Tell Me When It Hurts (32 page)

Archer closed the note and let it drop into her lap. She leaned her head back again and sat without moving. So, Dobbs went all the way.
Bravo, Dobbs, bravo!

Cars around her came and went, and Archer barely noticed. Finally, she picked up the card. On the cover was a simple picture of wildflowers in a pitcher, on a table on an old-fashioned porch. She opened the card, and inside it said, “Congratulations, Birthday Girl.” Handwritten in a loose scrawl at the bottom, Peter had put, “Dearest girl, should I stop waiting? —Peter”.

Then the tears flowed. She cried for Peter Bennett, who, in his strength and conviction, had been her mentor. Whenever she had thought she couldn’t cope, she remembered his words
. Goddamn it, Archer,
he would bellow at her when she shook,
choke down that fear. Choke down that loathing, and courage will come
.
It’s in you, girl. It’s in you. Just tap into it. Do it—now!
And it had come. The courage had come. The courage to do things she didn’t want to do, things she cringed at doing, things that left nightmares as their legacy, things that made her tremble in the replaying.
Courage is grace under pressure,
Hemingway said.
Courage is being scared to death—but saddling up anyway,
John Wayne said. Peter had taught her that she could go on automatic pilot if the cause was just, and the job would get done. He had taught her that not feeling was, in certain circumstances, a virtue—it kept the horror from becoming paralysis.

His kind of certainty must be comforting, Archer reflected as the tears fell.
You know, Archer,
he would say to her,
contrary to popular belief, not everything in life is relative. Some things actually are just plain right or just plain wrong.
Strangely, the man who had handpicked her as an assassin was, in a way, her moral compass. He had taught her that you always had choices: to kill or be killed, to believe in something enough to die for it or live a mediocre life in which nothing is worth dying for, to surrender or fight.
That way,
he said,
even if you lose, you win
. She had refused to work for his causes, for someone else’s agenda, but used everything he had taught her on an agenda she understood and embraced. Sitting slumped in her Jeep in the post office parking lot, Archer cried softly for Peter Bennett, a man she truly loved and admired.

* * *

Archer called Gavin to tell him she was leaving for Wyoming at the end of the week. He sounded delighted.

“
Boy,” he said, “when you decide something, you move fast. That’s my star. What do you think Connor will do when you tell him?”

“
I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. We were meant to be together,” she said lightly. “I think—I hope—he’ll act like he was expecting me.”

“
And when will
I
see you again?”

“
This Thanksgiving. You’re coming to Wyoming, and we’ll come back east at Christmas to see you,” said Archer, with more assurance than she felt.

“
You’re sure?”

“
I’m sure.”

She paused, then said, “Gavin, you’ve been my rock for years. You know that, don’t you? And you know I’ll always be here for you if you ever need me, but I’m retiring.”

“
I know, love, I know. It’s okay. . . . It’s okay, Archer,” he repeated. And she could feel his smile.

* * *

Next, she called Sharon.

“
But, Archer, what’s your plan? Did you call Connor to be sure he’s not already married or something?”

Archer sagged for a moment. She had never thought of that possibility. “Gee, thanks, Shar. Give me a little credit. My charms
have
to have lasted at least six months,” she sniffed, hoping it was true. “He can’t have gotten over me that fast . . . can he? Anyway, I’m going to get him back. Unquestionably.”

Archer hesitated a second, then said, “You know, Shar, for all the tragedy I’ve had in my life, I’ve also been blessed. I was blessed with Annie for as long as I had her, and I’ve been blessed with only wonderful men passing through my life. Not a pig or a bounder among them. Men who believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. From Daddy to Adam to Gavin.” She wanted to add Peter Bennett and her training cohorts from Syracuse, but she kept those to herself. “Connor is the last in the line of wonderful men who supported me when I couldn’t support myself. I’m going to do everything in my power to make things right with him. I’m going to Wyoming, and if it’s too late, at least I’ll know I tried.”

Sharon smiled. “Are you selling the cabin?”

“
Not yet, but I spoke to the realtor who had the listing when I bought it. She thinks it would sell fast. She said Boston and New York people are always looking for summer retreats up here.”

“
Are you at least going to call first? I mean, it’ll be something of a shock to just show up, won’t it?”

“
No call,” said Archer. “I don’t want to give him time to think about it. I need the element of surprise on my side. And Hadley. He loves Hadley, and more importantly, Alice loves Hadley. Connor would never turn Hadley away.”

“
But, when will I see you again? When are you going? Are you flying?”

“
Nope, driving. I’m leaving Friday. I just have one more loose end to tie up.”

Archer and Hadley drove to East Haven the next day. It was pouring rain, but Archer still hopped in and out of at least ten different models of two-horse trailers. As the rain hit her face and the wind whipped the brim of her rain hat back and forth, she meticulously checked trailer specifications, weights, towing requirements, and safety features. She had to be sure the Jeep could safely tow whatever she chose.

Finally, she decided on a Featherlite two-horse with a dressing room. It was available immediately, and it met her needs. She watched as the salesman hitched it to the Jeep. Hadley stared suspiciously at it, her tail motionless. For Archer, this was old home week. She loved nothing better than taking her show on the road.

As she pulled out into traffic, the rain stopped. She felt light, young, and hopeful. New beginnings—a redo. Maybe it was possible to have one after all.

The next morning, she loaded the Jeep. Her dark auburn hair was pulled back by a big tortoiseshell barrette, and she wore jeans, a navy crewneck sweater, and a light blue fleece. As she slammed the back car door, Archer turned to look at her cabin, maybe for the last time. She gazed at it steadily. Plain and unassuming, it had done its job well, keeping her safe as she mended.

