Chance Meeting (43 page)
Yeah, Cassie Miller would be tough to beat, Steve acknowledged, gathering up his reins. But that was what he loved about the game. He was eager to push Cassie Miller and her horses to the max. The Canadian mounted police had come and gone, the crowd applauding enthusiastically as the retinue performed its precisely choreographed maneuvers flawlessly, the crisp red uniforms of the officers, the shiny coats of the horses, the bold maple leaf of the Canadian flag waving smartly, all the varied colors and textures caught and reflected beneath the bright lights of the Garden’s high-ceilinged arena. Right now there was a lull in the evening’s schedule of events. Many of the spectators were upstairs, roaming around, buying expensive souvenirs and food, and seeing whether they could beat the line to the bathroom before the jumping started. Down below in the ring, a tractor was zooming around, a wide rake attached to it, smoothing out the dirt footing. Asecond tractor had just entered, painted jumps, poles, and wings piled on its flatbed. Workmen dressed in blue coveralls sprang off of its side as soon as the tractor slowed, ready to begin setting up the Grand Prix course. Soon the course designer would be out, doing a final measurement of the jumps, making sure the distances were right, the fences set at the correct height. And then would come Ty’s favorite part, where the riders spilled out over the course, alone or in pairs, this moment their chance to walk the course. The arena buzzing with the sound of spectators’ voices, the riders would be walking with that special, slightly widened gait, counting off the strides their horses would need to take from one jump to the next, anticipating what angles of approach might work best. It was the riders’ final chance to analyze the challenges the course designer was putting before them. The next time these riders came into the ring, it would be on the backs of one-ton animals, the riders’ job now to communicate to the horses—in the space of less than sixty seconds—how best to negotiate the sixteen fences before them.
Ty glanced over at the bank of seats to her left. Lizzie was there, in the section specially reserved for family and friends of competitors. Lizzie had urged her to go back down, knowing Ty would want to be near Steve when the jumping started. Ty had invited Sam, too, but he hadn’t shown up yet. She’d caught Lizzie scanning the crowd, checking the faces of passersby, but hadn’t remarked on it. Lizzie was being untypically closemouthed about whatever was going on between her and Sam. Any other time, Ty would have been tempted to probe her friend, but tonight Ty was too keyed up.
“Hey, Ty.” Enrique’s voice called from behind her. “Shepp sent me to find you. He’s gonna walk the course soon.”
“I know. That’s why I’ve been hiding. I wasn’t sure I’d be a welcome distraction, Enrique. He’s been kind of touchy since Friday night’s class.”
“You can say that again!” Enrique’s navy-blue cap nodded in agreement. They were all—Ty, Bubba, and Enrique—walking on eggshells around Steve right now. “Sorry, boss. If I don’t bring you back, Shepp’s gonna bite my head off.”
Steve had been livid following the qualifying class. Gordo had racked up twelve points with knockdowns on poles Steve was convinced the jump crew hadn’t properly reset in their shallow cups. Macintosh had come in fourth with a beautiful round, but Steve had been too disappointed with Gordo’s performance to enjoy it. He’d even lodged a complaint with the judges, demanding that the crew show more professionalism this evening, or Steve would march into the ring himself and check poles that had received a hard rub from the previous horse’s round.
His protest had earned the approval of many of his fellow riders, for the National’s jump crew indeed appeared to be especially casual this year. But the show of support hadn’t done much to mitigate Steve’s foul temper. His Kentucky drawl had gotten so bad that there were times Ty couldn’t understand a word he muttered, which in retrospect was probably for the best.
Ty hadn’t succeeded in distracting him from the disappointment of Friday night’s jumping class until they finally returned to their suite at the Plaza. It had been midnight, hours consumed in putting the horses away, and making sure Enrique and Bubba were set for the night.
