Chance Meeting (27 page)

The expression on Bubba’s face had Ty smiling warmly in return. “That’s fantastic. Congratulations. You and your wife must be very pleased.”

“We are. Owe a lot to Shepp there, too, of course. He got Will hooked on those history books he’s always reading. Now my kid wants to get a degree in political science. And he let Will hang here at Southwind, learn about the horses. Will’s been helping out, mucking out stalls, riding, and what not, since he was thirteen.”

“Vanderbilt’s in Tennessee, isn’t it? That’s a long way from the East End of Long Island.”

“Glo, Serena, and I went to visit him this fall. Weekend of the accident.” With a somber expression, Bubba unsnapped Macintosh from the cross ties and led the horse to his roomy box stall where the gelding made a beeline to his feed bucket, rooting around for the apple treat he knew he’d find there. Ty watched the smile that crossed Bubba’s face as they listened to the methodical chomp of the horse’s teeth. A smile that grew wider as Bubba waited patiently for Macintosh to come back and stick his head over the stall’s half-door. Whether he claimed to or not, Bubba Rollins’ love for the horses in his care was there for anyone to see.

With a final pat on the gelding’s fiery red coat, Bubba walked over to Ty and Cantata. “You know how to wrap a horse’s leg?”

“Yes.”

“Cantata wears wraps to bed, too. Here, you take the right side, I’ll do left.” For a few minutes, they worked over the mare in silence, fingers moving quickly, competently. With the second quilted wrap and bandage in his large hand, Bubba’s voice was quiet, a soft rumble. “I should have known not to trust Jase with the horses, he’d been acting weird lately, you know, unpredictable. Can’t believe I didn’t guess he was messing with drugs.”

“It’s not always easy to tell.”

“Yeah, Jase always used to get pumped up, real excited during competition. I suppose snorting coke was the same. I guess if he’d been doing heroin, it would have been easier to catch,” Bubba reflected bitterly.

“The judge in charge of his case ordered Jase to a detox clinic down in Maryland, where his folks come from. Good for Jase he’s out of the area, ’cause I could kill him for what he did to Fred.”

“Fred?”

“What I liked to call Fancy. You know, like Fred Astaire, the dancer. That was my nickname for him. Damn, that was a fine horse. I suppose you know how hard this mess has been on Steve. I didn’t want to leave him or Southwind, but . . .”

“But now you’re back, and Steve is obviously thrilled, and I’m very happy, too,” Ty said firmly, if not unsympathetically. “What we need now is to get this farm filled with beautiful horses again, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. But it’s not going to be easy.” Bubba’s tone was glum.

“No, it’s not,” Ty agreed. “Steve and I will need your help. So, what I’d like you to do, Bubba, after we feed the horses, is to make up a list of anything that needs to be repaired or purchased here. This place has to be in A-1 condition.”

“Already is.” Bubba bristled. “Shepp don’t cut corners when it comes to the care of his horses.”

“Of course not,” Ty replied. “But you’ve been gone for at least a few weeks now. Go over everything with an eagle eye. If there’s anything missing or broken, make a note of it. Same goes for the lounge and the viewing area. That definitely looked a little worse for wear,” Ty said, referring to the room located at the end of the indoor ring, where owners and riders could sit during the winter months or on rainy days and observe the horses being exercised in the indoor ring.

“What you got in mind? Personalized cappuccino makers, foot warmers, that sort of thing?” Bubba asked, his disdain for the idea obvious.

“Hardly seems Steve’s style, does it, setting up a mini Starbucks in the lounge?” Seeing Ty’s small smile, Bubba slowly relaxed.

“No,” she continued, “but I’ll probably order a new sofa and some lounge chairs. And we should put up photographs of Steve riding. There must be some around here.”

“There’s a bunch crammed into the top drawer of Shepp’s desk in the office.”

“I’ll get some wooden frames to hang them. Southwind’s facilities need to look as appealing for humans as for the horses, Bubba. It’s tacky, I know, but we have to go the extra mile here. Word has to spread that Southwind is back in operation and running better than ever.”

