Candace Carrabus - Dreamhorse 01 - On the Buckle (13 page)

“Glad you like it,” he said.
 

We sat there a moment, and I remembered the rest of my dream with Wastrel. We’d been galloping, bareback, no bridle, like you see sometimes in the movies. But there were other horses as well, loose and running and scared. Some of them looked vaguely familiar. I’d wondered about my first dream—Wastrel pawing the manure pile, then us finding Norman. No connection, I’m sure. Malcolm put the car in gear.

“Wait,” I said. I got out and checked the latches on all the gates, then did a quick run-through of the barn to make sure all was secure.
 

“Don’t trust me?” he asked when I’d clicked my seatbelt again.

“It’s not that,” I said.
 

He accepted this without comment and drove out, took it easy for the twisty hilly miles, and let the engine stretch when we reached the highway.
 

“So,” I said, “exactly what do you mean by partnership? As I see it, you own everything, and I do all the work.”

“You have a p—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Okay. Ever heard of sweat equity?”

I got a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. Coming on the heels of
the situation
, I was afraid to think anything. But that feeling, it was the thrill of hope. I quashed it before it became expectation. “Are you offering something?” I watched him with my peripheral vision. He kept his eyes on the road and didn’t answer for a few breaths.

Finally, he said, “Maybe. A year is a long time.”

“I’ll be happy to get out of here alive with my letter of recommendation.”

Self-restraint remained an elusive virtue for me. Sometimes, I thought I should wear a shirt that said, “Help me, I’m talking, and I can’t shut up.”
 

Malcolm, on the other hand, said nothing. For miles. That gave me time to consider the implications of his maybe offer, and of his impending divorce.

My thoughts ran in circles, though, raising dust and little else. Without more information, I couldn’t weigh the pros and cons of a partnership. As for his divorce, that complicated matters. Sitting so close to him set my skin tingling, like an itch I couldn’t scratch.
 

After about half an hour of letting me stew, Malcolm piped up. “Given that Penny explained what you are doing here, it’s only fair you know I have a one-year deadline, too.”

“I’m sorry about what I said before.”

“Okay,” he said, and he gave my wrist a reassuring touch.

