Kerry, too, was cooking, not that she was awarded with anything but the most menial of tasks, such as slicing carrots. Unlike Maggie and Mom, Kerry refused to be serious about the culinary arts. She far preferred to pilfer ingredients and gossip about horses between bites. Give her a batch of cookies to bake, and half the dough would be eaten before it got to the sheet. Kerry’s willingness to be stuck in a kitchen chopping a mountain of carrots was a pretty good indication that she was dying of curiosity to learn everything she could about Steve’s new partner.
Steve’s fingers had been crossed, hoping Ty would choose the apple cake recipe and hours of stories about his family over a trip to Clyde Farrell’s. He was working on a surprise for her, the thought having waylaid him out of the blue. Now that it had him in its grip, however, he couldn’t wait to spring it on her. Steve hadn’t visited Clyde Farrell since Fancy’s death, only talked to him on the phone, explaining the tragedy in halting words to the friend who’d sold Steve the finest horse he’d ever ridden. A growing nervousness filled him, anxious how the older man would react when they were face to face. He needn’t have worried, for Clyde pulled Steve into a long bear hug, the strength in his body evident despite Clyde’s pushing seventy.
“Good to see you, Shepp,” Clyde said gruffly, stepping back, his eyes bright with emotion.
“Good to be back, Clyde,” Steve returned simply, his arm clasped around his mentor’s shoulders. “It’s been a rough couple months, but I think I’ve turned a corner.” He swallowed down the lump that had lodged itself in his throat. “I want you to know, Clyde, we planted some apple trees over Fancy’s grave. It’s going to look beautiful when those trees bloom.”
“Hardest thing to do, to say good-bye to something you love.” Clyde fished out a crumpled bandanna from his pocket and blew noisily. “Both your pop and I have been through it over the years. Still just as painful, ain’t it, Steve?”
“Damn near tears you apart,” Steve Sr. agreed.
The men walked on, Steve talking softly about Fancy Free, Clyde nodding his thinning gray head of hair. Then, “I suppose Pop’s told you I have a new partner.”
As though suddenly interested in a group of horses being led in from a field, Steve Sr. ambled off in their direction.
“You kidding me, Shepp? Steve was on the horn with me yesterday about five minutes after you arrived, bragging about what a fine, intelligent, young woman she is. I was hoping to meet her.”
“Sorry, Clyde, Ty got waylaid by Mom and Maggie in the kitchen. Mom’s really taken with her.”
Clyde’s hand absently rubbed his belly, sighing as if he hadn’t eaten in decades. “Couldn’t ask for a higher recommendation than that.”
“Well, Mom might be a bit partial, Ty’s so polite and all. But since I came out here alone, I thought I’d see whether you have a youngster Ty might be able to bring along. It’s a surprise.”
“She know how to ride?”
Steve nodded. “Yeah, she’s good, too. Listens well. I think she’d enjoy working with a young horse, building a relationship. Ty’s patient and gentle and has good instincts. And real soft hands.”
“My kind of woman,” Clyde said heartily. “Tell you what, Shepp, I happen to have a couple of beauties that might be just the ticket for your lady friend.”
“My partner,” Steve corrected with a grin.
* * *
“But Steve,” Ty protested, “I’m not possibly knowledgeable enough to help you select a horse.”
“Time to get experienced, then, partner,” Steve replied, roaring down the narrow country road whose twists and turns he knew as well as Southwind’s driveway.
“All right,” Ty muttered. “This is totally crazy, but all right.”
She couldn’t help the loud sigh of pleasure when they turned into Clyde Farrell’s farm. There weren’t many places in the world where horses enjoyed such beautifully maintained surroundings as in Kentucky, and Clyde’s place set the standard. Ty got out of the car slowly, her head swiveling, feet following as she looked all around her, horse heaven for three hundred and sixty degrees. Before her stretched a seemingly endless white parallel line of double wooden fences, enclosing stillverdant fields. To her right were majestic white barns topped by gray roofs and gables. Near and far, horses, such horses.
“Pretty amazing, isn’t it?” Steve said, standing beside her.
“I’m speechless.”
“Don’t be,” Steve advised lightly as he took her hand. “Other than breeding horses, there are few things Clyde likes so much as talking.”
