Hayburner (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (4 page)

THREE

Danny and I got home at about two in the afternoon. I put the colt in his corral and watched him sniff noses with the other two horses; the whole herd trotted about for a while, heads and tails high, giving long rolling snorts. I'm the toughest horse here, each one seemed to say. Of course, since I'd cross-fenced my field into three large corrals, the issue of who really was the toughest couldn't be contested, leaving all horses free to feel comfortably in charge.

I watched the geldings for a while, munching an apple from my Fuji tree and noting with pleasure what a pretty mover Danny was. Gunner, I was not pleased to see, was still slightly lame in his right hind. He'd developed navicular in that foot, a disease that causes degeneration of the small navicular bones, and had been lame for several months. I was treating him for it-so far with no success.

Frowning, I studied the hitch in his get-along, wondering what I ought to try next, both worried and at the same time aware that this was just part of the horse business. My part, actually. As a veterinarian, I was more than familiar with the way horses went inexplicably lame. Sometimes it was fixable, sometimes not.

I would put Gunner back on bute, I decided. Butazolidine was the equivalent of horse aspirin; often a regimen of one gram a day was necessary to keep navicular horses comfortable and sound.

Just my luck to have that odd aberration, a horse with navicular in a back foot. Usually navicular disease occurs in the front feet-a back foot is unusual. Still, as I knew, it was far from the worst problem I could have. I would persevere with treatments, and be grateful for the fact that I could give Gunner as much time off as he needed.

Walking over to his corral, I offered Gunner my apple core, which he took with alacrity. I rubbed the underside of his neck and told him what a good horse he was, then turned away. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Plumber watching me jealously. How, I wondered, was I ever going to find time for three horses; I didn't really have enough time for two.

I didn't know the answer; what I did know was that I was intrigued with the idea of breaking a colt. And as I'd told Glen, I had someone to help me. Or someone who might be willing to help me, anyway.

At the thought, I called Roey and walked up the hill. I had some housecleaning to do before this evening.

Shutting the dog in her pen, I stepped through my front door and surveyed the room. My small house-650 square feet-had one main room that did duty as living room, dining room, office, and kitchen. For a little house, it was a big room, about twenty feet by twenty feet, with another twenty feet to the peak of the open-beam ceiling, so the space didn't seem overly crowded.

One corner was devoted to a built-in desk with a computer on it, one contained a table and chairs, another was wrapped by a terra-cotta tile counter and a stainless steel refrigerator and stove, and the fourth contained a woodstove with a couch in front of it. The center of the room was open, the smooth, polished mahogany-colored wood floor padded and enhanced with a primitive Turkish wool rug in shades of old rose, amethyst, and coffee. At the moment, the rug itself was decorated with a layer of dog hair, as was the floor. Time to get to it; I had company coming over.

Removing my pager from my belt, I set it on the table. I was on call this weekend. Mercifully the vicious little black box hadn't beeped once all day, nor had my cell phone rung. After last night's emergency, I felt entitled to a little slack.

Of course, it doesn't always, or even usually, work like that. Some on-call weekends were peaceful, some hectic. This one had begun like-literally-a house on fire, but been quiet ever since. You never knew.

I busied myself with broom and vacuum, then scrubbed the kitchen and the bathroom. The work was enjoyable; I loved this little house. I'd purchased it slightly over two years ago, and its details constantly gave me satisfaction. From the rough golden pine plank walls to the gray stone hearth, to the warm terra-cotta of the tile counters, the house suited me perfectly, and I felt infinitely lucky to have discovered and afforded it.

I liked cleaning the house for visitors; it was a pleasure to show it off at its most beautiful. When the basic chores were done, I plumped up a few cushions, made a marinade and poured it on some skirt steaks, then went out into the garden to pick flowers.

This was the most delightful chore of all, though perhaps more of a challenge in October than at other times. As I stepped out the door, I felt a wave of hot, dusty air hit my skin, and winced. Damn, we needed rain.

