Dark Horse

by J. Carson Black

  Was Clay right? Had she been so busy blaming him for their breakup that she had never taken any responsibility for her own actions? Maybe he really had cared about her, but couldn’t face being married at such a young age. What was the crime in that? Would it have been better for them to have stuck it out and really grown to hate each other? Blaming him had been a reflex, one she’d nursed for so long that she had never even thought about seeing the other side. As far as she was concerned, there hadn’t been another side.

  She watched bleakly as an RV crawled down Highway 82 at a snail’s pace, followed by six cars.

  The wronged woman. That was the role she’d been playing all these years. No wonder it had been so damn difficult to get on with her life. Dakota realized she’d spent so much time blaming this man for ruining her future, that she hadn’t bothered to enjoy the present.

  On the way back to Black Oak, she stopped and bought a greeting card, a painting of a wolf, blank inside. It was time she put an end to this grudge. Clay had done nothing but help her since she came back. What had she done in return? Treated him like a pariah, because she couldn’t handle her own feelings.

  But as she sat at her kitchen counter, staring at the card, the words wouldn’t come. Writing “Dear Clay” had been pretty easy. But now what? She didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. This was an apology, not a proposition. Stalling, she addressed and stamped the envelope, poured herself some iced tea, sat on the bar stool, and bit the end of her pen. Finally she managed, “I’m sorry for the way I acted today.” After that, she didn’t know what to say.

  She glanced outside and saw the pool, inviting in the sun. Maybe a swim would help her think.

  When the phone rang, Jerry Tanner hoped it was Rudy Gallego, coming back with an offer to buy Hatchet Job. Tanner had run the gelding all winter, and the horse got worse with every out. It was only a matter of time before his legs gave out—he probably had bone chips in both of his knees right now. Unless Gallego bought him, Tanner would have to drop him down in class to the cheapest claiming races at the bush tracks.

  He didn’t have to worry. Mexicans couldn’t get enough of stakes winners from the US, and Hatchet Job had once been a big name. The Mexicans paid damn good money, too. Couldn’t buy ‘em fast enough to fill the demand for match races.

  He’d let it ring one more time. He didn’t want to seem overeager.

  “Hello? You the guy selling a Ford F-250?”

  Tanner stifled his disappointment. “Sold it already.” He jammed the receiver into its cradle and closed his eyes. He was sure Gallego had told him he wanted the horse. He tried to remember, but it just wouldn’t come into focus.

  You blacked out again.

  He tried to picture Gallego talking to him last night at the Cowpony, saying he’d call, but it might as well have been a dream. Shit.

  He stared out the louvered window of the trailer, but saw an internal landscape instead of the stable yard. Scraps of thought passed behind his eyeballs, like Halloween witches flying through the night. They fluttered just out of reach, shrieking across his aching brain. He strained to remember.

  At last a series of disassociated images scrolled through his mind. Gallego leaning forward, the birthmark around his eye looking like an angry burn, the lighted Budweiser Clydesdale display revolving slowly above the bar. He remembered staring stupidly at the wall above the urinal, the pain in his bladder enormous. That tight-assed vet, Jared Ames, talking to Rudy and Dan Bolin in the parking lot—he thought maybe he and Ames had argued about a vet bill, but he wasn’t sure, except that right now he could feel himself getting mad all over again. And a dim memory of running up onto the side of the dirt road, having to back up, start again, Lucy saying you shouldn’t drive—

  Lucy wasn’t there, was she? She had homework.

  He really ought to cut down on the booze.

  His gaze wandered to the newspaper photo of Coke’s smashed truck, which he’d cut from the paper and had decoupaged onto a sawed-off piece of tree trunk. It hung above the door, in the place where a decade ago Myrna’s needlepoint, GOD BLESS OUR HOME, had been. The place of honor.

  He toasted the photo with his coffee cup. “I’m doing a hell of a lot better than you, you goddamn old fart,” he said. “At least I’m still alive.”

