Breeding Ground (33 page)

“I came to get you.”

“Why? What's going on?”

“It's Sunday. It's two-thirty. You're working too hard.”

Booker looked over Spence's shoulder, as he slipped his measuring tape in his back pocket. “There's work that needs to be done.”

“Yeah. And there're horses that need to be worked. I've been riding Mom's and yours, but Buster needs more attention. And he'd rather have it from you.”

Booker stared at Spencer for a minute, and saw everything Spence had gone through living right there on his face – the love, the loss, the regret, and the worry. And Booker said, “Yeah, you're right. I'll be there about four.”

They rode together through the woods behind Spence's land, walking, trotting, cantering when they could. Not talking much, not thinking either, just riding and paying attention – fine-tuning aids, adjusting gaits, talking to horses they knew really well with legs and hands and words they understood.

When they came out into a field that sloped down to Clear Creek – a wide, shallow, wandering stream with a hill starting up on the other side – they let the horses drink first, then tied them to two small saplings, while the two of them sat on the bank.

It was the perfect height for sitting – knees bent, boots on the creek bed four feet from the stream – and they sat and watched water roll over rocks, and splash across stones in the shallows, rippling into white lace edgings, sliding smooth over terracotta bottom ground, making sounds that soothed the soul.

Spencer leaned sideways and picked a piece of clover, then chewed it before he spoke. “I moved one of Mom's paintings in the living room today. I wanted to put it where it'd get better light. And guess what I found underneath?”

“What?”

“A ten inch hole hammered in the plaster.”

“Son of a pup!” Booker was staring at Spencer, his face looking set and stiff. “Tara?”

“Nobody else would've done it.”

“Nuts. Guess she wanted to let you know she got the message the marriage was off.”

Spencer smiled cryptically, and picked up a pebble. “Yeah, and Mom paid the price.”

“Now, wait—”

“There were holes under all my paintings, so a lot of the house'll have to be re-plastered.”

“Damn, Spencer. That woman is nuts.”

“Vicious and vindictive might apply too.”

“You planning to tell the sheriff? Let 'em fingerprint and photograph and all?”

“Yep. I'll give him a call in the morning. Makes you kinda wonder what she had in mind for me if she hadn't gotten caught with Jo.”

“She'd know better than to mess with you.”

“Physically, yes. But she used drugs on Mom and Jo, so having been in combat wouldn't necessarily help.”

Booker shook his head as though understanding Tara was beyond him, then leaned back on his elbows. They were both silent for a minute. Before Booker changed the subject. “It was sure good to see Martha.”

“It was.”

“I wish she could've stayed longer. But she's mounting a new exhibit, and the deadline's coming right up.”

“She'll come home more now, and bring the kids with her. Hal will think she should, and Charleston's not that long a drive.”

“I'm glad Allie got to see Martha's museum. It gave them a lot to talk about. I'd hear them on the phone lots of nights just chatting and carrying on.”

It was quiet then for a minute, except for the sounds of horses cropping grass and water sliding by – till Booker cleared his throat and spoke more quietly than normal. “It'll be three weeks tomorrow that your mother was murdered.”

Spencer nodded, but didn't say anything.

Booker's hands were holding each other between his knees as he sat bent forward with his elbows on his thighs, and his eyes set on the stream. “We had forty-one good years together. I don't have a right to complain. But I don't know how to go on without her, without filling every minute with work.”

“Why would you? Nobody ever does. And not too many husbands and wives have been as close as you two. Besides, working hard makes more sense than a lotta things people do when they're learning how to adjust.”

“You know what the hardest part is?”

“Nope.”

“Not having your mother to talk to. She was the one person I ever did talk to. Completely. Confided in, I guess you'd say. I mean, I can talk to you more than anyone else. And Martha some, when she's here. And Richard about certain things. But it's not like talking to your mother.”

Spencer nodded, but couldn't think of a thing to say.

