Chance Meeting (6 page)

Clyde met them as father and son climbed out of Steve Sr.’s vintage Cadillac.

“Steve, Shepp,” he called out jovially. “Good to see you!”

Grinning, the men shook hands, and Clyde thumped a broad hand across Steve’s back. He stepped back and surveyed the younger man. “And how’s life up north treating you?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Looking a mite lean, though. You been growing again, or is the food as bad as they say?”

“Like sawdust,” Steve groused good-humoredly, his blue eyes twinkling. “It’s a crying shame what happens to food once you leave the state of Kentucky. Folks have no idea how to make a decent barbecue. Most of the people I talk to seem to think burgoo is some kind of cleaning product.”

“No culture at all.” Clyde nodded sagely. “A terrible tragedy.”

“That’s why I had to come back home for a visit. You know my ma and Maggie’s cooking.”

Clyde made an appreciative grunt. Olivia Sheppard’s cooking was a treat not to be missed, and her elder daughter, Maggie, was following in her footsteps. Maggie’d started a catering business that offered everything from race day picnics to four course dinners. She was saving her earnings to open a restaurant. And as most everyone down here liked to dump on the folks up north in one respect or another, Shepp’s pronouncement only confirmed what everyone already knew.

“So, I hear you’re in the market for a new horse. Well, you’ve come to the right state for that, too.”

“Might be. At least a good place to start.” Shepp knew Clyde well. They were friends, Clyde had been his mentor, but business was business. Clyde would think he’d turned into a fool if he showed too much eagerness.

“Looking for anything in particular?” Clyde asked as the three men began walking toward the white and gray wooden barns.

“A youngster. Barely started or green. Big enough to carry me and still have something left over.”

They passed grooms coming and going, leading horses in and out of the fenced pastures. It was still early enough in the morning for many of the horses that had spent the night out in the fields to be led back to their barns, the horses scheduled for daytime turnout taking their places. Quite a few of the grooms walking them recognized Shepp and his father and nodded or called out a friendly greeting. The horse world was an intimate one down here, racing, showing, breeding, all interconnected. The business of horses melded with the passionate love of them.

“So, Shepp, you’ve been making quite a name for yourself recently,” Clyde was saying as the three of them moved in the direction of the main barn. “Not too shabby, getting on the cover of both
Equus
and
Practical Horseman
in the same month. Who owns that horse you’ve been riding?”

“Richard and Eleanor Palmer. Jasmine is the mare’s name. Tell you the truth, Clyde, I’m pretty sure the only reason I made those covers is because of that mare’s owners. Not that the horse doesn’t deserve it.”

“They’re rolling in dough?”

Steve nodded. “Unbelievable.”

Clyde gave another grunt. “Well, we better find you a horse that’s mighty special, then you two’ll make the headlines all by yourself.”

Steve laughed. “That’d be real nice, Clyde, but remember, unlike most of your clients, I’m operating on a budget.”

With horses, Steve was willing to believe in love at first sight.

“Who’s this?” Steve tried to keep his voice casual.

“That’s Fancy. Fancy Free. Two years old. Out of Belleslettres by Sudden Glory. Belleslettres was European champion three years in a row. Fancy has a bit more to grow, might even reach 16.1 h. Sudden Glory is a big son of a gun.” Clyde glanced appraisingly at Steve and his father. “Want me to bring him out?”

Steve hadn’t even seen the young horse’s body yet. Just Fancy Free’s small, black, elegant head watching him over the door of his stall. It had been pure chance that Steve had happened to look into Fancy Free’s eyes, which favored the Arab in him, wide-set and huge, and had seen such intelligence there that he’d been unable to look away.

“Sure, why not.”

“He’s a little temperamental, got loads of spunk, so watch his hindquarters. I’ll take him out into the sunshine. You can look him over in a better light. He has a real nice build.”