  He wondered if his ol’ buddy Coke had felt the engine block slam his belly into his spine—or if he’d died instantly.

  Wondering what made him such a devil for punishment. Clay sat down on the chaise lounge by the pool and watched Dakota swim. She cleaved the teal-blue water like a pair of scissors through exotic, sequined cloth. The late afternoon sun burnished her shoulders as each arm flashed up and then slipped smoothly into the water. At the deep end, she executed a racing turn, kicking off powerfully.

  At last she stood up, flicking water from her eyes, smoothing her now caramel-colored hair back against her head. And saw him.

  She crossed her arms instinctively, like a virgin in one of those old romantic comedies. “Who let you in? How long have you been watching me?” she demanded.

  “Alice.” He checked his watch. “About forty minutes.”

  “What do you want?”

  He held up the greeting card. “I thought this would be worth more if you signed it.”

  Vaulting out of the pool, she strode up to him and grabbed the card out of his hands. Water pooled at her feet. “You’re still a snoop, I see,” she said coldly.

  “It was for me, wasn’t it?”

  She blushed.

  “I appreciate it,” he said. “Although it’s kind of soggy.”

  She glowered at him, shivering. He found her towel on the other chaise and handed it to her. Her nipples showed through the tight material of her black one piece. Just as he remembered them, although her breasts were a little larger. Rounder, fuller, but still upright, flattened as they strained against the swimsuit. They’d gone from pert to magnificent. He imagined pulling her to him, feeling the cold wetness of the suit battling the warmth of her body and his, imagined those nipples pressed up against him. He knew exactly where they’d come to on him, and his chest ached with a feeling akin to a ghost pain. Why the hell was he here?

  Dakota toweled her hair and mirrored his thoughts. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here, Pearce?”

  He set the champagne bottle on the poolside table. “I thought we should celebrate. You’re back in the fold.”

  “I don’t think so.” She wrapped the towel around her waist, covering her long, shapely thighs. “After the All American, I’m going home.”

  He waited for her to elaborate.

  “This”—she waved her arm—”is an illusion. Sure, there are mares in the pastures, but they’ll be going back to their owners as soon as they’re bred or they’ve had their foals. Shameless is the only thing keeping me here. I promised myself I’ll try to win the All American, and then . . . I’m going back home. I’m only doing this for my father.”

  “I thought you were doing it for yourself.”

  She turned away. “Think what you want, Clay, but those are the facts.”

  He reached out and clamped a hand on her arm. Why did she always duck out on him, like a spooked horse? Was she so afraid to face him, so afraid to look in his eyes and tell him what she was thinking? Had he really done this to her?

  “Do you have to be so bitter?”

  “If I’m bitter, it’s because of you!”

  “If you’re not careful, you might have to send me another card.”

  She said nothing. He could feel the warmth of her skin, the beads of cool water dissipating under his fingers. She made no move to extract herself. He eased his grip.

  “You’re hard to figure out, you know that, McAllister? You take potshots at me and then hide for cover. Why can’t you talk to me like I’m a human being?”

  She closed her eyes. He thought he saw a tear at the comer of her eye. She took a deep breath. “There’s no excuse for the way I’ve acted. I know that.�
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  “I don’t mean you any harm, Dakota,” he said softly. “Do you believe that?”

  She lifted her chin, looking him full in the face. Her eyes were troubled, almost anguished. “I don’t know what to believe.”

  She was irresistible. He didn’t even try to fight the feeling. He leaned toward her, brushed her lips with his own. Dakota returned his kiss, deepening it. Her arms came up tentatively, clasped around his neck, pulling him closer. His own arms slipped underneath, circling her, his hands skimming over her back. She pressed against him, the cool suit quickly becoming warmer, a warmth that seeped into his flesh and sent a slithering sensation of desire to the center of his body. He delved into her mouth with his tongue, sensed her compliance. They were made for each other, interlocking, incomplete without the other’s touch.

  He felt as if he had come home.

