Dakota leafed through the broodmare files, wondering why she bothered. It was hard to concentrate on the dry facts and figures distributed here and there on each page, which mostly referred to a mare’s “produce”—her foals—and the times she was bred. After a cursory glance at them, she gave up.
Feeling restless, Dakota looked through one of her dad’s photo albums. It was dominated by enlarged photos of racehorses, but the family photographs were there, too. There was Maggie, Coke’s first wife, a slight, dark-haired beauty who could ride racehorses with the best of them. Dakota always felt that Coke had been so devastated by her death from cancer that in his second marriage he’d held some portion of his love in reserve, guarding against further hurt. Perhaps that was why Eileen was so bitter.
Dakota turned the page and came face-to-face with herself as a child, a skinny, tanned towhead, who looked so happy in the photos. She tried to reconcile that child with the person she was now.
There were the pictures of her wedding at the Arizona Inn. It had been a beautiful summer night, and Dakota had been nineteen. The happiest night of her life—or so she’d thought at the time.
Her mother’s last words to her before she walked down the aisle were, “I guess you’re pigheaded enough to go through with this, but it won’t hurt you in the long run. You’re young enough to bounce back.”
Coke had no such misgivings. He stood there in the receiving line, looking as proud as if he were holding Tailwind’s bridle in the winner’s circle after the Barbara B Stakes. That’s the philosophy of the good ol’ boys around here, Dakota thought. Win a stakes race, marry off your daughter to another member of the club. That made a successful man.
Clay was good-looking, for a college kid. He looked a lot better now—
She slammed the book shut. That was then. This was now. The life she’d planned for that night ended less than a year later, and most of the erosion of their marriage had happened long-distance. The only people who made out were the lawyers and AT&T.
As she stood up, Dakota’s hip bumped the side table, dislodging another stack of papers.
She picked them up. Mostly correspondence with Coke’s lawyer, Norm Fredman. They should be filed. Dakota got the box of files she’d bought in Tucson, set them down on the couch beside her, and started sorting through the letters.
One letter in particular caught her eye. Norm had sent it to her father when he was at Turf Paradise in Phoenix last fall.
She stared at the page, trying to absorb the full impact of its meaning.
Harassment is a difficult charge to prove. I hope you have done what I suggested and kept a detailed account of every incident of vandalism. At least you’ll have a record of dates, times, etc. We can use this in the appeal at Turf Paradise. I believe the ruling will go our way, especially in light of the problems you’ve been having. Fortunately, you have a lot of friends in the business, and character witnesses will work in our favor. In the meantime, keep writing that journal.
Dakota guessed the ruling had to do with Coke’s suspension at Turf Paradise, after one of his horses tested positive for drugs after a race. Clay didn’t seem to think her father would do such a thing. Not just because it was dishonest, but because it wouldn’t have been smart. And Coke had always been smart.
Kept a detailed account.
Dakota glanced around. Somewhere in this study must be a record of every bad thing that had happened to the Black Oak horses.
What if whoever had it in for Coke didn’t stop at sabotage? What if Coke’s death wasn’t an accident?
Don’t be ridiculous.
Crack! The brittle sound—like a breaking twig—made her jump. With relief, she realized it was just the house settling. But her heart continued to pound, and her pulse throbbed in her ears. She glanced at the black expanse of glass in the picture window, saw the reflection of a wild-eyed, young woman in a cluttered room.
Anyone could see in.
Feeling suddenly vulnerable, Dakota fumbled for the lamp switch, turned out the light, and peered out, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness.
Nothing, of course. Just moonlight on grass, dappled by a few trembling shadows from the juniper trees. The ranch was miles away from civilization. Who bothered to close their curtains out here?
There was another crack as the plaster settled again, like a distant gunshot. Laughing at her overactive imagination, Dakota pulled the curtains and started looking for her father’s journal.
NINE
Shameless hadn’t come out of the ordeal unscathed after all. Dakota discovered that there was some minor swelling in the filly’s ankle. In a week Doc Ames would look at her again, and they’d know if she could go back to the track. But Dakota was nagged by worry.
She was not in the best frame of mind when Jerry Tanner showed up at the house.
From the way he hopped down from his truck, it was clear he thought he had the job. Dakota braced herself for a confrontation. “So, Miz McAllister. What’s the story?”
It had always been difficult for Dakota to say no to people, so much so that she had practiced before the mirror for occasions just like this. “Mr. Tanner, I’m very sorry,” she said as calmly as she could. “I’ve thought it over, and the truth is, I can’t hire you.”
He gaped at her. “You said we had a deal.”
“I said I’d think about it.”
“You led me to believe I had the job! You led me on!”
“Mr. Tanner—”
“You owe me, lady!” His whining tone grated on her. How had her father ever put up with him? “I saved your father’s life! You wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for me!”
Dakota was aware of the core of anger in her chest. “I’ve made my decision, Mr. Tanner,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. She didn’t want to participate in a shouting match.
“Goddammit!” He kicked the dirt with one filthy boot. “Why? You liked me just fine the other day. What happened to change your mind? You owe me that, you can’t just tell me no without givin’ me a reason.”