“Easy to tell which one she’s got her eye on. Shows fine instinct, Shepp,” Clyde couldn’t resist observing in an undertone, careful to move only the corner of his mouth. He’d promised Steve he’d keep his trap shut, not spoil the surprise. Though as far as Clyde could tell, Steve had no reason to worry. Ty Stannard had moved a few feet away, standing by the side of the rail, rubbing a dark gray gelding’s head. Her eyes remained fixed on the horse even when, momentarily distracted, it sidled off to tear at a few clumps of grass. When its natural curiosity prompted it to return to Ty’s side, she rewarded it with husky whispering and gently scratching fingers.
“What’s the gelding’s name again?” Steve asked, following Ty’s every move.
“Silvermine. He’s by Jetstreak out of Sudden Glory. Glory’s still giving us nice foals. Matter of fact, the one you rode this morning, Elusive”—he pointed to a dark bay gelding playfully nipping the withers of another young horse—“is Billetdoux’s and Glory’s. Billetdoux is by Bellelettres, and Bellelettres was . .
.”
“Fancy Free’s dam,” Steve finished with a smile. “I remember, Clyde.” There was something in the way Elusive carried his head, the way he moved over the flat that reminded Steve of Fancy, too. His father also had noted it. Buying a young horse was always a bit of a gamble, but Steve and his father were men who were willing to follow a hunch. More often than not, it paid off.
“Can you saddle them for us? I’ll just ride Elusive lightly; Ty might get suspicious, otherwise.”
“But I didn’t bring my breeches with me, Steve!” Ty was completely baffled by Steve’s behavior. Truth be told, he was acting more than a little weird. Admittedly, she found the young gelding entrancing; he was lovely, his sleek body covered in bluish-black rosettes, the lighter gray mane and tail a striking contrast. But that didn’t mean she had to try him out, for Pete’s sake!
“If you hop on him, then I can judge how he moves. Look.” He feigned impatience. “Much as I love Clyde, I don’t really want to spend all day here. Mom’s been killing herself making this huge Thanksgiving feast. I was hoping we could get back in time to shower and change. If you don’t want to ride, that’s okay, but . . .” Steve let the word dangle, laying it on nice and thick.
“I’m going, I’m going! I just don’t see the point!”
The point was that Ty looked perfect astride the dapple gray. At sixteen hands, Silvermine wasn’t an overly big horse. Indeed, he possessed the finest features in an Anglo-Arab: the trim physique, the strong, slender legs, the beautifully arched neck, ending in a dainty, diamond-shaped head. And shining from his eyes a calm intelligence.
Although Silvermine was three years old and had graduated from
cavalettis,
or ground rails, to jumping small cross bars, Clyde Farrell was of the school of thought that didn’t believe in throwing too much at a horse too soon. Perhaps that’s why Steve, when he was in the market for a new prospect, always headed to Clyde’s first. He knew he’d find a horse still open and willing, not riddled with the fears and bad habits young horses sometimes had when their training was rushed along at warp speed.
“How’d you like him?”
“He’s truly lovely, Steve. Not very different from Cantata in the way he’s built, all slim and sleek, but he doesn’t feel like he’s going to go slipping out from under me, you know what I mean?”
“That’s the Arab in him, Ty,” Clyde offered proudly. “A braver, truer breed you won’t find.”
Steve merely grunted, carefully noncommittal. Get Clyde on the topic of Anglo-Arabs and why they were better than any other pure or crossbreed, and they’d be there all night. “Let me see how he moves over those ground rails, would you, Ty?”
“And what about you?” Ty asked. “The gelding you’re on is gorgeous.”
“One gorgeous horse at a time, love.”
And besides, not really necessary, as Steve had already decided Elusive was coming back to Southwind. Right now, Steve was simply enjoying the pleasure of walking the young horse around, seeing how well he responded to the pressure of Steve’s leg. One could learn a lot about a horse that way, its attitude, its suppleness. Already, Elusive was beginning to yield, his body flexing to the right, then to the left. Responding without any pressure from the reins, his attitude relaxed and alert. Steve kept walking, pretending not to notice the wistful-expression that came and went on Ty’s face. Steve was happily fixated on the manner in which Ty surreptitiously licked the tines of her fork, her tongue darting out to capture the last remaining crumbs of flaky crust, molasses and brandy-drenched pecans. Nobody else seemed to notice but him. Steve’s father too busy enjoying himself, holding court, regaling Ty and the family with the many highlights of his career in racing and training thoroughbreds. Pop might very well go on talking a few more hours, he being a man who appreciated an audience. Despite the prodigious amount of food they’d all consumed, everyone’s dessert plate was scraped clean, and only one narrow slice remained in the pie plate. Not surprising, as pecan pies like his sister Maggie’s were a rare treat for the senses. Steve, however, was enjoying the vicarious thrill of watching Ty finish hers even more than he’d enjoyed his own slices.
