Night Mares in the Hamptons (13 page)

I
'D NEVER MET A REAL COWBOY BEFORE. It's not like they were littering the sidewalks of Manhattan or riding the Jitney out to the Hamptons. This one was right out of one of those books Mrs. Terwilliger had given me. Larger than life, ready to stake his claim, lead the posse, round up dogies—or dance hall girls. I didn't think he was serious enough to be any help in our crisis. His horse might be well trained and perfectly disciplined. Tyler Farraday sure as hell wasn't.

“I don't know if you understand the gravity of our situation.”

“I got an earful from London, then a pile of emails while we drove.”

“Yes, but we mostly need help at night. This night.”

He looked around at the people drifting away from the commons, calling out cheerful good-byes.

“Your townsfolk don't appear hostile or running loco, like I was expecting. I reckoned we'd have to pour some tranquilizer in the local water.”

“Half the town drinks well water. But you wouldn't drug—” I realized he was laughing at me. I also realized he thought I'd pushed a panic button for no good reason. “The calm you see is thanks to Doc Lassiter, whatever he does. It can't last forever, not when the white mares are galloping through the town tonight. Or through my front yard.”

He dropped the horse's reins—Paloma Blanca stood like a statue—and came closer still until we were almost toe to toe. “Darlin',” he whispered, “I wouldn't be much good to you tonight.”

Oh, hell, he thought
I
was coming on to
him
, inviting him to spend the night. I stepped back and looked around to see if anyone had heard. Uncle Henry was saying good night to Grandma and Doc. Susan had flounced back from an obviously failed mission to capture the Condor, exchanged not so friendly words with her parents, then went to help load up the restaurant supplies. Everyone else was drifting away. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“You know, the flirting and the innuendoes. You weren't sent here to start an affair.”

“I wasn't?” He stopped smiling. “Lady, no one sends me anywhere, not even your pretty boy Brit. I quit his organization years ago, and I don't take orders from anyone. Understand? I come and go when I want, or when I think I can help an animal or a person who needs it, or just for the hell of going somewhere new, seeing something different. Or when there's a big enough prize offered.”

That bothered me even more than his independence. I knew he'd be hard to manage from the first “darlin',” not that someone had to bribe him to come. Money changed people's loyalties, made their motives suspect. “They're paying you, like a hired gunslinger?”

“What have you been doing, watching old John Wayne westerns? I came because a friend asked, and because I wanted to. Clear on that?”

“Clear. But that's no excuse for looking at me like I'm dessert. Or flirting.”

He smiled again. “Honey, I'll stop flirting as soon as I stop breathing. And you are the prettiest sight I've seen in ages. Apple pie and whipped cream, with vanilla ice cream on the side.”

“And Grant's girlfriend.”

He grinned. “That, too.”

“His former girlfriend.”

“Even better.”

“Well, I don't like being called darling, Mr. Farraday. Or honey or sweet pea. It's sexist.”

He held his hat to his heart in mock chagrin. “It is? In my neck of the woods, it's called being friendly.”

“Just where is your neck of the woods?”

“Anywhere I hang my hat, but I have a ranch in Texas.”

“I should have known from the swagger.”

“Yup, that's us all right. But I was born in London. My mother got her doctorate in animal behavior at Royce.”

So did my mother, but that wasn't the point. “I knew that Southern drawl was false.”

“No such thing. My folks moved back to the States when I was three. I only went back to study in England for a semester. I missed my horses. And the Southern belles. Now I see I should have come north years ago.”

“You're doing it again!”

“Sorry, darlin'. It's like breathing, remember.”

“Well, you can forget about it, Mr. Farraday, because I'm not like Susan.”

He looked over at her, where she was giggling as Big Eddie, the band's drummer, and one of the waiters at the Breakaway tripped over each other to help load her soup cauldrons. “Hell, lady, I sure am glad of that.”

I wanted to kick him out of loyalty to Susan, but I
was
a lady, most times anyway. “Do you think you could at least call me by my name? Willow or Willy.”

