Dark Horse

by J. Carson Black

  Clay didn’t deny it. “How could he be sure that crashing into that tree would kill him? Why didn’t he just shoot himself?” He regretted his callousness immediately.

  Dakota looked stricken, but to her credit, she soldiered on. “Because the policy would only pay for accidental death.”

  There was no reply to that.

  “On the videotape, he hinted that he didn’t expect to be around much longer. He said . . . he said for me to keep the filly through the summer. The only way Dad would kill himself was if he found out he was going to die from something.” She took a deep breath. “You know, debilitating. He prided himself on being tough, macho. Hemingway killed himself for the same reason, so Coke could justify it to himself. But if he was healthy . . .”

  “He was healthy.”

  “Maybe he lied to you. Maybe he was sick—and just didn’t want to tell you. He did take out that big policy . . .”

  “You know what I think? Coke knew he wasn’t getting any younger, and he wanted to do something for you. He felt bad about the divorce, and I think he wanted to make it up to you in some way.”

  “By taking out an expensive insurance policy?”

  “Coke could get morbid sometimes. Living alone like that, he used to say fatalistic things all the time. I remember one time he told me that he’d finally found the horse of his dreams, but he probably wouldn’t be around to see her run.”

  Her eyes sparkled avidly, hard as gems. “That’s exactly what I mean! Why would he say something like that, unless he knew he was going to die? Couldn’t he have suspected that someone had it in for him?”

  “Coke was a shedrow philosopher. One of his favorite themes was how the people responsible for the great horses never lived to see them win. Coke was superstitious, like every other trainer I know.”

  “Why don’t you want to train other people’s horses?”

  It caught him off guard. “I don’t want anyone looking over my shoulder, telling me what to do.” That was only part of the truth, but he didn’t want to talk about what had happened to a promising colt when his owner insisted he run the horse too soon, against Clay’s better judgment. He’d had high hopes for Expect a High. Instead, the colt had ended up hopping on three legs fifty yards past the finish line, the horse ambulance blocking him from view of the stands as the track vet humanely destroyed him. The nightmare of every horseman: to come back from a race with an empty halter. Every time a trainer sent a horse out, it was a gamble. The best trainers made the fewest mistakes. If the mistake had been Clay’s alone, he could have accepted it.

  Someday, if his breeding program was successful, he’d be accountable only to himself. And that meant he’d better get back to work and stop flirting with his ex-wife. “I’ve got to go. How about dinner?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

  “For Christ’s sake, we’ve been divorced for ten years. What do you think I’m going to do? Carry you up into the mountains and chain you to a tree?”

  Dakota grinned, “I’d love dinner.”

  “Good. I’ll pick you up at four.” He strode toward his own shedrow, only looking back once. Dakota walked her dark filly, and there was a sadness in her expression that tore at his heart.

  She’d looked everywhere. No journal in any form: spiral notebooks, ledgers, legal pads. Nada.

  Dakota wondered if her dad was organized enough to keep a journal. Just because Norm told him to do it, didn’t mean he had. Coke had always hated paperwork, one reason he let Dan Bolin run the stud farm as if it were his own.

  As she searched, Dakota tried to push Clay from her mind. What had possessed her to accept his invitation? She should never have agreed to go to dinner with him.

  Not because she didn’t trust him.

  But because she didn’t trust herself.

  Why am I so damn self-destructive? she thought as she searched through another pile of papers. Her stomach was a cauldron of elation, anxiety, and strangled hope. She told herself that going out with Clay was just about old times.

  Then why was her heart hammering? Why was her mouth dry?

  Concentrate. Surrounded by a sea of papers, Dakota closed her eyes. Maybe it was time she talked to the sheriff. Surely, he would tell her what happened. She found the number and called the sheriff’s department. The dispatcher told her the deputy who investigated the accident was on vacation. “He’ll be back late next week. Ask for Derek Blue.”

  So much for instant gratification.

