Heiress (50 page)

It was one thing when she had another man's ring on her finger. But when she carried another man's child. . . MacCrea laid the cigar down in the ashtray and let it smolder. Sooner or later, it would burn itself out. "You said you had some papers we needed to go over," he said, reminding Lane of the purpose of his visit.

Part Two

Chapter 33

The wind-driven dust swirled about the legs of the brightly festooned Arabian horses and whipped at the tassels and fringes that adorned their fancy bridles, breast collars, and long saddle blankets—elaborate trappings that were rivaled only by those of their riders, dressed in native costumes of flowing kuffieyahs and abas. The crowd outside the entrance to the main arena on the Scottsdale showgrounds parted to let the prancing horses pass.

"Look at all the beautiful horses that are coming, Mommy," Eden said excitedly.

Quickly, Abbie grabbed the hand of her five-year-old daughter and pulled her out of the path of the oncoming horses. "I swear I'm going to put a lead rope on you if you don't start listening and stay right beside me like you've been told."

Inadvertently Abbie glanced down at Eden's hand. . . and the crooked little fingers that curled ever so slightly higher than the others—from her father, from MacCrea. She had inherited the trait, along with her wavy hair, from him. Abbie wished she hadn't. She wished she could forget Eden had any father other than Dobie. She didn't want to be reminded that MacCrea Wilder even existed, but this had become impossible. His oil strike in Louisiana almost five years ago and his subsequent successes had placed his name on the lips of practically everyone in Houston.

"But I can't see," Eden pouted.

Abbie could appreciate that for a child, this crowd must seem like a forest towering around her. "You can see. The horses are going to pass right in front of you."

Single file, the horses and riders paraded by them, a glitter of gold, silver and copper ornamenting costumes of brilliant red, blue, purple, and shiny black. With a swing of her dark ponytail, Eden turned to look up at Abbie and pulled at the sleeve of her blouse.

Obligingly, Abbie leaned down so Eden could whisper in her ear. "Windstorm is more beautiful than these horses, isn't he, Mom? If we dressed him up like that, he'd win for sure, wouldn't he?" she said, referring to the five-year-old stallion out of Abbie's mare River Breeze.

"I bet he would, too." Abbie smiled and winked in agreement.

"He's the best horse in the whole world," Eden asserted without a trace of doubt.

"Maybe not the best horse." Although deep down she believed that, too.

"He is, too." Eden stubbornly refused to listen to such disloyal talk.

"We'll see." Only Abbie knew how close that statement was to being the truth. All the top stallions in the country were here at Scottsdale to compete in the prestigious show. Windstorm had already won several regional championships, but a win here would give him the recognition he deserved.

It had been a long, expensive road just to get this far. But she was well on her way to having the high-quality Arabian breeding operation she'd dreamed of owning. She had leased more land from Dobie, built a new broodmare barn and a stud barn, purchased ten well-bred broodmares, and leased three more plus a stallion. And she'd done it all with money she'd earned herself, either from the thriving party business or from the high prices she had received from the sale of each year's crop of foals. She'd sold them all except Windstorm and a full sister to him foaled last year.

Abbie remembered all too clearly that trip to Scottsdale six years ago: sleeping in the back of that rusty old pickup truck in sleeping bags, eating cold sandwiches, hauling her crippled mare in a borrowed horse trailer, and watching every penny to be sure they'd have enough left to pay for the gas home. This time, she had a healthy bank account. . . and an Arabian stallion that just might win the championship. And she'd done it all the hard way, with no help from anyone except Ben—not even Dobie.

Sometimes she suspected Dobie resented that as much as he resented the success she'd had. She knew that secretly he had hoped she would fail. And his pride was hurt, too, by the amount of money she had made from the sale of the foals. He wouldn't let her spend a dime of it on Eden or the house, insisting it was horse money and that he alone would support his family. Abbie didn't argue.

It had stopped being a marriage a long time ago, if it ever had been one. She and Dobie lived in the same house, shared the same bed, and occasionally used each other to satisfy their physical needs. That's all it was. That's all it ever would be. Sometimes Abbie wished there were more to it, but, as long as she had the horses and Eden, she could manage to forget that something was missing from her life.