“I did as you recommended. I talked to some people.”
“Who? Whoever it is, he’s a goddamn liar! I’ll sue his ass, that’s what I’ll do! I’ll sue him for slander! You promised me that job.”
He leaned toward her, his breath—as usual—revealing what he’d just eaten. Onions. “You really think you can train that horse yourself?” He laughed. “I know what happened at the track yesterday. You know what they’re saying? You couldn’t handle a poodle on a choke-chain.”
“Get out of here.”
“I hope you and your goddamn filly roast in hell!”
Anger stabbed behind her eye, a dull blade. “Get out of here, or I’ll call the police.”
“You can’t treat Jerry Tanner like this and get away with it!” He got into his truck and slammed the door.
His exit was spoiled somewhat by the fact that the truck’s starter ground to a standstill, and he had to push the truck down the hill to get it going.
It wouldn’t cost that much to go to the junkyard and find a starter that worked. How could she have ever entertained the thought of hiring such a man?
He’d had the gall to threaten her. He was obviously the type who thought the world owed him a living. Clay was right. Tanner had made a career of collecting on an old debt. And when her father finally had enough, Tanner blamed him, too.
You couldn’t handle a poodle on a choke-chain. Heat suffused her face. On that score, he had hit close to home. So everybody was talking about her performance at the track.
She had half a mind to stay here and show them.
Still shaken from the confrontation, Dakota drove out to the road to pick up her mail. There were six mailboxes serving the ranches in the area; Dakota opened the big one emblazoned with the silhouette of a running racehorse.
The envelope from the insurance company was ominously thin. Holding her breath, she tore it open with clumsy fingers and withdrew a single wh
ite sheet of paper. “Dear Miss McAllister: We regret to inform you that pending further investigation, we are deferring payment . . .”
Stunned, she stepped backward against the mosaic of rock lining the roadbed, slipped on a shard of broken bottle, and almost fell. Her hand flailed for the mailbox, and she steadied herself.
It couldn’t be. There had to be a mistake.
Scanning the letter quickly, Dakota saw the word “suicide.”
Suicide?
“No way,” she muttered. No way would Coke kill himself.
Suddenly, the sun seemed so bright it blinded her. She shut her eyes. Darkness swarmed under her eyelids, punctuated by darting, colored dots.
Dakota stuffed the letter into the pocket of her jeans, slammed the mailbox shut, and stalked to the 4Runner. Her heart pounded as she slid behind the wheel.
Suicide.
Dakota swiped at her eyes, tasted salty tears at the back of her throat.
She peeled out of the clearing and sped down Washboard Road. Soon she found what she had been looking for: a rough-looking track that required four-wheel drive. The vehicle was made for that kind of road, and Dakota tackled it with grim determination and lightning reflexes. After an hour of concentrated off-roading, she came out on State Route 83 and raced down the highway, rolling up the windows and plugging in a CD of Italian Opera’s Greatest Hits. She sang at the top of her lungs along with sopranos and tenors alike. Dakota knew her untrained voice didn’t sound that hot, but driving her truck was like being enclosed in a world of her own making, and she soared along with “Un bel di” and “Nessun Dorma.” She loved Puccini, the uplifting feeling his music gave her, the all-encompassing scope that made the whole world seem tiny by comparison. Grief and joy could not coexist, and Puccini’s arias left no room for self-pity. When at last she came back down to earth, Dakota drove back to Black Oak, her head clear.
TEN
Clay realized he could look at Dakota all day. Although her wheat-blond hair had been French-braided into pigtails, she looked anything but provincial. Her clothing was nothing spectacular either, but on that lithe body, the red-and black-checked flannel shirt, faded jeans, and boots worked together to form a whole that transcended its parts. He imagined burying his nose in the shirt, fancied he could smell the clean, line-dried crispness along with the dusky scent of skin lightly tinged with soap. If he remembered correctly, she liked a no-frills soap: Ivory.
This wasn’t the woman he’d seen at the auction, the aloof beauty in the tailored suit. This woman seemed more at home in boots and jeans.
Dakota looked as if she belonged here.
She must have sensed his presence, because she glanced up from where she knelt, one hand still passing over Shameless’s ankle.
“How is she?” he asked.
Dakota stood up and brushed her hands on her jeans. “There’s still a little heat. I guess we’ll walk again today.”
“I meant to tell you before, you’re welcome to use my hot walker.”
She shaded her eyes against the brilliant sun. “Thanks, but I’d rather walk her by hand. I’ve got the luxury, since she’s the only racehorse I own.”
“Have you found a trainer yet?”
She shook her head.
“What are you going to do?”
Dakota untied the filly’s lead rope. “I don’t know. She might be ready to go back on the track next week. I’ve got to start galloping her soon. When she’s fully recovered.”
Clay fell into step as Dakota, and the filly started on the first circuit of grounds. Why was he drawn to her? The basic argument between them had never been resolved; in fact, it had worsened. She’d wanted to be an actress and live in LA. He could never live there. He loved the life he had.