I fought the urge to yank my hand away and rub it, like I’d been scorched. He released me. He felt it too? What were we doing shut in this car for over an hour, anyway? How had things gotten so out of control? Oh, yeah. Norman. The little twerp. He’d ruined everything.

~~~

We’d decided on the art museum. By the time we arrived, I knew Malcolm’s father wanted to sell the land to developers. He’d given his son a year to prove the farm could make money. Otherwise, he was cashing in. Now, I understood the comment Malcolm had made about keeping the land to himself. He wanted to preserve it, not have hundreds of houses built on it. That was a sentiment I understood. Much of Long Island’s farmland had long ago been bulldozed into suburban sprawl and strip malls, and it wasn’t pretty.
 

Renting horses to the public brought in much-needed income. But it wasn’t in Malcolm’s long-term plan. He had many ideas. Many of these ideas relied on my abilities, or those of someone like me. Short-term, boarding and riding lessons seemed the best option. To me, the fewer lessons, the better. But liability was high renting horses for people to tootle around the trails, too.
 

He tossed out the possibilities of a boarding-bed-and-breakfast, a retirement farm, a rehab facility, and even holding equine spirituality seminars. For the time being, he’d consider anything that would pay the bills, and he was open to suggestions.
 

We walked in silence after passing through the high-ceilinged, marbled entrance hall of the museum. We went through three galleries before he said anything.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

“You’re supposed to be quiet in here,” I whispered. “It’s like a library.”

“In that case, think they’d mind if we checked out one of the collection? This one would look good over my fireplace.”

He indicated a pastoral landscape I thought would do better in the fireplace.

“They would frown on that most severely. Remember your parole status. You don’t want to jeopardize that further.”

“Further?”

“Shush.”

He steered me to the restaurant.

“Enough whispering,” he said when we were seated.
 

I glanced at the menu. Malcolm’s breakfast had left me full. Especially since I hadn’t ridden or done anything to work it off. I ordered salad and snuck a peek in my wallet. Empty.

“I’m buying,” he said.
 

Did he have x-ray vision or something? He did have that square Superman kind of jaw. “No,” I said.
 

He sighed. “It’s your birthday, remember? My treat.”

“Okay,” I said. “Just this once.”

He smiled.
 

I was doomed.

After the waitress took our order, he asked, “Why don’t you teach riding? With your experience and training—”

“I thought Penny told you everything?”

“I don’t know what you mean by
everything
. She said you needed a year’s contract, and that was fine with me. Although, I hope it will turn out to be longer.”

“It’s a little soon—”

“I mean I hope the farm is doing well enough to offer more, if you want it. That’s what I meant.”

He’d fallen over himself pretty quickly to make that explanation. Which meant it wasn’t what he meant. Maybe. Oh, hell, I didn’t even know what I meant. But I was glad to learn Penny hadn’t revealed all my secrets.

“I prefer not to teach,” I said. “I’m not very good at it.”

I must have had a neon sign on my forehead flashing “big fat lie.” I hate lying, really I do. But I didn’t want to talk about this. It hurt too much.

“Have you tried?”

“Yes. It didn’t work out.”

“I see.”

He saw. Yeah, right. I felt myself squirm inwardly. But
at the length truth will out
. Shakespeare knew. I took one more stab at putting him off. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

He wanted to know about me. Had a right to, I supposed. Fair enough. And he
would
understand. I could see it in his eyes. There was softness there, a safe place to land.

“Someone got hurt. A girl. Heidi. She was getting ready for a lesson. The others were already in the ring with me. They were taunting her, the others. They were mean. Heidi was always running late.” I reached back, smelled the barn and the soft, slightly damp footing of the indoor arena. Saw Heidi’s ready smile. “She hurried her pony in and didn’t double check the girth. Another rider…I had my back turned for just a moment.”

“The world can change in a moment,” he said.
 

I nodded. He did understand, but I hadn’t shared this with anyone who didn’t already know about it before.
 

“This other rider, she smacked Heidi’s pony on the back with her riding crop just as Heidi put her foot in the stirrup.”
 

I drifted away, my gaze on nothing in particular, the saltshaker, maybe. But the hot sting of tears brought me up short. I wiped at them and looked at him. No judgment, only compassion. It was okay to tell him.

“He jumped forward,” Malcolm said softly. “Her pony. And the saddle slipped.”

I nodded. “She fell…and got all tangled…and dragged…and her pony. He panicked. I stopped him as soon as I could.” I looked around the restaurant. It was a weekday. Slow. Only an older couple near the window. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“I’m sorry I asked about it. But it wasn’t your fault.”

“She died.” I said. “She had on a helmet, so her head was okay, but there were internal injuries. Liver, spleen, lungs, everything got all mangled.”

I found myself twisting the cloth napkin like I had the dish towel earlier.
 

“I knew those other girls were out to get her. Well, they did.” I stood. “Excuse me.”

I went to the bathroom and sat on a toilet and dabbed at tears, trying to keep from getting mascara all over my face. I’d managed to not think about Heidi for some time. The memory had been on the periphery since the day before, though, and I’d kept it out there.
 

Until now.
 

Damn Malcolm.

He touched my hand when I returned to the table. My salad had been delivered.
 

“You okay?”

I shrugged. “She was nine years old. Heidi. She was one of the good ones.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Vi. Sometimes, bad things just happen.”

“That’s what her parents said, too. But I’ll never forgive myself. And I won’t teach, especially kids. Okay?”

I picked at the greens on my plate. They tasted like cardboard.

“Tell me about your time at the British Horse Society school,” he said a little while later.
 

Jesus. What was this? Twenty questions in twenty minutes?
 

“It was great. I learned a lot.”

“Did you go there straight out of high school?”

“No. I tried college for a couple of years, first.”

“Then we were over there at about the same time.”

“You went to school in England?”

“University of Edinburgh. Freshman year abroad program.”

So that was what Hank was talking about when he mentioned Malcolm being at school in Scotland. Good. Now the subject was him instead of me.

“Malcolm’s a Scottish name, right?”

“Yes. My father is Scottish through and through.”

“And your mother?”

“She was more enigmatic about her ancestry. But her maiden name was Pinozzi.”

“Ah, now that’s some blood I can relate to. Is she—?”

“Died of cancer a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She was enigmatic in general, kept her distance emotionally. I miss her, but we were never close.”

And I thought my parents were bad. “So, what did you study your freshman year abroad at the University of Edinburgh?”

“Computer systems. Finished my undergrad at Mizzou, then got a masters from Wash U in St. Louis.”

Sounded expensive. I hadn’t been able to finish a bachelor’s.

“I’m still paying off my student loans.” He took a bite of his turkey club and chewed, looking thoughtful. “I took a year off in between. I wanted to work for a while. Went back to Scotland for part of the time.”

There was more to it than wanting to work for a while, I could tell. “Between schools? Why?” If I kept him talking about himself, we wouldn’t return to the subject of me.

“Something happened in my senior year…I needed time to think.”

I gave him a look that said, I spilled my guts, now it’s your turn.

“Someone I knew, a friend, was killed. Mugged. Murdered for her purse, which contained little more than twenty dollars. Right outside her dorm. Shortly after I dropped her off.”

Yikes. “Girlfriend?”

He hitched his shoulders up. “Friend. Girl—woman—I cared about her. They never found him, the bastard.”

We sat in silence for some moments, and I’m guessing his food suddenly tasted like cardboard, too, because he pushed his plate away. Where’s the whipped cream when you need it?
 

“We’d gone to the movies. A Bergman retrospective. Depressing. Usually, we found a place for coffee afterwards, but she had a test to study for, so I took her home.”

I longed for the courage to touch his hand like he had mine. But I just sat there, watching his face, watching him replay what he knew of it—or imagined—behind his eyes.
 

“If we’d gone for coffee…”

He didn’t cry, of course, but he looked like he wanted to.
 

“Makes you feel helpless, doesn’t it?” I said. “Sucks.”

He met my eyes. “Sucks doesn’t begin to cover it.” He straightened his cutlery. “How did we get on this subject?”

“Taking turns baring our souls?”

He let out a huff of air. “Yeah. I think it’s my fault.”

I did touch his wrist then. With just one finger. “I’m kind of glad you brought it up. I feel a better, now. You should try crying. It helps, really.”

He exhaled again and much of the tension went out of him. “Believe me, I have. Plenty. Knowing someone who understands helps, though.”

He smiled at me, a full-on, genuine, unguarded smile, the kind one rarely sees, and I felt that scared-thrilled-fluttery feeling like I’d gone over a cliff edge.

His cell phone rang. He answered, then mouthed “Hank” to me. I watched his face go from relaxed to tense.