  Dakota’s fingers were tangled in his hair. She strained against him, as if she could actually merge with him, and he gently pressed his palm against the small of her back, bringing her closer. She moaned, a soft, dove-like sound, fragile in her throat. He could feel the tears running down her face, mingling with their kiss, salty on his tongue.

  He wanted to say, “I love you,” but sensed it was too soon. Wasn’t even sure if he meant it. There was so much about her he didn’t know. But he knew he wanted her. He throbbed with desire, overwhelmed by it. He pressed against her, letting her feel his full intent. She moaned again. An answering groan crept into his throat. “I want you,” he whispered hoarsely into her ear.

  Dakota’s breath quickened. She closed her eyes, letting herself be whirled away on the current of their passion. She couldn’t get enough of the touch, the feel of him. Their tongues meshed in a sweet, familiar dance of ecstasy. The memories came back all at once, the steamy moonlit nights of summer, the cool breath of dawn, the torrid passion near the flickering fire in winter. So many good times.

  One of his large hands cupped her skull, his fingers twined in her hair. The other roamed her body, molded her to him, bringing alive sparks as his knowledgeable fingers slid over her skin. He knew every inch of her, knew it well.

  He knew her as no one else had. And she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  More, maybe. She’d always felt he was her weakness, the one desire she could not control. She made one more stab at resisting. “What about Rita?”

  “I told you, I’m not seeing her anymore. I made a clean break.”

  His words slapped her, hard, like a dash of frigid water. She remembered another clean break. Clay, telling her he wanted a divorce. The cold finality of those words, the look on his face.

  At first she’d thought it was a joke, and she’d laughed. But he didn’t laugh. She remembered the sick feeling in her heart, her stomach, as her disbelief suddenly burst like a dam, her whole world cascading down on her. It had cost her dearly to maintain her dignity, to accept his words, when what she had really wanted to do was beg him to reconsider.

  Now he’d done the same thing to Rita. Slept with her until he got tired of her, until he decided to try for his ex-wife again. She could never let him hurt her like that again. Ever. She jerked away from him, tears starting in her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea. Clay.” Her voice shook. Why, why, had she ever come back here?

  His lips narrowed into a line. He drew away from her, his dark eyes troubled. “What do you want from me, McAllister?”

  “I want—” She swallowed. What did she want? For him to leave her alone? Already she was too involved with him, already it would hurt. “I don’t know.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re pushing me. I’d like us to be friends, that’s all.”

  “I guess now I know how it is to be on the receiving end.”

  “No, you don’t. Rita knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end.”

  He scowled. “You think I should have led her on?”

  “No, but you seem to be pretty dam good at telling women you don’t want them anymore!”

  “Now there’s a nice sentiment. You should’ve put it on the card.” The bitterness in his voice matched her own. He grabbed the card from the table, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it on the ground. He strode toward the house.

  She couldn’t let it go like that. “Clay!”

  He didn’t turn around.

  “I don’t want to fight with you. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, I want you to know that. I just can’t—I don’t want to get involved with you. That way.”

  He paused on the steps.

  “If you broke it off with Rita for my sake . . . well, you shouldn’t have.”

  His grin was sardonic. “Don’t be so sure of yourself. I didn’t do it for you.” He flung open the French doors and disappeared into the house. Hugging herself against the cold, Dakota sat down on the chaise and stared at the bottle of champagne, feeling like a fool.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The starting gate at Sonoita had room for only eight horses, unlike the standard ten post positions at larger tracks. Four races would determine the eight fastest qualifiers for the Santa Cruz Futurity. Clay’s horse, Straight Eight, would be running in the trial against Shameless. His other horse, Dangerously, won his trial, posting the fastest time for 350 yards so far. It didn’t matter if a horse won the race, as long as he had one of the eight fastest times. But the young colt had been impressive, winning his race by a length.

  Dakota noticed that Jerry Tanner had a horse running in the second trial. He’d pressed Lucy into service as pony girl. He almost ran over Dakota at the drink concession stand. When he realized who she was, he scowled, his eyes as shiny and cold as steel BBs. She supposed he blamed her for his horse’s poor showing; his colt had run dead last.