He imagined kissing her now, his tongue tangling with hers in a slow, sensuous wrestle. Tasting all that dark sugary warmth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kerry’s hand sneak toward the pie plate.
“Forget, it, brat,” he warned, his hand settling on her forearm.
His kid sister screwed her face in mock outrage. “You must be out of your mind. You already had two slices. And that wasn’t counting Ty’s apple raisin cake.” Futilely, she tried to jerk her arm forward.
“Irrelevant, kid. I got plans for that pie.” Steve was thinking of Ty’s mouth, Ty’s tongue, darting out, trailing up and down.
He only wished the slice were bigger.
Reading the expression on his face, Kerry gave Steve a knowing smirk. “I’ll bet you do,” she drawled, her hand trying to reach for the pie plate again. “Think of it this way, Godzilla, I’m just saving you from your baser instincts.”
“Children,” Olivia Sheppard admonished in a tone that had both blond heads snapping guiltily. “Will you please stop bickering during Thanksgiving? Kerry,” she said firmly, “let Steve have the pie. He and Ty are only here for a few days.”
Steve grinned in triumph, and his sister shot him a look of pure scorn. “Thanks, Mom,” Steve replied, positioning the pie plate directly in front of him so it was out of Kerry’s reach.
“Don’t think I won’t say anything when your clothes are covered with pine pitch tomorrow,” Kerry whispered loudly, referring to the towering white pine outside Steve’s bedroom window. During his high school years, it had served as his private staircase on the nights he’d snuck out of the house for a midnight tryst. Though his mother had often raised her eyebrows in suspicion at the blackened streaks covering his shirts and jeans, his parents had never been able to catch him. Hearing Steve’s burst of laughter at whatever Kerry was taunting him with now had Olivia Sheppard smiling mistily. It was good to have all the family under the same roof again. She’d adamantly refused to call their celebration this evening a pre-Thanksgiving, arguing that having all her children at home was sufficient reason to push any holiday up two weeks. If this wasn’t a reason to give thanks, then what was?
Her daughter, Maggie, had outdone herself, planning this meal for a full week. And if they’d been able to make Ty feel at ease and welcome by inviting her to join in the preparations, Olivia knew that the three of them, she, Maggie, and Kerry, had also benefited. It had given them the chance to get to know this quiet and somewhat reserved woman better. Well enough to understand that Ty’s initial air of reserve was nothing more than shyness, not a snooty sense of superiority.
For that, Olivia Sheppard couldn’t be happier. Since he’d called to tell them of the accident and Jason Belmar’s drug use, the Sheppards had been worried sick. But since Steve had stubbornly refused his family’s help, there hadn’t been much they could do. Watching Ty and Steve together these past couple of days, Olivia was filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Ty Stannard had succeeded where probably anyone else would have failed.
She had made Steve whole again.
That they were desperately in love with each other was as plain as the nose on Olivia’s still lovely face. Knowing that her son had at last found love brought such joy to Olivia, tears threatened, now as they had so often during the past forty-eight hours, whenever Olivia happened to come upon Steve and Ty. Usually, she managed to turn away before they noticed her presence. An easy feat, when two people were so wrapped up in each other. They’d be touching, Steve cradling Ty in a hug, perhaps tracing a finger down the elegant line of her cheek, or simply holding her hand. Surrounding them was an aura of piercing happiness.
Olivia Sheppard knew her son too well to think, for even a minute, this relationship with Ty might be merely a fling, a physical attraction that would fade with time. He’d always been careful, protecting himself, protecting his heart. The open affection he displayed with Ty told Olivia, more than words could, that this was the real thing.
She’d be giving Steve her engagement ring before he and Ty left. It would be wonderful to plan a wedding down here in Kentucky. But those details could be worked out later. Now it was time to put the kitchen to rights. That way Steve could do whatever wonderfully naughty thing he was dreaming about with that pecan pie.
“And did you remember to give Clyde Farrell my best?” Olivia asked, standing up and reaching for the plates. “It’s a shame he couldn’t join us tonight.”