  Still restless, Dakota finally abandoned her search in the afternoon and went down to the breeding barn. Something Wicked’s dance card had been full since mid-February, and she wanted to catch his command performance.

  Although Dan Bolin didn’t look happy to see her, he said nothing.

  Something Wicked was magnificent. A solid-colored bay, his power and vitality showed in every glistening muscle. He made her think of a tightly coiled spring. Dakota noticed that Shameless had inherited his proud carriage, the strong shoulder, the symmetry of legs and back. Her head was more feminine, but she had the same boldness in her eyes.

  The stallion charged toward his mating, his whole body rumbling with loud neighs. It didn’t phase him one bit that the object of his affections was a dummy mare with a fake vagina.

  Breeding quarter horses these days was an antiseptic affair. Stallions were much too valuable to risk in a live mating. A fractious mare could kick out and injure him for life. With the antibiotics and extenders that breeders now added to the semen, a single stallion could impregnate well over two hundred mares in a single season. Breeding was a science where centrifuges mixed the semen, a mare was inseminated by syringe, and a stallion spent its considerable vitality making love to a dummy.

  Rita DeWeil parked her Cadillac in the dirt lot fronted by a strip mall of brick shops. It was ten minutes to four in the afternoon. In the time it took to put her car phone in the glove compartment, several other cars had pulled up around her.

  The fine Italian restaurant, Er Pastaro, was smack in the middle of nowhere. They didn’t take reservations, so you had to be there right when it opened in order to get a table.

  “Mrs. DeWeil,” greeted the tall, blond woman in white blouse and black apron. “How are you today?” Her French accent was charming.

  Rita replied she was fine thank you. No, nobody would be joining her. As she sat down at a table in the small, rosily lit room, Rita tried to stifle her anger. It was Friday night. Clay should be here with her, but she couldn’t even call him. She was supposed to be in Tucson.

  Her stomach clenched as she thought of what she was missing. She’d made reservations at Loews Ventana Canyon Resort—adjoining rooms. She’d told Clay that the committee had allocated the money for their stay, but that wasn’t true. Rita had paid for it herself, and now she had to absorb the loss. It wasn’t the money. She had plenty of that. What bothered her was the night she’d missed. Walking up to the waterfall that cascaded down the desert mountain in the dark; a romantic dinner; dancing close at the Flying V; maybe a dip in the Jacuzzi. And then . . .

  She sighed, her body quivering with a mixture of sexual tension and longing. It would have been so wonderful. She had never wanted anyone more than she wanted Clay—and she wanted him all the time.

  She spread a linen napkin on her knee and ordered a glass of chardonnay. That was when she saw him.

  The hostess led Clay to a table across the room.

  One of the ranchers at the table next to her leaned over to his friend and muttered, “The wolfman cometh.” And they both laughed.

  But Rita barely registered the words. She was too busy staring. At Dakota McAllister, looking cool and elegant in a black off-the-shoulder dress that hugged every curve.

  The bitch.

  Dakota was washing her hands after dinner when she saw Rita DeWeil in the mirror behind her. Rita wore a purple, cold-shoulder blouse decorated with long fringes, nail heads, and conchos and a black, drop-yoked, broom
stick skirt that fell to the middle of her alligator boots.

  She might have been hosting the Country Music Awards, except for her expression. Her face had the same smooth mask as Dakota’s mother had when she was angry. But the perfect makeup couldn’t hide the two points of red on Rita’s cheeks or the eyes that drilled like steel bits into the mirror. Dakota could feel the seething anger behind the mask, understood the control the beautiful woman exercised to keep from unleashing it on her.

  Rita’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re Dakota McAllister, aren’t you? I thought you’d be back in LA by now.”

  Dakota opted not to reply.

  “I understand you and Clay were married once.”

  Dakota lifted her gaze to the mirror, stared Rita in the eye. “Yes, we were.”

  “I suppose he took you out tonight for old time’s sake. He’s told me all about you.”