“If you stop with the mister crap.”

I agreed, and he held out his hand to shake on the deal. Not that he'd agreed to stop hitting on me. Or to get to work on the Harbor's problem, for that matter. But we had to work together, I supposed, so I put my hand in his.

Oh, boy.

His hand was big and strong, which I should have expected in someone who worked with horses. But I didn't expect my own reaction.

When I touched Doc's hand, I'd felt his warmth flowing through me, over me like a soft blanket of approval and encouragement. This wasn't like that. Not at all.

Instead of giving, Ty seemed to be taking. My thoughts, my will, my determination not to trust him, not to let him play with me. I didn't think he was actually controlling my mind. First, because I'd been told no one could without my permission. And second, because he seemed as surprised as I was at the spark that flared between us—a metaphorical spark, thank goodness, or I'd go up in flames. But his simple touch made the world narrow to just the two of us, a circle inside a circle, both of us wanting to give more, to take more, to share more.

No! I wasn't over Grant yet, or sure I'd made the right decision. I did not want anything from Tex and I'd be damned if I gave him another second's thought, much less a roll in the hay. I snatched my hand away and stepped back, right into Grandma, who'd come to say good night and invite Ty to breakfast at her house in the morning, where we could figure out what to do.

Ty thanked her for the invitation, set his hat back on his head, and whistled to Paloma Blanca, who trotted to his side.

I wished him a good night and pleasant dreams. Hah! If he had an iota of psi sensitivity, not just sex appeal, he'd be ragged by morning. If he didn't have the sensitivity we needed, I'd send him off in the morning. The man was too dangerous to keep around. Like having a bobcat in your backyard. Pretty and rare, but hell on house pets.

He got in the last word: “Oh, I intend to have real pleasant dreams, darlin', of a willow who bends but doesn't break.”

 

In this day and age, when a woman meets a man she might want to know better, she doesn't invite him home for coffee or a beer. She goes on the Internet.

Tyler Farraday had a lot of links on a basic Google search. I went to his web page first. He looked younger in the picture, but who puts up an untouched shot? He also looked gorgeous in a fancy black Western shirt showing broad shoulders, with mountains in the background. Horses ran in a fenced-in area right behind him. His bio was short, no age, place of birth, or hometown, but full of credits. This equestrian show, that breeders' award, a handful of civic citations for work with horse rescue groups, a man of the year award from a horseman's association, more charitable organizations he supported or served on the boards.

The second page showed his ranch from an overhead shot. The place was huge, so whatever he was doing must pay well. Or maybe such an expensive operation forced him to do the flashy stuff for income.

Beneath the ranch picture were thumbnails of several horses. Clicking on the first, a pretty mare not as pretty as Paloma Blanca, led to a page about the horses he raised and trained. The second horse led to modern, hotel-worthy stables where he boarded and conditioned other owners' animals. The horse names mentioned meant nothing to me, nor did the stables they belonged to. The fact that some were Olympic champions, rodeo winners, even racehorses meant Ty Farraday was no run-of-the-mill trainer. He handled unbroken horses, troubled horses, difficult horses, and made them right.

The next thumbnail was a spotted horse like Lady Sparrow. Its click led to a herd of wild mustangs on Ty's ranch. The text explained how the rescued horses were harbored there until they were fit for private use. Becoming a backyard pony mightn't be the ideal life for a free-ranging mustang, but it was better than the usual alternative for horses on overcrowded government lands: being rounded up and slaughtered for dog meat. A picture showed children riding rescued horses. Everyone looked happy.

Back at the home page, another button connected to a YouTube video of Ty and Paloma Blanca in an arena, performing dressage movements that appeared impossible for anyone but a centaur. Ty never moved, not a hand, not a leg, nothing, not even his lips, but the horse practically flew like the dove she was named for.

