Night Mares in the Hamptons (15 page)

“You can forget that.”

He reached over and petted the Pomeranian, without getting his fingers bitten, which was a miracle in itself. “With apologies to Little Red, I really like blondes better.”

That was good, right?

W
E WERE BOTH QUIET FOR AWHILE, not in an awkward silence that itched to be filled, but a comfortable pause filled with whispery night sounds. Then something small moved in the row of junipers near the road. Red started barking. Ty put one hand on his nose and murmured something. Red sat back down, his plumed tail curled around his feet.

I was impressed. “My mother would love you.”

He laughed. “Most mothers don't.”

“I can imagine, but my mother is different.”

“I can imagine. You're different.”

With the night as a cloak of invisibility, I felt comfortable asking more personal questions. “What's yours like? Can she talk to animals?”

“I don't know. I know she had degrees in animal behavior, but she died a year after we returned to the States. I was too young to understand what she did. My father never spoke of it.”

“I'm sorry.” As difficult as my mother was, I couldn't imagine growing up without her.

“There's no need to feel sorry for me. My father remarried to a nice woman who brought me up to say please and thank you and yes, ma'am. Her family had a quarter horse stud. I was in heaven.”

I pictured Tyler Farraday as a cute little towhead hanging over a corral fence or slipping out of his bed to sleep in the stable. He must have been a devil. “Were you ever married? It didn't say on your bio page.” (And I didn't say I was dying of curiosity.) “Divorced? Kids?”

“No, no, and no. Gun-shy, I guess. Besides, there are too many horses, too little time. Too good a time.”

I leaned back on the blanket and stared up at the stars. The vastness above us made human foibles seen trifling. “Texas tumbleweed.”

“Maybe.”

The night also dismantled the social barriers, so I felt freer to say what I thought. “Do you miss it . . . home, family, children?”

“I've got it all anytime I visit my folks, my ranch, or Con's family. I love to visit, love to leave. Everywhere I go there are hordes of kids, all wanting a ride on Pal. There are hordes of aunties wanting babies to spoil.”

“I get that, too.”

“No inclination to play house?”

“I thought I did, but I guess I didn't like the architecture.”

“Grant?”

“Yeah. We came close to a fairy-tale ending, but I got cold feet.”

“His nibs seems warm-blooded enough, for a Brit.”

Warm-blooded? Grant was a hottie. He was so hot I had burn marks on my sheets. He was so hot I had to carry a fire extinguisher when we went to parties to douse the women who panted after him. He was the sexiest man I'd ever met . . . until this afternoon. Lust is great for an affair, though not so good for a life-long commitment, especially if you have nothing else in common. In fact, I wondered if the attraction between us wasn't more physical than anything else.

“Heat was never the problem,” I said, regretting it instantly. Damn, was I discussing my sex life with a man I'd just
met
this afternoon? “I realized I like my work, my home, my independence. I'm not ready to give it up, especially to a man I'd only known for a month.”

“Paumanok Harbor petunia.”

I know he was getting back at me for calling him a Texas tumbleweed, but I wasn't a clinging vine, or a fledgling afraid to leave the nest. I wasn't. I had every intention of going back to my Manhattan apartment at the end of the summer. The apartment where I'd lived most of my life. Still . . .

“That's not it. I worried that he was set up by the Royce matchmakers. He was really into their philosophy. You're not, are you?”

“What, let some Brit researcher pick me a wife?” He laughed. “No chance.”

“Good. Me, neither. Besides, I worried that I couldn't write my books if I was too busy living the life Grant led. I wouldn't be the same person. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, like I feel adrift if I'm not with my horses. Your cousin showed me your books. She keeps a special shelf of them in her apartment, said you put love and laughter into every one.”

“She's my mother's cousin. She has to like my books.”

“Nah. I saw some reviews, lists of awards. You're good.”

So he'd checked me out online, too. I was okay with that, I guess. I wish I'd gone ego surfing to see if anyone wrote anything bad he might find. God, what if someone put an old college dorm party picture up somewhere?

“She said I could borrow one any time.”

“I'll give you copies if you really want them. Your nieces and nephews might enjoy them, but you don't have to read them yourself.”

“I want to. The excerpts I saw looked good.” He tapped the poster on his chair's armrest. “And I know you're a fine artist. To do both, you must be some kind of creative genius.”

I was embarrassed by the praise. And thrilled. “They're just graphic novels, not great literature.”

“They get people's attention, get kids reading. I'd say that's worth a lot of dead Russians. In fact, maybe I can get you to help me write up a personal ad.”

My mouth must have fallen open because a gnat flew in. When I stopped coughing, I asked, “Match.com? For you?”

Even in the dark I could see his grin. “Darlin', do you really think I need to advertise for a date?”

Well, no. A bodyguard, maybe, to beat the rodeo groupies away.

“It's time to breed Paloma Blanca. I don't want to send her back to Austria, and I didn't care for the one Lipizzan breeder in the States I met.”

“Does she have to be bred to a Lipizzan? I mean, would she care?”

“The Spanish Riding School cares, and I signed a contract when I got her. In case you're wondering how I could afford a treasure like Pal, I did a favor for them in Austria, saved some horses they couldn't. I didn't charge them—hell, it was worth my time and trouble just to be near the horses—but she was my reward. The fools didn't think she was up to their standards.”

“She seems perfect to me.”