The tapestry of early fall color swished in the breeze, treetops sweeping blue sky. “Oh, don’t tempt me, you Berkshire Circe,” she whispered, tears forming in her gray-green eyes. “Don’t tempt me into staying. I need to go.”

And with one last fond look back, she turned away and opened the car door.

“
Let’s go, girl,” she said, and the lab trotted around the side of the cabin and hopped into the backseat.

They drove slowly on narrow country roads, snaking along creeks and around hills to Mad River Farm in Simsbury, Connecticut. Archer had called Jane Russo two days ago to tell her she was coming for Allegra. Jane had been flabbergasted. After six years of no contact except for payments, Archer was taking the horse.

“
Is there a problem, Archer?” Jane had asked.

“
No, not at all,” Archer said. “I’m moving out West, and . . . and I want Allegra with me.”

“
Oh, well, that’s fine. That’s just fine.” She recalled the hesitation in Jane’s voice. “Are you all right, Archer?”

“
Fine, just fine. And thank you—really, thank you for asking.”

* * *

Around midmorning, Archer pulled into the dirt driveway at Mad River Farm. It had been almost seven years. For the three years before that, it had been her and Annie’s home away from home. She had been here twice a day, six days a week—even more often when there were horse shows—sometimes bringing work to do in the car or the bleachers.

Driving up the familiar dirt road, Archer watched the horses, turned out in their paddocks on both sides of the driveway. Several trotted up to the fence, whinnying loudly as she passed. The rhododendron bushes lining the entrance were bigger than she remembered them, and a new indoor arena stood behind the original one. Otherwise, the farm looked well kept, recently painted, and as good as ever.

Archer parked, opened the car door, and slipped on her old brown leather paddock boots and her dark green nylon riding jacket.

She stopped for a minute and remembered. Annie would always hop out of the car, skip to the barn door, turn, and give a single side-to-side wave, then disappear into the barn. Sometimes on a Friday evening, she might turn and dramatically blow a kiss to her mother.
Au revoir, ma petite Maman,
she would call out in her grade school French before opening the barn door and disappearing inside. Afterward she would chatter excitedly about the horses, how her riding had gone, what the other girls did, how their horses had done, and what was planned for the next day.

She paused at the top of the line of stalls, hesitant. A door behind her opened, and Jane Russo came out of the office, smiling, hand extended.

“
Archer, how are you? It’s so good to see you looking so well.”

“
Thanks so much, Jane. I
am
well. How is Allegra doing?”

Jane hesitated for a moment, looked down, hands in the pockets of her jacket, then looked up at Archer again.

“
She’s pretty good, actually.” She paused. “For the past six months, I’ve let a nice, sharp little thirteen-year-old girl ride her occasionally—just to give her a bit of exercise, you know.”

When Archer expressed no upset, she went on. “Carrie rides very nicely and can’t afford her own horse. She’s learned all she can from our school horses and has real talent. She’s done some low jumps on Allegra, and I swear, Archer, that horse takes care of that child, moving right or left to keep her balanced, like she wants to make sure she doesn’t fall off. Never saw anything quite like it . . . uh, anyway, I know you didn’t want to sell or lease her, but I didn’t think you’d mind a girl using her lightly. I hope it was okay.”

“
That’s fine, Jane. I’m glad you were kinder than I was. Thanks.” Archer paused. “Is she in the same stall?”

“
No, we moved her to the next aisle over. Just go around the corner at the end of the row, to the right. She’s in the second stall on the left. Go on down, why don’t you? It’s quiet here this time of day.”

Archer walked down the aisle, speaking softly to the horses as they poked their noses out for a pat. “Hello, you fine fellow . . . How are you today? . . . And you? . . . Yes, and you, too, silly.”

At the end of the aisle, she turned to the right and started up the next row. And as she rounded the corner, she saw a dark bay head with a sharp white heart in the middle of its forehead. Turning fluidly toward Archer, full-faced, Allegra looked steadily at her. Archer stopped dead in the aisle, staring at the animal that had been the object of Annie’s love and obsession. Beautiful Allegra, possessor of Annie’s soul. “Forgive me, dear one,” she breathed.

Archer walked the length of a stall and drew the glove off her right hand. Allegra’s head hung out over the stall door, and she reached out to touch the soft, downy nose. Allegra looked at her, then nodded and nuzzled her cupped hand. After a second, the mare pulled back her nose, and Archer slid the stall door open and stepped into the space of fresh shavings and sweet mounded hay.

Archer swallowed hard and began to cry softly, hugging tightly the only great love Annie would ever have. She took the worn leather halter, engraved with a small brass plate that read, “Allegra—Owner, Annie MacKenzie,” and slipped it over Allegra’s ears. She fastened the throat latch but did not move to leave. She fastened the throat latch but did not move to leave, instead caressing the smooth, dark neck and bringing her face close to breathe in the warm, sweet, earthy scent. Archer wept into the mare’s neck while the mare stood patiently, quietly alert.

“
I’m sorry, Allegra. I’m sorry it’s me and not her,” Archer said over and over.

Allegra bobbed her head a few times as if to say,
Well, here you are now. It’s time. You’ve finally come for me. I’ve been waiting for you.

Alone amid the fragrant hay and September warmth, clean bedding, and cool scent of leather, Archer dreamed of riding with Annie in England, in Vermont, in Wyoming. She dreamed of Annie graduating from college, and a wedding, and grandchildren. She dreamed of celebrating Christmas with Adam and Annie and Annie’s children in the house in West Hartford. She dreamed of teaching her grandchildren, alongside Annie, to ride and ride well. Then she sobbed into the mare’s neck until she had no more tears. She shook her head hard and straightened up. It was a wonderful dream, but a dream nonetheless.