I followed the link to Paloma Blanca's own website. A calendar of bookings, a contact button for her agent, a page of fan mail, her pages-long Lipizzaner bloodline. I never knew the famous Spanish Riding School ever let their rare horses be sold out of stable. I wondered how much Ty had to pay for such an animal, or who he had to screw. No, that was unworthy of me, and him. He was obviously good with horses, exceptionally good.

Maybe he could help the night mares after all, if he started using his talents instead of his libido.

I was getting blurry-eyed by now, but I followed one more link to the Condor's home page.

This one had even less personal information. Connor Redstone was one hundred percent Native American, but with no tribe named. He'd been raised on a reservation, but not which one. He held a two-year associate degree in veterinary technology, but not from what school. Scrolling down, I saw pictures of Connor on Lady Sparrow, who was described as a cutting horse, whatever that was. I followed the web path to see them chasing a bunch of sheep and, sure enough, cutting one with a dye mark on its back away from the others.

The only other link on Connor's page went right back to Ty's website.

I'd seen enough. They were professional horsemen, all right. That made me feel a little better. I worried what Connor was hiding, and I still didn't like Ty Farraday's attitude, his casual brush-off of Paumanok Harbor's horrors. It seemed the cowboy would rather score points against Grant than exert himself with the otherworld mares.

We'd discuss the horses, and his attitude, in the morning.

I brushed chocolate chip cookie crumbs off my lap and my laptop, then took the dogs out to the fenced-in yard for their last run. The night sky was clear, strewn with stars and a nearly full moon. The temperature had dropped some, but was still comfortable, with the usual dampish breeze from the bay to frizz my hair. I looked toward Grandma's place, thinking this was a good time to spot the mares, but what would I do if I saw them? Try to convince them to go home without their young one? They'd trample me for sure. I would, if I were a distraught horse mother or aunt. I didn't even know if I could communicate with them on any level. Or if Ty Farraday could.

I kept the dogs out longer than usual. I guess I didn't want to go to bed, even if my eyes felt scratchy and I couldn't help yawning. I didn't want to sleep, even though I knew I had to try to find the colt in my dreams. I wasn't getting any help from my posters. Or my new partner. I wasn't looking forward to another bad night.

With Little Red settled on the other pillow, I climbed into bed with Louis L'Amour. I skimmed to page seventy-five without finding one woman in the book except a boardinghouse landlady. There was no heroine, no tender feelings or soul-searching, no leavening of the testosterone level. Not my cup of tea either. I turned off the light, then got up again to pull the window shades down, to keep out the moonlight. The dogs were quiet, but I checked the yard once more, just in case, before getting back in bed. No horses in Grandma's herbs. No mares in the marigolds, no equines in the—

I fell asleep trying to come up with another alliteration.

I don't know how long I slept, but suddenly I could sense the bare little room with raw wood walls and a single light bulb. There was the young girl with useless legs, slumped against the wall, a figure of utter despondency. Her hair was tangled; her face was streaked with tears. I knew she was losing hope that her family would pay the ransom for her release.

Same as last time, I was an observer in this part of the dream, watching Hetty. Last time I shifted from watching to becoming, entering the mind of the colt, until I became him in my nightmare. I knew the handicapped child would be rescued soon—I knew because I'd written it that way—so I tried to skip past her, bracing my sleeping self to suffer the anguished emotions of the terrified young animal.

Instead, I was a redhead. Still asleep, I felt myself smile at Janie's influence on my dream. Except the me in my dream had red pubic hair. Red pubic hair? Holy hell, I was wearing leather chaps, belted low on my hips, and nothing else. Not a stitch. I looked behind me, saw too many chocolate chip cookies on my ass. I looked down, saw my breasts, not quite as perky as they used to be or as lush as I wished, but still respectable. Then I noticed that my nipples were hard.

God damn, this was not me. This was not my dream! Wide awake and panting, I leaped out of bed. I was
not
going to be the star of that man's x-rated imaginings. I might be a horse. I sure as hell wasn't going to be a hooker!