"Come on." She took Eden by the hand as the last of the horses and riders in the native-costume class went by. "Let's go find Ben."

"Where is Ben?" Eden hurried anxiously ahead, pulling at Abbie's hand. "Do you think he's lost?"

"I doubt it. He's probably waiting for us in front of the stallion barn."

Abbie guided Eden through the milling crowd on the showgrounds. The atmosphere was circuslike, with its array of sparkling costumes, brightly colored tents, and fast-food booths, all set against a backdrop of desert blue sky and waving palm trees. Exhibitors, owners, and trainers dressed in riding costumes, tee shirts and jeans, or the latest designer creations mingled with the sightseers: the tourists, curious townspeople, and horse fanciers, old and young, out for an afternoon's outing and a close-up look at the equine descendants from the Arabian desert right here in their own desert country. And a look they got, along with all the glamour and mystique that surrounded the Arabian breed.

As they approached the first stallion barn, Abbie spied Ben standing in the shade, waiting patiently. Bending down, she pointed him out to Eden. "There he is. See him?"

In answer, Eden tugged her hand free and ran ahead to meet him, her ponytail bouncing up and down and sideways. Smiling, Abbie watched her young daughter, clad like a miniature adult in riding boots, jodhpurs, and a string tie around the collar of her white blouse. She remembered the times when she had run to Ben with that same eager affection her daughter now showed. And Ben was as patient and gentle with Eden as he had been with her, if slightly more indulgent. There was no doubt about it in Abbie's mind, Eden had him wrapped around her little finger. Her crooked little finger, Abbie remembered, sobering with the thought.

"Mommy, Ben knew we would come here," Eden declared when Abbie joined them. "Ben knows everything, doesn't he?"

"Everything." Even the identity of your real father, Abbie thought, recognizing that over the years, he had been the trusted keeper of many secrets.

She lifted her glance to him and felt the tug of memories, old and new. Always he'd been her rock, square and stalwart, constant as the tides. While everything changed around him, he remained the same. There was hardly any evidence of the. passing years in his craggy face. Abbie conceded that his gray hair had turned a little whiter, and she noticed that when he walked now, his feet shuffled a little, no longer striding out with their former firmness of step. His age was definitely catching up to him. She hated to see it. It was funny the way she could accept her mother's graying hair, but expected Ben to stay young forever.

"Will I ever know as much as you do, Ben?" Eden frowned.

"Someday, perhaps." He nodded sagely.

"Shall we go inside and have a look at Rachel's would-be contender for the championship?" Abbie suggested, knowing that if they waited until her daughter ran out of questions, they'd be here a month or more.

The long exhibition hall was lined with lavish showcase stalls the entire length of the building on both sides. Each farm represented had rented three, four, or more stalls, only one of which was used for the stallion on show. The rest were transformed into extravagant booths, each uniquely furnished and decorated, to promote the breeding farm and its stallions.

As they passed one that had been draped and roofed in black cloth to resemble the tent of a Bedouin sheikh, Eden tried to drag Abbie inside so she could investigate the plush cushions with the gold-tasseled corners. Another had been turned into a library, complete with rich walnut paneling and shelves of books lining the walls around a mock fireplace. Others were sleekly contemporary in their decor, making use of glitz and glamour to attract the eye of the passerby. The people strolling past the booths looked and marveled at the elaborate displays, but the real stars were still the stallions.

Halfway down the row, Abbie spotted the large booth that looked like a Victorian parlor, right down to the period antiques and silver tea service, and the dainty canapés offered as refreshments to visitors. Abbie scanned the dozen or so occupants of the River Bend booth, recognizing the farm's manager and several others, but Rachel wasn't among them. With all the big sales and exclusive private parties held in conjunction with Scottsdale, Abbie hadn't expected Rachel to spend much time in the farm's booth.

Nearly everyone in the River Bend booth sported the scarlet satin jacket emblazoned with the name Sirocco, the stallion Rachel had in the halter competition. Abbie had lost count of the number of people she'd seen on the showgrounds wearing those jackets. The farm was giving them away to anyone who would agree to wear it around the showgrounds. An expensive promotional tool, but a very effective one. The jackets were so plentiful, it was as if a scarlet tide were sweeping through the Scottsdale.