  The woman’s hatred surrounded Dakota in a noxious cloud. “Oh?”

  Rita sketched her top lip with red lipstick. “Uh-huh. He called it an unfortunate mistake. You two were so young, he said neither one of you knew what you were doing.” She pressed her lips together a couple of times, reminding Dakota of an exotic fish sucking water. “I suppose there’s a temptation to try to revive old love affairs, recapture your youth . . .” She tilted her head to the side, flashing Dakota with her perfect profile, and her swan neck gleamed alabaster in the golden light. “But it’s never a good idea.”

  “What makes you think I want to ‘recapture my youth,’ as you put it?” Rita might be a year or two younger—max—but at twenty-nine, Dakota hardly qualified as elderly.

  “I’m talking hypothetically. It’s just that sometimes people get . . . ideas, and it’s really pathetic when they act on them. I wouldn’t want to see that happen to you.” She turned to the side, admiring her lean body in the mirror. “Clay’s happy now. Why dredge up all that stuff, when he’s put it all behind him?”

  Dakota turned to face her. “Why, indeed?”

  “So I take it you’ll be going back to LA soon.”

  “I’ll go back when I’m ready.”

  Her lips tightened. “You aren’t too quick, are you? Let me spell it out. Clay’s already involved.”

  “With you?”

  “With me.”

  Dakota forced her own smile. “Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?” And she walked out.

  As Dakota walked back to the table, still shaken from her conversation with Rita, it came home to her how deep the rift had grown between Clay and herself. Years of changing, growing, of meeting other people had caused a chasm so wide that it was obvious they could never find the common ground they’d lost. Not that she wanted to.

  Dakota had no doubt that a man like Clay must have someone in his life. Maybe several someones over the last ten years.

  She’d known her share of love affairs. She’d lived with Peter for three years—had been relieved when he decided to call it quits, because the magic hadn’t been there for her either.

  “Was that Rita you came out with?” Clay asked, as she sat down.

  Her reply was barely out of her mouth when he stood up and walked toward the front of the restaurant. He caught Rita at the door, and they spoke briefly. Probably, Dakota thought uncharitably, he had a lot of explaining to do.

  Clay sat down opposite her. “You want coffee?”

  “No, thank you. It’s getting late.”

  “It’s not even six o’clock.”

  “All right, what I meant to say was it’s getting late for me.”

  “You go to bed with the chickens?”

  Dakota clamped down on her reply. She had no right to expect anything from him. He was the soul of generosity to take her out for old time’s sake, to save her damn horse’s life, to make her quiver every time he accidentally brushed against her.

  But Clay had already caught on. “Did Rita say something to you?”

  “Nothing that a rhinoceros couldn’t deflect.”

  “Rita can be possessive.”

  “Does she have a right to be?” Dakota blurted it out.

  “No one has a right to own anyone.”

  “You’re dodging the question.”

  “Why, is it important to you?”

  She’d walked into that trap with her eyes wide open. “Not especially.”

  “You never were a good liar, McAllister.”

  Dakota wanted to wipe that grin off his face. “And humility was never your strong suit, Pearce!”

  He laughed. “I guess not.”

  A tall cowboy whose belly rolled over his silver belt buckle walked past them. Verne Shumway, a local rancher, had known Dakota since she was a little girl. He nodded a brusque acknowledgment to her and ignored Clay.

  “I thought Verne was a friend of yours.”

  “I’m not on good terms with a lot of the ranchers around here.”

  “Why?”

  He tapped his fingers on the tablecloth, something he often did when he didn’t want to talk about something. “It’s a long story.”

  “I want to hear it.”

  “I didn’t think there was time,” he said, pointedly looking at his watch.

  She couldn’t keep from grinning. It was rare to see Clay squirm. “Stow it, Pearce. I want to know why I’m not the only one who’s unpopular around here.”

  “As unpopularity contests go, I win hands down.” He ran his fingers through his dark hair. “You had no idea you were in the company of the wolfman, did you?”