Steve held his breath as Clyde hooked the lead rope to Fancy Free’s leather halter. Steve and his father stood to the side as Clyde led him out of the stall and down the barn’s wide corridor. The horse’s shoes rang out rhythmically against the concrete floor. Father and son followed, neither saying a word. The sound of Fancy Free’s hoofbeats changed as he was led into the courtyard. It became the subtler, more drawn-out sound of gravel crushed and pushed aside as the young gelding walked out into the morning sun. The noise stopped, and silence settled over the men studying the horse. Clyde Farrell certainly knew how to breed a beautiful horse. Fancy Free was black as coal, with only a single white marking: a jagged blaze down the center of his diamond-shaped head. He was a lovely-looking animal, elegant and compact.

“Where is he in his training, Clyde?”

“Just flat work at this point and a few ground rails. He’s quick, though. His gaits are real smooth, naturally balanced.”

“Would you mind if I try him out?”

“Be my guest. Here, take his lead while I go grab his tack.” Clyde gave Steve a broad wink. “We already groomed him for you this morning. Something told me he might catch your eye.” He gave the gelding a fond pat on the withers. “You know, I actually had a potential buyer for Fancy last week. Good thing for you this couple was dumber than dirt. Can you believe what the lady told me, in all seriousness?

Said she liked him fine, but she was actually hoping to buy a chestnut ‘cause then it would match her coloring better.” Clyde gave a loud snort of disgust.

“Her coloring?”

“Yeah, you know, her hair color or whatever. I told her in that case, she should think about dyeing her hair black because she wouldn’t find a better horse than Fancy anywhere in the state of Kentucky, that

meaning the entire U.S. of A. She got all huffy and dragged her husband away.” Clyde scratched his chin reflectively. “I probably wouldn’t have sold Fancy to them, anyway. He was too good for them.”

Steve and his father smiled and shook their heads. Trainers and breeders enjoyed few things more in life than griping about the idiocy they encountered in the horse world. As soon as Clyde had disappeared into the barn’s interior, however, Steve Sr. turned to his son, all business.

“Don’t go getting all mushy over a pretty face, now, Steve. The gelding’s a looker, all right, but for all we know, he might have been born with four left hooves.” His father didn’t sound as if he believed his words of caution himself.

Steve reached out and stroked the velvety skin between Fancy Free’s wide nostrils. His hands and eyes then moved along the graceful curve of his neck. The shock of recognition, when he’d first laid eyes on Fancy Free, hadn’t diminished at all. Every instinct told him this was it. This horse was the one. The feeling transcended all logic. But it was as strong and insistent as the beating of his heart. And while his father was right to voice a certain skepticism, Steve knew that he was going to trust his instinct when it came to this young gelding.

“Pop, as one betting man to another, I’m willing to make a wager with you right now, before I even have a chance to hop on his back and see how he moves. I’ll wager Clyde’s asking price that in seven years’

time, this horse and I will be at the top of the show jumping world.”

Silently, carefully, Steve Sr. inspected Fancy Free once more. The horse was standing quietly, but even motionless he radiated energy. His head held high, his nostrils flared, his intelligent eyes were fixed on the distant pastures where other horses grazed. His long black tail was extended, individual strands lifting slightly in the warm summer breeze.

Steve’s father continued his scrutiny of the gelding’s conformation, searching for any hint of weakness or flaw, finding nothing but strength and beauty. His connoisseur’s gaze moved up and down the horse’s legs. He knelt close, running his hands up and down, his fingers probing for swelling in the tendons, any slight puffiness that might signal injury. Finally, he stood, a small smile hovering about his lips as he gave his son an answer: “Sorry, Steve, but you know I don’t take sucker bets.”

5

“
W
e’ll have to organize a party for after the show at Madison Square Garden. I’ll get Smythe to write up a guest list.”

“Really, Father, a party’s not necessary. Just qualifying for the National is exciting enough.”

“Nonsense. We’ll need to celebrate your winning the Medal class.”