Rachel was sparing no expense to win the crown for her stallion. For months now, her advertisements of Sirocco had littered every major Arabian publication. The cost of this campaign had to run in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. Abbie couldn't hope to compete against Rachel financially, and she knew it. She wasn't poor by any means, but she didn't have the limitless wealth that Rachel had.

Abbie skirted the activity in the booth itself and went directly to the whitewashed stall emblazoned with the words River Bend's Nahr Sirocco. A scroll of iron grillwork topped the upper third of the stall. Beyond the curved bars, Abbie caught the gleam of a blood-red coat. Before she could get a closer look at the stallion everyone was predicting to be supreme champion of the show, Eden yanked at her hand.

"I want to see, Mommy."

"Come on, short stuff." Bending down, Abbie picked up her daughter and swung her onto her hip, groaning as she did so. "I hope you realize how heavy you're getting."

"I know. That's 'cause I'm getting big. Ben says someday I'm going to be taller than you are."

"I wouldn't doubt it," Abbie agreed, inadvertently recalling that MacCrea was a tall man. Determinedly she turned to study the blood-bay stallion in the stall.

As if aware of his audience, the stallion turned, presenting them with a side view of his magnificence. His long black mane and tail rippled in shiny waves, and the black of his legs glistened like polished ebony. In contrast, the deep red of his satiny coat gleamed like a banked fire. His head was small and fine, held high as he looked on them with disdain.

Previously, Abbie had seen only photographs of the stallion—taken in the winner's circle. In all the competitions Windstorm had won, her stallion had never come up against her archrival's. Rachel had campaigned Sirocco almost exclusively on the West Coast under the skilled tutelage and handling of Tom Marsh, universally considered the best in the business, and who charged his clients accordingly.

Two other small but successful breeders like herself came up to the stall to view the stallion that was the talk of Scottsdale, even though he had yet to appear in his first class. Abbie eavesdropped intentionally.

"I have to admit Sirocco is impressive," one said reluctantly. "He has that air that says 'Look at me.'"

"Oh, he'll win. There isn't much doubt about that," the other replied. "Even if there were a better stallion in the class he'd still walk away with it. Everyone tries to pretend that judges aren't influenced by somebody's money or reputation. Once they see Tom Marsh lead this stallion into the arena with all of Canfield's millions behind him, I say they'll mark the champion on their cards right then."

"You're probably right."

"I know I am. They're never going to let a stallion from some small farm win. And I don't care how great the horse is either."

As the pair moved away, Abbie tried to convince herself that all their talk was just so much sour grapes. Windstorm had as good a chance of winning as Sirocco. It took a lot of money to show a horse, but money still couldn't buy a victory. A loss didn't necessarily mean the better horse had won. Usually it was a matter of opinion. Some judges put emphasis on different things.

"I don't like him," Eden decided, the corners of her mouth turning down. "He looks snooty, don't he, Mommy?"

"Doesn't he," Abbie corrected her grammar automatically.

"Doesn't he?"

"A little, I suppose." But she found it difficult to fault the stallion's look of arrogance. In its own way, it was very compelling, although she much preferred Windstorm's look of noble pride—that rare "look of eagles" that evoked a sense of both power and gentleness.

"Windstorm will beat him, won't he, Mom?" As far as Eden was concerned, Windstorm was a wonder horse. It was understandable in a way. She'd been around the stallion all her young life, hiding behind his legs to play peek-a-boo as a toddler and riding on his back at the age of three whenever Abbie led the stallion to and from the pasture. Abbie even had a snapshot of Eden curled up asleep using Windstorm as a pillow.

"We'll see," Abbie said and turned to Ben, seeking a less prejudiced opinion. "What do you think of him?"

"Handsome, proud, the classic head, flat croup, well-set tail. He would be many people's ideal Arabian."

"Yours?" Abbie didn't want to hear praise for the stallion.

Ben gave a faint, negative shake of his head. "For me, his neck is too long. With it, he may look pretty, but it makes his balance not good. Too, he is a little sickle-hocked and the bone, it is weak. He could break down easy, I think. But, a man who knows what he is doing could disguise that in the show ring so the leg would not look so straight."