He rumbled a pleased thank you. The way to a man's heart—this man's heart, if anyone was looking for the path—was obviously through his horses. “But maybe she responds better to you than to the idiots who parted with her.”

“Maybe. Anyway, there are enough stallions around and I could research who's at stud, for which arm and leg, but I haven't done it yet.”

“I should think a picture of her on Facebook would have the stallions come running.”

I could hear the smile in his voice. “She's a beauty, isn't she? I figure she deserves more than a vial of sperm.”

I wanted to ask if horses cared and how he knew. I mean, mares didn't usually get to pick and choose their mates, did they? Breeders did it for them as far as I knew. Kind of like the Royce Institute playing matchmaker with its young talent, breeding for whatever genetic traits they could invent or improve on, breeding to better the herd.

In the wild, in the past, the biggest, strongest stallion claimed his harem. He kept them together and guarded them against any other would-be stud. The females didn't get a vote. Like the Institute throwing big, strong prospects at recalcitrant mares, er, bachelor women. I was resisting.

Still, my ever fertile brain came up with an image of Ty fending off cowboys, cops, and bureaucrats to protect his leather-clad ladies. I bet that was how he got his broken nose. With the intimacy and the anonymity of the darkness, I asked.

“A jealous boyfriend or a horse that wouldn't listen?”

“Honey, they always listen. The horses don't always agree with me, is all. I've got a bunch of broken ribs and a cracked skull to prove it. But if a troublemaking guy doesn't listen, I talk a little louder, is all.” He raised his right fist. “Real loud.”

“The law of the jungle.”

“Nah, just Texas. Don't tread on me.”

“Someone did if it wasn't a horse.”

He touched his nose. “The first one was from playing football.”

“I would have thought you'd be too light for that.”

“If you're in Texas and you want a girl, you play football. I quarterbacked. Mightn't have thrown bullets, but I could outrun those half-ton tacklers. Most of the time. The second break was a horse, or on account of a horse. Some bastard was using a chain whip on an old pinto. I took exception.”

“What happened?”

“I got blood all over a cop car, the bastard went to jail for animal cruelty when he got out of the hospital, and the pinto lived an easy life on my farm until he died of old age.”

“Nice. Like my mother's senior rescues. Not many people will take in an old, tired dog that's going to get expensive, then break your heart. They still deserve love and affection and the best care you can provide.”

“Sure. I'd like your mother, too. Maybe I'll get to meet her someday.”

“Not unless you're on a picket line protesting carriage horses in Central Park.”

“I've been there. The horses don't seem to mind, now that they don't have to be out in freezing cold or boiling heat. They kind of enjoy getting dressed up and having their pictures taken. It's better'n kids' birthday parties, anyway.”

I couldn't tell if he was serious or not, but we were way off track, if our track was going to reach the colt. “Maybe I should go inside and try to dream about the missing horse.”

“Can you order your dreams around like toy soldiers?”

Not if the redhead in chaps was any indication. “I can try. I was thinking about my new story the first time, about a paralyzed girl who needs a magic horse to help her fight evil. She's been kidnapped. But then she's the lost colt, in my dreams, of course. And I can feel his emotions.”

“But you had nothing to do with the mares coming here?” I heard the suspicion in his voice.

“No! I would not steal anyone's baby just to make a better story. And I would never let the little guy be so scared. I need to get back to him, to let him know we're looking.”

“I think that might require the both of us.”

“Dreaming together? That would mean we were sleeping together!”

“All for the greater good, I reckon.”

I reckoned, insofar as a New Yorker could reckon, that he was teasing for sure this time. Maybe. “I'll try it my way first.”

He shrugged. “Stubborn as a mule. But I wouldn't be here elsewise. They could have sent an exorcist.”

“To get rid of the magic horses? Is such a thing possible?”

He shrugged again. “The pied piper never talked to the rats, did he?”

I stood up and started to gather my stuff. “I can't tell if you're serious or not, Mr. Farraday, and this is too important to be making jokes about.”

“It's no joke that I think we were meant to be partners. One way or another. Hell, it was all I could do to remember to chant, when I remembered you in that pretty dress you wore tonight. And the high-heeled sandals that made your legs look—”

I picked up Little Red.

“No, don't go yet. The mares might still come, and I need you to help me stay awake. Besides, you won't get to sleep while you're in a snit.”

“I am not in a snit.” But I set the dog back down. I doubted I'd get any helpful dreaming done while the cowboy was in my front yard. Dreaming together, my ass! I didn't even want to talk to him anymore, not if he was going to keep treating me like a cowgirl centerfold. But I did want to see the mares, and the stars were still out.

“Why don't you take a nap? I'll keep watch and wake you if I hear or see anything.”

He yawned. “Can you chant?”

“No, but I can visualize the horses all reunited and home where they belong. I can try to do what Doc does, give them hope and confidence. Maybe they'll come to me for that.”

“Chanting is good, too.”

He started the low incantation, but I could tell by the hesitations that he was too tired to keep it up for long. I found the noise enchanting, but too distracting for me to concentrate on the mares. “Rest for awhile. I'll wake you if they come.”

He pulled his chair over, so I could lean against his legs. “Your back'll ache otherwise.”

Before I knew it, I was leaning back. Little Red had jumped up to curl asleep in his lap, which was about as much magic as I expected for one night.

I breathed in the smell of earth and salt water and honeysuckle and something else: horse. I peered into the darkness, ready to shake Ty awake.