Fox River (19 page)

“Apparently not where we should have been,” Christian said.

“Good luck, Christian,” Julia said as the others cleared out of the stall. “We’ll be rooting for you and Night Ranger.”

Fidelity flashed him one final smile. “That’s right, Chris, we’ll be rooting for you. Just don’t take your eyes off the course. We wouldn’t want to be responsible for an accident.”

He was still smiling ten minutes later when he swiped his boots one last time. An hour later, he wasn’t smiling. The sport of steeplechasing was serious business. Nationwide, the industry gave away millions in purses. The Middleburg Spring Race Meeting was well established, and even if it wasn’t the Kentucky Derby or even the Virginia Cup, it was still an important event. At the Derby the horses ran a flat track, but in Virginia, the best races were steeplechases, with a series of hurdles to clear. Thoroughbreds had been racing in Middleburg since 1911, and some of the best hurdle horses in the state participated.

Night Ranger was a four-year-old with potential. He had started on the flat track, then competed in a novice steeplechase race or two, but this maiden race—for horses who had yet to win—was his first real trial. The purse was relatively small, but the prestige was substantial.

Peter himself had supervised Ranger’s training, but Jinx Callahan and Christian had done most of the work. Christian didn’t consider any of Claymore Park’s horses his, but if he’d been asked to choose the one he was most attached to, it would have been Ranger.

He and Ranger were entered in the third race of the day, and it was almost time to mount.

Although it was late enough in the spring to hope for good weather, the day was cold and cloudy, and the grassy hills in the shadow of the Blue Ridge were muddy from yesterday’s rain. That hadn’t stopped people from attending. The town of Middleburg, described by one observer as a Rolls-Royce with a trailer hitch, loved everything about horses. The race was a social occasion, an excuse for gourmet tailgate parties, complete with lace tablecloths and exotic flower arrangements. Vendors sold everything from hot dogs to Wellingtons. Businesses entertained loyal customers, families reunited, horse people in worn jeans or designer duds compared notes and made deals while horses thundered over waving grass sprinkled with dandelions and buttercups.

Christian, an apprentice jockey, figured this season was probably his last chance to compete. He had grown slowly, fueling hopes for a real career in racing, but in his late teens he’d begun to shoot up, until now he was six foot and rapidly filling out, as well. Although jump jockeys were larger than flat track, by next season he probably would weigh substantially more than the average 140 pounds. He would have to content himself with amateur events and whipping-in for the Mosby Hunt. As long as he was on horseback, though, he would be okay.

“You set?” Peter joined him in the jockey tent after he and his saddle had been weighed and the proper weights attached. Jinx Callahan, now in his seventies, was in the paddock walking Ranger, stylishly attired in a green blanket with gold braid that matched Christian’s silks.

Christian donned his helmet and strapped it under his chin as they went to join Jinx. “Any last-minute instructions?” he asked both men.

Jinx spat on the ground. “Stay away from Samson’s Pillar. I don’t trust that horse. He doesn’t have the temperament for racing. And watch out for Jenny’s Idea. She’s your stiffest competition.”

“Just listen to Jinx. He knows,” Peter said. “I’m heading for the stands.” He didn’t wish Christian luck, his way of not putting undue pressure on him.

Jinx saddled Ranger, then held him while Christian mounted. “
Don’t
break a leg,” Jinx said. “Especially his.”

Christian took the reins and started around the ring, watching out, as Jinx had warned, for Samson’s Pillar, a sleek bay with a white blaze ridden by a jockey in red and white. Jenny’s Idea, a dark bay filly, was prancing ahead as if she could hardly wait to take the field. Christian knew Ranger was in for a race.

He caught a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye and looked over to see Julia Ashbourne smiling at him. In the barn he had been so blinded by Fidelity that he hadn’t registered much more than Julia’s hair color and height. Now, in the sunshine, he saw how pretty she was, rosy-cheeked, with an oval face and wide-set eyes that gave patrician features a hint of nobility. Out of Fidelity’s shadow, she was a knockout.

She held up two fingers in a V for victory. He grinned, then reluctantly turned his concentration back to Ranger. Looking away took self-discipline, but he couldn’t afford to be distracted now. Too much was at stake.

This particular race was two and a half miles over national fences—synthetic fencing used at most U.S. courses so it could be moved with ease. Claymore Park had devoted considerable acreage to training its steeplechasers and to being certain the sight of the jumps was familiar. Night Ranger should be at home with the fifty-two-inch jumps, if not at home racing in a crowded field. He was powerful and fleet-footed, but he wasn’t experienced. Anything could happen today.

They circled the paddock over and over, and Christian stole one more peek at the spectators, but Julia had disappeared, probably to find a place at the fence. Undoubtedly the Sutherlands had rented prime space near the judging stands for their private party, and Julia would have a good view of the homestretch.

The horses filed out of the paddock to head toward the starting area, and once they were on the course the bugler blew the familiar call to post. There were no gates. The horses were grouped by number in a common area at the start, and when the flag was lifted they took most of the course three times. Christian made a point of staying away from Samson on the trip to the starting area, rewarded for his care a moment later when Samson backed into another Thoroughbred, and the jockey—a trainer from nearby Upperville—let loose with a torrent of abuse.