“I couldn't have done the business without her. You know what I mean. I relied on her to set me straight on the things she saw that I didn't. She never could've started the business. She's wasn't an inventor, or an engineer. She wouldn't have beaten the bushes for investors, or hounded the folks at the bank. But she understood people and how to structure an organization better than I ever will, and the advertising and PR too.”

Spencer nodded again, before he picked up another pebble and lobbed them both in the stream.

Booker closed his eyes for a second. And then changed the subject. “So Tara's still in the hospital, is she? Under ‘observation'?”

“Far as I know. They're deciding whether to try her as a criminal or deal with her as a mental case.”

“They better never let her out, that's all I can say!”

“I can't even think about that. But it's my fault too that she killed Mom. If I hadn't been blinded by the—”

“Your mom and I hired her! None of us saw what she was like.”

They were quiet again. Staring straight ahead. Till Spencer sighed and shook his head. “And then there's Gigi. Her Aunt Betts's got her now, and that's good. But I hope she gets to go to her dad. I don't know what kind of legal obstacles there are, because of him hitting Tara. But if he can't have custody, I hope she stays with Betts. She's kind and reasonable, and she trains and cares for horses really well, which means something, as you know. She'll help her grow up to be strong and independent, and give her a stable place to be.”

“Was that intended as a pun? ‘Stable?'”

That was the first time Booker'd made a joke since Alice died, and Spencer smiled, but decided not to say anything stupid like,
It's good to see your sense of humor's coming back.
“She's better off anywhere than with her mom. But now everybody knows her mother's a murderer and a nutcase, and that can be hard on a kid.”

“Kids can get over a lot, though.”

They both threw stones in the water, skipping some, dunking others, till Booker said, “You know, someday I've got to get to the place that I can forgive Tara. You and I both do. But God's going to have to do it for me. Because I can't get there myself.”

“I know. Me neither. And then there's Richard. He must be feeling awful about what he said to Mom.”

“Interesting you should mention Richard. Because just this morning…” Booker stopped and swallowed, and tossed another stone. “I went into your mother's study. It was the first time since we got back from England. And I found a letter, sealed, with my name on it, that she wrote me that afternoon after she and Richard talked.

“She told me everything that got said between them, and boy, was she right. She looked him in the eye and told him what she thought he needed to hear, whether he wanted to or not. I know why he was angry with her. But I hope what she said does him some good. He's apologized for what he said to her, of course, and I accepted it. I just hope he makes some changes. If he doesn't, I may have to make them for him, and I'm not looking forward to that.”

“No.”

“I love Richard as much as I love you and Martha. It's not a matter of love.”

“I understand.”

“You don't, really. I don't think you can till you have kids of your own. But he doesn't have the interests, or the temperament, to be content working in the business, or make a real contribution.”

They both stood up and stretched a minute later, then checked bits, and tightened girths, and swung back up in the saddle.

Halfway home Booker said, “Something else I meant to tell you. I took your advice.”

“About what?” Spencer looked over at his dad, who was sitting tall and relaxed like he always did, as though he'd been born on a horse.

“I told Fred Heffner we have to part company. That we appreciate what he's done, but it's not a good situation. That we need a Marketing Director with a different approach.”

“How'd he take it?”

“Not well. But we'll give him a good severance package. I wish Allie were here to put the package together, though. It's the worst part of being in business, letting people go.”

“You can say that again.”

“I'm sure glad your mom wrote the note to Peggy about wanting to bring Michael Westlake back.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Do you s'ppose she wrote it that same day, and the letter for me too, 'cause she knew she had physical threats to face with the blood clot and all? I'd hate to think she was afraid of Richard, or thought that—”

“She documented everything having to do with personnel.”

“That's true. And she was prompt about it too.”

“She'd be really relieved to see Michael doing as well as he is.”

Booker nodded, as he rubbed both sides of Buster's neck.

Spencer watched, and waited, before he changed the subject. “When do you think we should go back to England and finish what we started?”

“Doesn't seem so important now. Not like it did.”