Still, there were flowers in the garden. I picked a bouquet of white cosmos and put them in a turquoise glass vase, then brilliant mandarin orange tithonia daisies on long stalks for a big black lacquer jar on the desk. Twining sprays of flame-colored nasturtiums went in a cobalt blue bottle, and a cool green bud vase held one pale apricot Lady Hillingdon rose.

Placing the flowers about the room, I stood back and smiled. The house was what I wanted; it evoked the essence of a dwelling space. Simple, even primitive, in its size and functions, it was nonetheless beautiful and rich in textures and colors. It said what I had to say about home perfectly.

Now, I thought, time for me.

I took a long, leisurely bath, watching the late-afternoon light slant through my west-facing window and illuminate the Italian tile. Eventually, toweled off but with my hair still damp, I stood in front of my antique mirror surveying the clothes in my closet. What to wear?

Something sexy. I stared at the clothes before me. Subtly sexy, not overt. Something appropriate to the occasion. But what?

I held a simple silk sundress in a cool mint green up to my body. The color flattered my dark hair and olive complexion and made my eyes more green than blue; the silk felt great against my skin. Maybe this.

Slipping the dress over my shoulders, I stared into the mirror. I looked good; I had to admit. I'd lost weight during my depression, weight I could stand to lose. Though I would never be described as petite-I'm too tall and broad-shouldered for that-the word slender would not be out of place. I was as fit, trim, and curvy as I had ever been in my life; my small breasts hadn't started to sag and my rear end was firm and round. I smiled.

The smile accentuated the lines around my eyes; my body might look twenty-five, but my face certainly didn't. This was okay with me. I wrinkled my nose and smiled again. This, I thought, is the first time in many years that I've looked kindly at my own reflection. Come to think of it, I couldn't remember ever looking kindly at my reflection. This might be an all-time first.

I paused in the act of combing my wet hair to wonder what had changed. Yes, I'd lost weight, but it was more than that. I had a new acceptance of myself, lines and all. Depression, difficult as it had been, had brought a change that was for the good. Depression and the therapy that went with it and my sojourn in Europe, I thought. All that, and maybe the prospect of tonight's company.

Running my fingers through my hair to ruffle its combed neatness, I smoothed some skin cream on my face and then painted a deep rose lipstick on my mouth. Enough.

I slipped my feet into sandals and headed outside. Afternoon was easing into a warm fall evening as I opened the gate to the vegetable garden. I pulled a carrot for Roey to chew-she loved vegetables-and began to select lettuces, tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, carrots, and basil for a salad and zucchini, crooknecks, and potatoes to go with the steak.

When my basket was full, I carried it up to the house to wash and clean the vegetables. I arranged the salad in a blue-and-white bowl and put the squash and potatoes on the chopping block next to the stove. Flipping the skirt steaks, still basking in their marinade, I went out to the woodpile and gathered some kindling and small pieces of applewood, suitable for a cooking fire, and brought them up to the porch.

As I dumped the ash out of the portable tin barbecue pit, fertilizing the climbing red rose Altissimo, which festooned one pillar of my porch, I stared at the small pond that lay just beyond the railing. This pond was my latest garden project; I'd begun it after I got back from Europe, and completed it a month ago. It had since become my favorite feature in the whole garden.

Of course, gardens are like that. Last year I was obsessed with tea roses; this year with water lilies. Soon it would be garden statuary, perhaps. I never knew what would grip me next. But for the moment, I delighted in my little pond, with its shifting orange-and-white goldfish and one glowing pale yellow Chromatella water lily, just catching the long rays of evening sunlight.

What could be better, I thought, as I built the fire and put a box of matches ready to light it. What could possibly be better than my garden on a golden October evening with a full moon about to rise and company for dinner? My chosen company.