“Not sure a new sofa’s going to cut it, Ty,” Bubba said, shaking his head.

“No, but we have to cover all the angles. I’m planning on having some journalists come out as soon as possible. More than likely, because of Steve’s reputation and the fact that this is the Hamptons, they’ll be accompanied by a photographer. Southwind needs to look perfect. Can you make that happen?”

“I’ll get right on it.” Then, with a gleam in his eye Ty was beginning to recognize, he added, “But if you’re all fired up about everything around here needing to be in tip-top shape, then you’d better go on back to the house now and take a real long, hot bath. Those muscles of yours get any stiffer, you’re going to start looking like the tin man from
The Wizard of Oz.”

“But the apple trees. They need watering . . .”

“After I’ve watered these guys, I’ll drag the hose out there,” Bubba replied patiently. “Go on, get going.”

He made a shooing gesture with his hands.

Ty slowly straightened to her feet, amazed that she couldn’t hear her bones creaking. “Well, if you’re sure . . .”

“Lady, if I can’t handle this, you’d better fire me right away. Moving the way you are, I can probably finish all the chores I got left in the same amount of time it would take you to haul the water hose out to the pasture. Oh, that reminds me. You might want to take some of this with you.” Bubba bent down and retrieved a dark brown bottle from the carryall. “Here.” He held it out to Ty.

“What is it?” Ty asked suspiciously. The label was worn, showing only the picture of a horse’s leg on it.

“Absorbine. Smells like you-know-what, but it works wonders after a hard workout. Our horses swear by it,” he vowed with a small grin.

Ty uncapped the bottle and sniffed tentatively. Bubba gave a rich laugh at her expression. “Like I said, it stinks to high heaven, but if it’s good enough for Shepp’s horses when they’re ouchy, it should do the trick for you. Just work it into the muscles that hurt.”

“Bubba, you don’t have enough Absorbine in this bottle to use on all the places that hurt!”

“Don’t worry about that, boss. I got a couple gallons of the stuff back in the storeroom. And I’d say you’re gonna need it.”

“It shows that bad, huh?” Ty asked, chagrined.

“Don’t think Steve caught on, if that’s what you’re worried about. Go ahead, try it. Otherwise, you won’t even be able to crawl out of bed tomorrow.”

“That’s not what concerns me right now. I just want to be able to crawl
into
bed!”

20

S
teve caught himself whistling as he stepped out of the shower the following morning.
Whistling!

Momentarily stunned, he stopped, then, with a grin, started up again. Yes, things were definitely looking up. The insurance agent he’d met yesterday afternoon had been different from the previous morons he’d dealt with. Thank God. A woman, she’d ridden competitively herself— dressage—so she counted as a definite horse lover. Nancy Bayard assured Steve that he’d be receiving full reimbursement for the loss of Fancy Free. He could expect the company’s check within two weeks; she’d already processed all the relevant papers. Steve, who’d driven over there, ready to throttle someone if he was once more given the run-around, almost fell to his knees in gratitude. Two weeks. The National Horse Show would be over by then. He could take a few days off, go south, and do some horse buying. Bubba was back. He’d look after Southwind while Steve was out of town. And Steve was ninety-nine percent sure that Carlos and Enrique, two brothers from the Dominican Republic who’d worked as grooms for him, would be returning to their old jobs. They’d been enthusiastic when Steve had dropped by their modest ranch house the other day. He’d chosen Carlos and Enrique to approach first; they’d always gotten along well with Bubba, sticking around after work was over to go up against Bubba and Steve in a game of hoops. So that made three people he could rely on to keep Southwind running smoothly while he was away. Hell, if he timed the visit down to Kentucky right, he might even be able to ask Will Rollins to ride the horses over Thanksgiving break. The kid knew Southwind’s horses almost as well as Steve did.