  Dakota stared at him. The wolfman?

  “I’m the guy who’s threatening their whole way of life. I’m a traitor to my own kind.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “You’ve heard about the reintroduction of the Mexican wolf?”

  “I read something about it.”

  “I donated some of my land to US Fish and Wildlife to keep a couple of the wolves until they’re released. If they’re released.”

  Dakota couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’re doing this? The two-time bull-riding champion at the Fiesta de los Vaqueros Rodeo, the guy who majored in Ag at the U of A? Have you lost your mind?”

  He grinned. “I’ve been accused of it before.”

  “That’s something a Californian would do! Not a third-generation rancher in Sonoita. Don’t you want to have any friends left?” But secretly, she was pleased. There had always been that perverse streak in Clay that defied categorization. He was one of the few people she knew who didn’t give a damn what other people thought of him. “How did this happen?”

  “Until a couple of years ago, I thought pretty much what everybody else did about wolves. That it was a damn good thing we wiped them out. I thought we ought to skin the tree-huggers and mount their heads on a wall. I’ve seen fresh kills, plenty of ‘em, as you have. Calves torn up and just left there, uneaten—as if it were some kind of sport. The thought of bringing back a killer like that curdled my blood.”

  “What changed your mind?” Fascinated, Dakota leaned forward.

  “A couple of things. Rita—”

  “Rita?” Dakota’s stomach tightened.

  “She got involved in it shortly after she came here. Pestered me to read about them, and I realized they’d ceased to be a threat years ago. Here in Arizona, we practically eradicated a whole species, well after they stopped being a threat to livestock. Even in the sixties, there were bounty hunters for the government looking for them, trying to hunt them down to the very last wolf. And they pretty much did. There are only about thirty of them left in the US, all in captivity.”

  “That happened in our lifetime? It’s hard to believe.”

  “I figured it was people with my mentality who let it get out of hand, ranchers like me. I wanted to make up for it, so I offered my land.”

  “I’d like to see them sometime.”

  “That would be difficult. The female might even be pregnant now, and they’re very shy. The less they see of humans
, the better. In fact, I only saw them close up once, when the Fish and Wildlife people released them into the pen. But I’ve got a strong pair of binoculars. There’s a moon out tonight. Want to give it a shot?”

  “I think I’d better get home.” She was tempted, though. Sorely tempted. But she was beginning to like Clay too much, and she’d been down that road before.

  “McAllister, you’re as head shy as a pasture-raised colt.”

  “With good reason,” Dakota said as lightly as she could. “If you’d like to continue the metaphor, I don’t take kindly to a saddle, and you broke me once.”

  His mouth quirked and his eyes looked grim. “Maybe,” he said, as he helped her on with her coat, “we broke each other.”

  ELEVEN

  After administering an ultrasound test Tuesday morning, Jared Ames declared Shameless fit to run. She could begin training in earnest.

  As he loaded the ultrasound equipment into his battered truck, Dan called to him from the barn. “Dwayne says you can pick your van up any time. Said it was the solenoid.”

  Ames turned to Dakota. “Need anything else?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Before the words even left her mouth, he slid into the old Ford, threw it into gear, and shot out of the yard in a cloud of dust. In a moment, he was just a dark blue speck on the horizon.

  “How do you like that?” she asked Shameless. It was plain the vet disliked her. Probably because Coke hadn’t kept him on salary. “The sins of the fathers,” she muttered.

  The filly poked her head over the stall door, captured Dakota’s shirtsleeve in her lip, and leaned her head against her new mistress.

  “We’ve had a shaky start,” Dakota told the filly. “But tomorrow, we’ll try again.” Soon, she knew, she’d have to make a decision, whether to aim for the Santa Cruz Futurity or the Ruidoso. To bring a horse up to racing form took, on average, a full ninety days. The Santa Cruz Futurity trials were run seventy-four days from now. But Shameless had already been in racing condition before her three-week layoff.