He’d learned quickly enough that living apart was not a marriage at all. And yet Clay couldn’t fight his attraction for her. He had managed to keep his distance all week, even though she drew him like a magnet. Every day about this time, she’d walk the filly around the grounds for a half hour or so, and every day he’d kept himself from coming by. Today, he’d given in, telling himself that he wanted an update on the filly’s condition.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” she said now, looking straight ahead. “For rescuing Shameless.”
“After all the work you did ponying Budget Taco for me? It’s a bargain.”
“Budget Taco, Rocket Taco, Naco Taco.” Dakota named three of the horses in Clay’s stable. “If you send them out as one entry, do you call them the Taco Brothers?”
“The Flying Taco Brothers to you.”
“Are all of them fast?”
“As a matter of fact, none of them can run a lick. They’re pretty, though. I’m thinking of having them bronzed.”
Dakota laughed. It was a nice sound. She tilted her face toward him. In the morning light, her complexion reminded him of a firm, golden peach. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your folks,” she said.
“Dad and Sandy are still living in Tucson. They bought a little ranch out near Bear Canyon. Just a few acres, enough room to keep his polo string.”
“He still plays?”
“He’d play polo in heaven, if they had a team.”
“It must have been hard for him to leave here,” Dakota said. “I remember that summer he sold the cattle. It was a sad day, the end of an era.”
“Like the dispersal sale at Black Oak.”
Dakota bristled. “I couldn’t do anything else. If you knew how much in debt Dad was.”
“I’m not criticizing you.”
She looked away. “And your mom? How is she? Does she like Florida?”
“She loves it. Still bitter about Dad, but I think it’s more the principle than anything else. Frankly, I think she’s happier without a man in her life.” His sister, he told her, was married for the third time and living in Wyoming. He gazed out at the undulating hills of gray-green grass, the sun-bleached sky. “Another Sonoita ranching family bites the dust.”
“You’re still here.”
He laughed. “Yes, I’m still here.”
“How’s the racehorse business? You making any money?”
Clay glanced at the nearby shedrow, where a wasp-waisted thoroughbred was bucking and whirling as it circled on the hot walker. “I’m breaking even.”
“Don’t you want to do anything else?”
“Is there anything wrong with what I do?” he asked, feeling suddenly annoyed.
“No. I just thought . . .”
“Go on.” He’d heard it before, ten years ago. He’d also heard somewhere that people didn’t change, they just got more so. Obviously, Dakota felt the same way as she always had about his choice of a career.
“I did it again, didn’t I?” she asked wryly. “You must think I’m a god-awful snob.” She turned her tawny eyes—so like the color of the Sonoita grassland in winter—full on him. “Thanks for your help. Clay. I shudder to think what would have happened if you hadn’t been there the other day. You saved us from . . .”
“Disaster?” he supplied.
“Sure catastrophe.”
“Don’t you mean mass destruction?”
She laughed. “Thousands maimed.”
“That’s what friends are for. We help our own.”
“I’m still one of you?” she asked, and he thought she sounded playful.
“Don’t you think you are?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was thoughtful. “I guess I forgot how potent this place is . . . the hold it still has on me.”
They walked on, the silence growing awkward. Dakota stared straight ahead, holding the shank close to the filly’s jaw with her left hand and stroking the shining, dark neck with the other.
“Clay?”
“Yes, McAllister?”
She didn’t protest the name. “Was there anything wrong with Dad?”
He grinned. “Besides being pigheaded?”
“No. Seriously wrong. Maybe he’d been to the doctor recen
tly?”
“As a matter of fact, he did have his checkup in January. I remember because he boasted about it. Said he didn’t have to worry about cholesterol and ‘all that crap.’ His doctor said he was in great shape.”
“Then I don’t understand it.” She pulled a piece of paper from the rear pocket of her jeans. “I got this yesterday.”
He read the insurance company’s letter with growing disbelief. “This is garbage.”
She looked relieved. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. How do you contest these things? I have to talk to Norm.” The filly’s head jerked up, and her ears strained forward. She stopped walking as an exercise boy riding a colt approached them. “You want to take a look?” Dakota asked her. “I guess you’re entitled.” They stood there for a minute while the horse and rider walked by, then started walking again.
When Dakota spoke again her voice was barely audible. “What if it wasn’t an accident?” “I don’t believe Coke would kill himself.”
“I’m not saying that.”
He caught her meaning. “You think he was murdered? You’ve been watching too much television.”
“You can’t deny someone had it in for him. Maybe they hated him that much . . .”
“Just because someone wanted to make trouble doesn’t mean they’d kill him.”
“He was sixty-seven years old. In great condition.”
“Even sixty-seven-year-old men in great condition sometimes drink a little too much and drive their trucks into trees.”
“Didn’t the sheriff wonder why he was driving so fast?”
“I don’t know.”
“It says here that the insurance company made their determination because of a number of factors. He was one step away from bankruptcy. He’d taken out this huge policy only a couple of months ago. He was driving at a high rate of speed when he crashed. To them, that spells suicide. And don’t tell me you haven’t heard the rumors.”
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