mind kept returning to his encounter with Dakota. He was glad he’d talked Rita out of buying the filly. Shameless was meant for Dakota. Dakota was still her father’s daughter, whether she knew it or not.

  The thing he had to keep in mind, though, was that she was no longer his wife.

  SIX

  Dakota spent the rest of the day looking at the books for the stud farm. She could tell Dan Bolin didn’t like it; twice he’d told her that Coke had always left that part of the business to him. It had worked that way for twenty years, so why change now?

  “Norm’s already looked at the books. He said they’re fine,” he’d protested.

  “You know as well as I do that the only money coming in right now, other than from the auction, is from the stud and boarding fees. I have to know where we stand before I can make any decisions about what to do with the ranch.”

  “I have my own system.”

  “I’ll put everything back the way it was, don’t worry.”

  Grudgingly, he left her alone in his brick office. She noticed him from time to time through the window, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, looking like a captain without a ship. He was a big, slow-talking redhead, whose freckles had long since run together into a mottled tan. Up until now Dan had always seemed easygoing. She wondered if he resented her interference because she was a woman. Just yesterday, when she’d asked about the incoming mares, he’d told her not to “worry her pretty head” about them, then pointedly asked her when she planned to return to LA.

  Come on, McAllister, she told herself sternly. You can’t take every little remark personally. “Pretty little head” was just an expression, probably one he’d learned at his father’s knee. No doubt it was just as he’d told her, that he had been in charge so long it was hard to give up control.

  Looking at the morass of ledgers, loose Post-it notes, and papers, Dakota realized just how Dan had managed to keep control. No one else would want to touch it. Dan’s “system” was a complete mystery to her, and the records she did manage to locate were hard to understand. One note attached to a loose veterinary bill said, “Ongoing problem. See file,” but she found no file under the horse’s name. What did he do, file by coat color? After a couple more “see file” notes, Dakota realized that none of the mares sold at the dispersal sale had a file. In fact, the filing cabinet drawer marked MARES — BLACK OAK was empty. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d thrown out the files after the mares were sold, although that was no way to run a business.

  Dakota made a mental note to ask him about them. For now, the only information she had on those mares was what had been written in the sale catalog. She supposed it wasn’t important. In fact, none of what she did this afternoon would make an ounce of difference one way or another. She was wasting her time. Trying to look busy, as if it mattered to anyone but herself. Dan sure didn’t want her help.

  Dakota sighed. She’d promised herself she would look at the books, and that was what she’d do. First, she had to find a way to organize this mess so she could begin to make sense of it.

  A great person for lists, Dakota found a legal pad and divided the stock into categories: the horses that had already gone to their new owners, the mares that would remain at Black Oak through the summer, and the outside mares booked to Something Wicked. There were over one hundred of these spread out over the next couple of months.

  She was relieved when Alice brought her a late lunch. As she ate her sandwich, Dakota glanced at the calendar. There were reminders penciled in for the April payments to keep Shameless in the running for both the Ruidoso and Rainbow Futurities. They totaled nine hundred dollars.

  Nine hundred dollars, and here was Clay wondering aloud if Shameless would even be ready for the Ruidoso Futurity. That was a lot of money to spend if you didn’t even think you had a chance in the first place.

  Dakota stood up, stretched, and rubbed the crick in her neck. Dan could have his ship back. She went along to say hello to Shameless, who was picking daintily at her hay net like a diet-conscious lady at a salad bar.

  “So if I fork over the nine hundred bucks,” Dakota asked her, “do you think you can win at least o
ne of those races?”

  Shameless lifted her queenly head and stared Dakota down, then with quiet deliberation swung her hindquarters around so that Dakota was treated to a view of her superbly muscled backside. Talk about a snub!

  “I’m sorry I doubted you. Really.”

  “You done in there?” Dan stood in the barn aisle and jerked his thumb at the office.

  “For now,”

  He turned away. Suddenly it occurred to her that Dan would know what shape Shameless was in. “Dan.”

  The stud manager paused, his features stamped with resignation.

  “It’s been three weeks since Coke died. What’s been going on with the filly? Has anyone continued her training?”

  He shrugged. “Coke did everything himself. I’ve been turning her out in the pasture during the day so she wouldn’t get barn sour.” He looked anxious to get away from her. “Anything else?”

  “No. Thank you.” Then she remembered the files. “Do you have the files on the Black Oak mares?”

  He shifted his stance, shoving hands into jean pockets. “Why?”

  Annoyed, Dakota said, “Because I’d like to see them.”

  His mouth set in a stubborn line. “The mares’re already sold. I don’t see why—”

  “I don’t care about that. I want to see them.” Did he have to make every issue a tug-of-war?

  ‘They’re at the house,” he mumbled. “I’ll have to look for them.”

  “Thank you.”

  She felt like an intruder in her own home. This wasn’t Dan’s ranch. Until someone bought Black Oak, it belonged to her.

  At that moment, Dakota fervently wished she could just dump everything and drive back to LA. Tonight. Forget the filly, forget her father.

  Forget Clay.

  That night she called the trainers Clay had recommended. Nobody seemed eager to talk. One said his stable was full up, and the other said it was too close to the Ruidoso Futurity, to call him back in a few months.

  Ron Spackman returned her call last. She crossed her fingers.