  Rita had a couple of horses in the trials, but to Dakota’s relief, she wasn’t here. Apparently, she had to go to some big award ceremony in Phoenix, where her late husband would be honored for bulldozing half of Maricopa County and investing his earnings in a failed savings and loan. Dan Bolin was here, however, deep in conversation with a Hispanic man in a white, straw cowboy hat. Dakota had never seen Dan so animated. When she waved to him, he nodded, his good humor extending to her. The man he was with glanced over his shoulder at her. A port-wine stain ringed his eye like a fiery sun.

  Shameless’s race was up next. Stifling her nervousness, Dakota led her down the hoof-pocked ribbon of dirt toward the saddling paddock. The infamous Sonoita wind picked up, flirting at the filly’s hooves and blowing streamers of dust around them.

  The saddling enclosure was faced on one side by an open ramada divided into eight stalls, and a chest-high, chain-link fence on the others. Behind the fence were bleachers brimming with onlookers. Trainers led their horses around the postage-stamp of faded grass or kept them standing face-out in their assigned stalls.

  Despite its county fair status, the Santa Cruz County Futurity was known throughout the quarter horse industry as a testing ground for future stars. Many winners of the Futurity went on to major stakes races. And as Clay had pointed out, there was another reason Sonoita was so attractive to those planning to run their horses later in the summer at Ruidoso. Sonoita, at almost six thousand feet above sea level, would help horses adjust to Ruidoso’s high altitude.

  Clay was already in the paddock, leading Straight Eight in a circle. When he saw Dakota, he nodded curtly and kept walking. She didn’t blame him for holding a grudge, after the disaster at the pool. If she could only figure out her own feelings, maybe she wouldn’t keep sending him mixed signals.

  Dakota led Shameless to stall number four. Four was a good post position, better than she’d hoped. Ernesto was already there, the saddle girths looped over his arm. Dakota decided to walk the filly around a little, let her loosen up. Shameless seemed outwardly calm, striding like a top fashion model down a runway, in complete control of herself as always. But Dakota sensed the energy just beneath the surfa
ce, like the dangerous humming of power lines. Shameless knew something was up.

  As she saddled the filly, Dakota prayed Shameless wouldn’t run too hard—just enough to win the race. She’d given the jockey instructions to try and hold her back if they got far enough ahead to avoid any threat. Dakota knew the stewards often fined riders for keeping a horse under wraps, but if she won the race, who could complain? The bettors would still get their money, and it would keep Shameless sound. She swallowed. The thought of Shameless breaking down was unbearable.

  I’m not cut out for this game, she thought—-not for the first time. I’m not tough enough.

  The jockeys filed into the paddock, as colorful as jelly beans. Melissa, the jockey Dakota had hired to ride Shameless, swung aboard. They followed the number three horse up the dirt aisle to the track. Ahead, Clay handed Straight Eight to his pony rider and stood at the edge of the track. She wished the greeting card idea hadn’t backfired. He was still her biggest ally.

  Dakota couldn’t let things stay the way they were. Slipping under the rail, she joined Clay to watch the post parade. “Your horse looks good,” she said, for lack of anything else to say.

  He leaned his elbows on the rail. The tension between them was tangible. “Yours, too.”

  She swallowed. “I want to apologize for the other day.”

  “You seem to be doing a lot of that.”

  “Well, look at it this way. I’m getting a lot better at it.”

  He said nothing, but continued to stare at the infield, which also served as an arena and holding pens for rodeos.

  “What do you want? I said I was sorry.”

  He swiveled his head, his gaze level with hers. “Sorry’s just a word.”

  “What can I do then?” She floundered for words. “Your friendship means a lot to me.”

  “Friendship. Is that what you think we have?”

  “For now, that’s what it has to be.” For my own sanity. “If we can just agree on that and still be . . . friends. Please, let’s don’t fight, Clay. You just have to understand—”