Going back into the house, I took a final look around. The sun shone in through the high window, illuminating a surreal landscape painting on the pine plank wall. I stared. The scene of rolling tawny hills surrounding a cobalt blue water shape took me back in an instant to the Costa Brava. I took a deep breath. The Costa Brava was here with me.

I got tortilla chips and salsa and put them in bowls on the table, found my favorite pitcher and tumblers, of clear sea green Mexican glass with a deep blue rim. As I turned to set them on the counter, I could see a pickup truck coming up my driveway.

Blue was here.

FOUR

Blue Winter, my chosen company, got out of his truck carrying a veritable armful of roses. I held the door open for him, smiling, as he maneuvered both the roses and a brown paper bag that clinked into the room.

"I plundered the display garden," he said, ducking his head a little, and grinning.

"You mean you didn't buy these for me?" I teased, though I knew very well he hadn't. These roses were not the stiff, prim flowers of florist shops; these were opulent, loose, open blooms in the widest possible range of sun-drenched colors-coral red, straw yellow, apricot gold, blush pink.

I lifted one unfamiliar blossom in a rich peach tone and smiled at the unique fragrance-spicy rather than sweet.

"I call that rose Leonie," Blue said, answering my unspoken question. "I can't say her full name, though I'll write it down for you if you want. Too many tea roses have these darn unpronounceable French names." He grinned again, showing slightly crooked teeth and an engaging warmth in his blue-gray eyes.

"Surely a rose grower should speak French." I looked up-Blue was all of six and a half feet tall-and wished I could run my fingers through the red-gold curls that showed under the brim of his gray fedora hat. But we weren't quite on those terms yet.

"I just grow 'em, I don't sell 'em. Somebody else does that." Blue watched as I filled a large clear glass vase with water and began arranging the roses in it. "I know you have plenty of tea roses of your own," he said. "I just thought. ..."

"No, no," I broke in, "this is great. I almost hate to pick my roses this time of year, there're so few of them. This is a treat."

We smiled at each other, the initial awkwardness of meeting again after a couple of weeks wearing off. Both Blue and I had busy lives; between my veterinary work and his job as a plant breeder and greenhouse manager for a local rose growing company, we'd only managed to get together a few times since I'd come home from Europe. I sensed that our mutual interest was growing, though, and wondered whether we were near that inevitable step into intimacy.

"Can I make you a drink?" he asked.

"You sure can." I gestured at the pitcher and glasses set out on the counter and watched him unpack tequila, orange liqueur, and limes out of his brown paper bag.

Blue began cutting and squeezing the limes; as he had his back to me, I took the opportunity to stare at him a little. Well, maybe lust after him was more accurate. I wanted to run my hands across the broad shoulders, stroke that long back, and then work my way down. Watching Blue's slender fingers as he squeezed lime juice into the pitcher, I imagined those fingers touching me and shivered. Just how long had I been celibate, anyway?

A year, almost. Too long. Blue and I had engaged in a few good-night kisses on our last couple of dates-passion there, but held in on both sides, or so I thought. We were waiting. For what, I wasn't quite sure.

Blue was pouring tequila into the pitcher now; I watched the ritual of cocktail mixing with pleasure. How delightful it was to share this with someone I enjoyed at the end of a sunny fall day.

The pitcher was full and Blue was stirring; ice cubes clinked briskly.

 
"Shall we sit on the porch?" I asked.

"You bet." Blue poured two glasses full of pale green liquid over ice and followed me out the door. Taking a seat on the bench where I could see the pond, I accepted a glass.

"Here's to you, Stormy," Blue said.

I clinked my glass against his. "Here's to us."

We both drank; the margarita tasted of sweet citrus and salty tequila.

 
Blue smiled. "Ahh. Strong and sweet. Just like I like my women."

I smiled back. "Is that right? Do I qualify?"

Blue met my eyes and sat down next to me; I could feel his shoulder and arm against mine, feel our thighs touching. I tingled everywhere my skin met his.