While Steve washed off the day’s grime in a scalding hot shower, Ty called down and ordered from the restaurant’s menu a meal that could be prepared quickly. When Steve reemerged, wrapped in one of the hotel’s thick terrycloth robes, the midnight meal was waiting for him, dishes hidden under silver domes, the whole illuminated by two tall candles. Grabbing a chair, Steve had pulled her down into his lap, and there they’d sat, Ty snuggled against his chest as they fed each other bits of smoked salmon, thin slices of cold roast beef, followed by strawberries dipped in whipped cream flavored with a hint of cognac. Between bites of food and shared kisses, Ty had argued with Steve, gently but insistently, reminding him that bad rounds happened to everyone. Macintosh had done a superb job, and Gordo hadn’t gotten rattled—even with the unnerving sound of falling poles following his progress. Ty was positive Sunday’s Grand Prix would be his night. And Macintosh’s, too.
They’d made love quietly, their movements slow and unhurried. Long after, Steve had held her, his fingers stroking her long hair as Ty’s eyes grew heavier and heavier. Steve was already showered and dressed when Ty’s eyes reopened. It took only one blurry-eyed look at the window to realize he hadn’t gotten more than a few hours’ sleep. A second look at his closed, determined face, and Ty knew they were back at square one. Steve Sheppard was not a man to cross right now. She hoped whichever poor taxi driver picked him up was smart enough to take him where he wanted to go, and fast.
Abrief, hard kiss and “Gotta go, babe. Get over to the Garden as quick as you can.” Then he was out the door, Ty left muttering about temperamental athletes.
Ty followed Enrique. They flashed their IDs at the guard and skirted the perimeter of the warmup area where a few riders were taking a final practice jump. She followed Enrique through the barely controlled chaos of grooms scurrying about, horses being led this way and that, some tacked, some not, riders dressed in gleaming white breeches and dark riding jackets. Ty occasionally caught sight of a bright eye-popping red one— indicating that the rider wearing it had competed as a member of the United States Equestrian Team. She followed the groom through all the hustle and bustle back to where Macintosh and Gordo’s stalls were located.
She paused, her heart bursting with love and pride when she saw him. Oh, he was handsome, no doubt about it. His hair curled slightly over his collar, a little longer than he usually wore it because she’d told him she loved running her hands through it. Those muscular horseman’s thighs were outlined to heart-pounding perfection in breeches and shiny black field boots. But it was the jacket that did it, because the jacket signified so much.
Steve was wearing a dark blue riding jacket, having eschewed his other hunt coat, the red one, its left breast emblazoned with the USET’s insignia. That one was still hanging in his closet back at Southwind. Seeing Steve dressed in the severe blue jacket highlighted everything she admired about him: his sense of honor, his strict adherence to a personal code. For Steve, the red jacket of the USET had been a privilege earned when he’d ridden Fancy Free. Now that Fancy Free was gone, Steve believed the right to wear the team’s colors would have to be earned all over again with a new equine partner. Until that time came, Steve would wear the dark blue.
He and Bubba were going over Gordo, giving the horse a final touch-up. Bubba was hunkered down with a can of hoof polish, painting the gelding’s hooves. They gleamed, dark and lustrous. Steve was using a soft towel, running it over the rich bay coat. Even from here, Ty could tell it was totally unnecessary. Southwind’s Vanguard, Gordo’s official show name, sported the coat of a champion. Bubba and Enrique had groomed him to a high gloss; not a speck of dust sullied him. The horse was in superb form, sleek, muscular, and set to go.
“Found her, Shepp. Hanging out with the riffraff.”
“I was coming back,” Ty protested lightly. “But I got distracted by the jump crew. They’re setting up some pretty big fences, Steve.”
“I know.” Steve replied. “The course is tough. Axel Holmgeld,” referring to the German course designer by name, “likes ’em high and deep.” He gave Gordo a final swipe with the cloth, then handed it to Enrique. “I, uh, wanted to apologize to the three of you for being such a pain in the butt today. I really wanted Gordo to do well in the class Friday night. He’s jumping too smart to settle for eighteenth place.”
Enrique and Bubba shifted uncomfortably, then Bubba spoke, “Come on, Shepp, you know you don’t have to apologize for anything. We’re not the ones trying to go clean over courses like this. You’re the man bringing home the bacon, you call the shots.”