“No. I know what you mean. But someday, we ought to work on it again.”

They rode on in silence till they climbed off by Spencer's barn, and Spencer watched his dad hitch up the riding britches that had fit a month before. “Are you eating okay? Are you cooking for yourself?”

“Sure. I'm okay.”

“How 'bout staying for chicken on the grill tonight?”

“Thanks, Spence, but no. Not tonight. I'll give Buster a bath, and head home.”

Alan picked Jo up about two on his Triumph Bonneville. He'd asked if she'd wear riding chaps and a leather jacket, because rode-rash was no fun at all. She was waiting in both when he got there. And he handed her a helmet before she climbed on.

“Hold on tight.”

“I can't believe you got me to do this after Tom died on a bike. I rode with him as a kid, but—”

“It's not any more dangerous than riding a horse. With a bike you've got other people to worry about. With a horse you've got the horse, who can spook at something you can't see without any warning.”

“Yes, but you aren't doing sixty when you hit the concrete.” Jo wrapped her arms around Alan's waist and looked around his left shoulder.

“We don't have to go sixty. I will ferry you along with absolute circumspection.”

They were gone for an hour and a half, gently sweeping around curves and hills, stopping once at a country cemetery to stand and stretch their legs.

They played with Emmy when they got back, and walked with her to give Sam an apple, and found Toss in the second broodmare barn. The doctors had taken the cast off his right leg, and put a much smaller cast just below his left knee, and he was on crutches, swinging up and down the aisle-way, filling water buckets and whistling to himself, but glad to see Alan and Jo.

When the two of them were walking back to Jo's house, Alan said, “I've been meaning to tell you. Brad wanted me to remind you—”

“Brad?”

“Bob Harrison's son, Brad. My boss's son who—”

“I know who you mean. But not why I couldn't place him.”

“Could be the Acepromazine maybe. A residual effect, like with anesthetic. Though I did change subjects out of the blue.”

She grinned and said, “True. And I'd rather think it's you, not me.”

Alan smiled and tossed Emmy a stick. “Just like everyone else.”

“Exactly.”

“Anyway, Brad wants me to tell you again about the toe space in the lab being too low and make sure you make it higher.”

“He's sent me that message twice before.”

They both laughed, before Alan shook his head. “Bob Harrison's great. He's incredibly competent and creative, and he has a realistic long-term picture of what Equine Pharmaceuticals should be. Brad isn't. And definitely doesn't. And I have no idea what Bob will do about succession. I can't work for Brad, I know that.”

“You don't have to decide today, do you? What you'll do when Bob retires?”

“No. But if Bob got hit by a truck tomorrow, nobody knows what would happen. It's a small company trying to get established, and it needs world-class research and a lot of inspired direction. I'd like to work there for a long time, if it goes in the direction it's going now. And I've never felt that before anywhere I've worked.”

“Then it must be a good feeling.”

“It is. One other thing I wanted to ask. What's Toss going to do about Tuffian?”

“Toss claims he's got a soft spot for Tuffian now, since he kicked the stuffing out of Tara, but says he's too much of a liability to keep him on here.”

“I see.”

“He thought about giving him to a friend of his who'd know how to handle him. But he'd breed his mare to Tuffian. And Toss doesn't want to risk passing on his temperament, and having to feel responsible if Tuffian or one of his foals hurts somebody else. So the vet'll put him down on Tuesday.”

“I can understand that.”

“I know, but it's never easy. Did I tell you Buddy's mare is definitely pregnant by Mercer's stallion? The vet confirmed it Thursday.”

“Great.”

“Buddy's so excited he can hardly talk.”

Jo led Alan around the left side of the house to the back terrace under the arbor her mother had built and covered with wisteria. It was green and cool and shady underneath it, and they sat down, with Emmy between them, and stared silently for half a minute at sparks of sunlight skittering across the pond beyond the huge old willow – till they heard a car drive up in the drive and park on the left of the house.