Of course, Ty could ride the horses, too, at the very least make sure they were exercised lightly during his absence. It had been something of a shock—a pleasant one but a shock nonetheless—to discover how well she rode. Clearly, she’d benefited from some first-rate instruction. That aspect was hardly newsworthy; her pop would have wanted only the best for his daughter. What was striking, however, was her natural ability. Within minutes of settling herself across Macintosh’s broad back, she’d intuitively made small corrections to her lower leg, her upper body—adjustments far more subtle than the sort he’d suggested—that had the gelding moving fluidly, responding to Ty’s presence in the saddle. Lots of riders were reactive, not listening to the horse until something was wrong or until their trainer spoke up, pointing out the problem and offering a solution. In other words, through lack of experience or lack of natural ability, these riders waited until there was already a problem with their horse’s gait, their horse’s approach to a jump. Steve realized at once that Ty possessed the instincts and sensitivity to understand that riding was a continuous and special kind of dialogue, mental as well as physical, carried on between horse and rider. In order to bring out the finest in a horse, a rider had to anticipate—not fuss—employ skill and a deeper kind of knowledge of what made the horse tick. It was the difference between riding and being taken for a ride.

After watching Ty first on Macintosh, then on Cantata, there was no doubt in Steve’s mind. Ty could be a damned fine rider if she chose.

But leaving Ty here in charge of Cantata, Gordo, and Macintosh’s workouts while he was down in Kentucky didn’t appeal to Steve at all.

Because he wanted her with him.

The notion struck him, as startling as the renewed sense of happiness he was experiencing. He wanted to take her south, introduce her to his folks, show her the place where he’d grown up. Yesterday evening, he’d come home to Southwind and found the exterior light shining brightly over the front door. In the kitchen, the light there illuminated its spotless condition. Those two lights were the only signs that his return was anticipated. A weird emptiness had washed over him at the quiet stillness of the house until Steve saw, anchored by the brown ceramic bowl supporting a colorful pyramid of fruit, the white rectangle of stationery:
Turning in early. Food in refrigerator. Ty.
Her neatly penned note, all of two sentences, buoyed his spirit. Why, he couldn’t articulate precisely. He tried to tell himself he’d been disappointed at not being able to share the good news about the insurance company finally coughing up his money. Ty was his business partner, after all. But that explanation didn’t hold water. She wasn’t there, so why was he feeling better just because she’d left a note? What Steve was reluctant to admit was that he’d wanted, needed evidence that Ty was thinking about him. That she was thinking about him perhaps as frequently as his thoughts turned to her. With a sudden hunger, born of the lateness of the hour and Ty’s reference to food, Steve had opened the refrigerator door and was soon busy rummaging through its contents, depositing items on the butcherblock counter. Within minutes, he’d fixed himself a plate, piled high with slices of cold roast chicken and a beet, endive, and walnut salad Ty had prepared, with a huge chunk of extra sharp cheddar cheese and a couple of thick slices of freshly baked bread. Taking a bite out of his wedge of cheese, he kicked the refrigerator door shut behind him. Then, grabbing the overladen plate and hooking his finger around his bottle of beer, Steve wandered into the living room.

Life certainly had improved since Ty had moved in, he thought, sinking down onto the faded blue sofa. Hard not to like a woman who knew how to stock a refrigerator. Thing was, he acknowledged with a small smile, swallowing a long sip of cold beer and resting his head against the sofa’s soft cushions, there was something about her. Hell, he’d probably like her even if she insisted on filling the cupboards and refrigerator with unsalted rice cakes, iceberg lettuce, and Diet Coke. After polishing off three-quarters of the chicken, the entire salad, and almost half of the bread and cheese while CNN filled him in on what was happening in the world, Steve, feeling full of good will, had cleaned the kitchen, wiping down the counters, folding the dishtowel neatly, grinning as he recalled how Ty had ohsopolitely requested that he make an effort to put the dishes away in the dishwashing machine. With the kitchen as pristine as he’d found it, Steve had returned to the living room, tired but not yet ready to go upstairs to bed, choosing instead to stare blankly at the screen while his thumb surfed the channels. An old Hollywood movie caught his attention, and he watched it for a time, the plot and characters coming back to him bit by bit.