Enrique nodded as if Bubba had spoken for the two of them.
“Yeah, well, I should have let it go just the same. Tonight’s gonna be different. Gordo and Mac are in
tiptop shape, still full of beans. I’ve handled Axel’s courses before; I’m not too worried about what he’ll set up, even with the Garden’s tightass corners—sorry, Ty.”
Ty bit down hard on the inside of her lip to keep from grinning. She didn’t want to spoil the mood. Something like a locker room pep talk a coach might give his players before they took to the field.
“So,” Steve was saying, “if the ground crew does its job and checks the fences, I think we’ll be in good shape. But if they sit on their keisters, I swear I’ll . . .”
“Go marching right out there and fix each and every pole yourself,” Ty interrupted, her smile breaking through. “And Bubba, Enrique, and I will be right behind you.”
“I’ll even bring out a rake and fill in the footing,” Enrique added enthusiastically. The four of them grinned, excited by what lay ahead. Then Ty grabbed Steve’s hand, pulling him after her. “Excuse us, gentlemen, we need a quick partners’ meeting before Steve walks the course.”
A wide, devilish grin split Steve’s face when they reached the makeshift tack room. “Ty, much as I’d like to have a quickie with you before I ride, I just don’t think this is the place.”
Ty shook her head, her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her camel-haired blazer. “I did
not
say quickie, Steve, and you know it.” She stood on tiptoes to press her lips against his smile. Softly, lingering to whisper, “This kiss is because I love you, and this,” she breathed, withdrawing her hand from her pocket, pressing the warm medallion into his palm, “is for good luck.” A wistful smile crossed her features. “Good fortune is meant to be shared, Steve.”
His fingers tightened around the medal at her softly spoken words. “Thanks for reminding me.” His eyes on hers, he tugged the thick white tie at his neck, loosening it, undoing the top few buttons of his shirt.
“Help me with this, sweetheart.”
Ty stepped closer, working the clasp of the silver chain until the tiny loop was securely attached. Slipping the medallion underneath Steve’s shirt, she kissed the warm skin of his exposed chest, then rebuttoned and retightened his tie. “Time to go out and win a blue ribbon,” she whispered in his ear, adding, with a quick nip to his lobe, “Just so you realize what’s at stake, it’s the only color that will match my underwear.”
“Well, then, that settles it,” Steve laughed huskily, pulling her flush against him and plundering the honeyed recesses of her mouth. “To be continued, babe,” a promise Ty was growing to love.
T
he jump course in a Grand Prix event combined elements of both speed and
puissance,
the French term for “power.” Grand Prix fences were set higher and the time allowed set a faster pace than one encountered in other jumping classes. In show jumping competition, some classes were designed specifically either for
puissance
or for speed. Certain horses possessed natural abilities that gave them a competitive edge in one event over the other—tackling really big, monster-sized obstacles or, on the other hand, being able to gallop full tilt over a course and still go clear. That the Grand Prix demanded both strength and speed is what made it the most challenging of show jumping events. Ty knew this. It was the kind of knowledge anyone who loved the sport absorbed early on, acquired from years spent watching show jumping, hanging out with riders, competing oneself. Indeed, the majority of the spectators packed into the Garden this evening had a solid understanding of the subtle nuances of the competition they were about to see.
That knowledge, however, didn’t make the fences, some of which were raised to the height of a six-foot-tall man and whose spreads were often just as wide, appear any the less daunting or formidable. It wasn’t only that the jumps were so big. It was also that the turns horse and rider had to execute while galloping were tighter than a hairpin. And the split-second decisions that had to be made: at what angle to approach the fence, whether or not to leave a stride out (if so, asking the horse for more scope, more jump) or whether to play it conservatively, riding the line, the course, as safely as possible. A decision either way could mean the difference between a first-place ride and not even making the top ten. And while all this was happening, the electronic clock was ticking away. Classes could be won, one clear round edging out another, in fractions involving hundredths of a second. And they often were. It was a beautiful, glorious, thrilling, and unforgiving sport.