Ty stared at her father. He was standing before her in his library. An interior designer had been hired to decorate it, his mission to underscore Tyler Stannard’s immense wealth in this and every single other room in the mansion. Against one wall stood floor-to-ceiling oak bookshelves, filled with perfectly aligned rows of Moroccan leather–bound books which no one ever disturbed. On the opposite side of the room, an enormous fireplace had been built of imported Italian marble. Green, gray, and black marble were inlaid in an intricate pattern modeled after one of the fireplaces in the Palazzo Medici in Florence. Above the massive mantelpiece hung a Picasso depicting a female armed with long, daggerlike teeth and eyes grotesquely distorted, their stare cross-eyed.

Ty hated the painting and always tried to avoid looking at it. She knew, however, that the Picasso hung there for a specific reason. Two years ago, Smythe had been sent to bid for the painting at an auction held at Sotheby’s in New York with strict instructions that he wasn’t to return to the Stannard mansion without it. The following day, her father’s purchase had made the headlines in all the major papers, having set a record for Picassos that had come on the art market. As Tyler Stannard’s representative, Smythe had emerged victorious after a furious bidding war that involved several major museums and some Japanese and Arab collectors, too. No one who entered her father’s library could fail to recognize the artist, the painting, or the vast amount of money at her father’s disposal. Alight scent of beeswax lingered in the air, proof that the staff, before Ty or her father had even stirred from their beds, had performed the daily task of rubbing the mahogany desk, which had once belonged to J. P. Morgan, by the side of which her father now stood. He was as meticulously polished as the room. Although it was a Saturday in August and the temperature had soared to ninety-eight degrees, Tyler Stannard was dressed in a perfectly tailored Savile Row gray wool suit. His white shirt had been sewn in Paris by a shirtmaker near the Ritz who had her father’s measurements and details of shirts, pajamas, and bathrobes previously ordered, written down in a black leather notebook he kept with him at all times. Just in case Mr. Stannard should happen to call. The tie, a baroque swirl of navy, gray, and dark green, came from Milan.

He was a handsome man.
Patrician
was the adjective the magazines and newspapers used to describe her father’s tall frame, his carefully pommaded hair, his piercing gray eyes. Right now those eyes were regarding her with impatience, because she’d taken too long in replying. Few people dared to keep Tyler Stannard waiting for anything.

“But, Father, you don’t truly expect me to win the Medal class at the Garden. The finals are a whole different story from the regional classes. The best junior equitation riders from the entire country will be there. While it would be thrilling to win a ribbon, I’d be as pleased to have a good, clean round.”

“You aren’t talking like a Stannard.” It was unnecessary to specify which Stannard she should emulate—he was the only other one alive. “I didn’t spend such a huge amount of money on that horse of yours to see you settle for second place. If you truly feel you aren’t up to the challenge, I suggest you call up Meghan and schedule some extra lessons. You can practice until you are,” was her father’s implacable reply. The look accompanying his words told Ty it was pointless to say any more on the subject.

Indeed, Ty’s father was already turning his attention to the papers that Smythe had organized, lying next to the dark blue rectangle of his passport. His jet was leaving for Paris in an hour. There were a number of chateaux as well as a hotel on the Riviera that he was considering purchasing. He’d be gone two weeks. Ty watched as he gathered up the papers and slipped them into his leather briefcase.

“Have good trip, Father.”

The steel-gray head stilled momentarily, catching a foreign note in his daughter’s voice he’d never heard before. It triggered an immediate response. “By the way, Tyler, please remember the following while I’m away in Europe. If I should learn of your going off without Sam Brody for any reason whatsoever, I will make certain you never see that friend of yours, Lizzie Osborne, again. I’ve tolerated her presence far too long as it is. If her bad influence should impair your judgment again, I’ll see to it she’s no longer in your school or your riding club.”

Pressing a finger on the intercom button that would summon Smythe, Tyler Stannard didn’t catch the defiant look that flashed across his daughter’s face. Before he could, Ty quickly dropped her eyes. She didn’t dare risk angering him, for her father wouldn’t think twice about using his influence to hurt Lizzie Osborne’s family in some way. If not socially, they were certainly financially inferior. Thus, as far as Tyler Stannard was concerned, that made the Osbornes vulnerable and easy prey. It didn’t matter to him that Lizzie was her best friend, her truest friend.