As eight horses and jockeys settled warily into place, Christian flexed his fingers. “Just do your best, Ranger,” he murmured to the horse. “And I’ll do mine.”

The flags were lifted and the horses shot forward. Peter, Jinx and Christian had discussed strategy, taking into account everything from the condition of the field to the records of the other horses. Night Ranger, for all his youth, was cautious, only picking up speed as his confidence grew. With this in mind they had decided to let him stay back until he was confident enough to make a surge. Christian might urge him on, but he wasn’t going to interfere.

They were halfway toward the first hurdle before Christian had a moment to consider his position. There were four horses grouped to take the first fence. The white rail wings extending at angles from the sides beckoned like a mother’s welcoming arms. The horses sailed over the fence, and Christian readied himself for his own chance at it. Ranger sailed, too, with Gone for Good, a chestnut gelding, beside him. Ranger pulled ahead of Gone as he galloped toward the next jump, moving up on the inside until he was close to the group of four. One of those horses dropped back, and Christian guided Ranger into the opening.

He saw immediately that the bay beside him was Samson, but there was nothing he could do about that except avoid erratic movements. At this speed, though, that was too much like trying to outrun an eighteen-wheeler speeding downhill.

He took the next hurdle with the other horses, and once on the other side, began to pull ahead of Samson. Jenny’s Idea was in the lead by nearly a length, but he was surprised she wasn’t farther. Jenny, unlike Ranger, was reputed to do her best work at the beginning of a race. He had done nothing to urge Ranger on, but his horse was running as if his life depended on it.

He debated whether he should hold Ranger back, then decided against it. Ranger deserved a chance to show what he was made of, and even if mistakes were made today, Peter and Jinx could use the information to plan strategy for the next race. Ranger had a long career ahead of him.

Ranger remained in third position for the next four hurdles, behind Jenny’s Idea and a roan named Somebody’s Baby. Samson stayed on his heels but caused no trouble. By the time they were taking the course the second time he was neck and neck with Somebody’s Baby, pulling ahead at one hurdle, dropping back a bit at the next. Jenny’s Idea was only half a length in front and seemed to be tiring. At the third and final assault on the hurdles he heard hoofbeats behind him and glimpsed Samson’s Pillar coming up on the outside.

Ranger had pulled ahead of Somebody’s Baby again, and he was closing the gap between himself and Jenny’s Idea when Christian sensed, rather than saw, Samson swerving toward him. Instinct saved him. He swerved, too, despite pulling himself slightly off course for the next-to-the-last jump, and flicked Ranger with his whip. Ranger surged ahead. Christian heard a commotion behind him but knew better than to investigate. He was riding for his life now, guiding Ranger back into position while trying to make up for lost steps. The jump loomed, and he took it right beside Jenny’s Idea.

They were neck and neck in the backstretch now, with one jump to go, and Ranger, spurred on by Christian, was hellbent for leather. Jenny’s Idea was struggling and took the last jump a beat or two after him. From that point on, the race was Night Ranger’s. At Christian’s urging the horse streaked down the final stretch and finished three lengths ahead of Jenny’s Idea.

Eventually Christian slowed Night Ranger to a walk. Jinx was waiting by the time he came back around, and so was Peter.

“Do you know what happened?” Jinx shouted.

Christian, winded, shook his head.

“That goddamned Samson rode right into Somebody’s Baby. Like to have killed them both.”

“Did it?”

“Nah. But I can tell you neither of them’ll be racing again this season. Samson better not race again, period. Not against Claymore horses.”

“That was a splendid ride,” Peter told him. “Quick thinking all the way. You averted a catastrophe. You’ve got all the right instincts. What’d you have to go and grow for, son?”

It was the first time Christian ever remembered Peter calling him that. He grinned. “I held it off as long as I could, sir.”

“He grew for me,” another, feminine, voice chimed in. Christian looked over to see Fidelity Sutherland and Julia Ashbourne coming toward them. He wasn’t sure how they had gotten down to the course, but he supposed in horse country, when your names were Sutherland and Ashbourne, you went anywhere you darned well pleased.

“I don’t like little men,” Fidelity said. “I like them long, tall and strapping. Cowboys, like our Christian.” She smiled up at him. He noticed she had dimples, and he supposed he should have expected it.

His heart was still speeding. From the corner of his eye he noticed Julia Ashbourne, smiling as if she was really glad he’d triumphed. Fidelity Sutherland was throwing herself at him, but suddenly, mysteriously, he only had eyes for her friend.

“There’s a party tonight,” Fidelity told him. “You’ll come with me—us?”

“You’ll be there?” he asked Julia.

“Sure. We can make it a celebration.” Her smile, subtler than Fidelity’s, was every bit as lovely.

“Go ahead,” Peter told him. “You’ve earned it. You and Robby go along. Somebody else will take care of Ranger tonight.”

Christian wasn’t sure exactly what he’d won that day, but he was sure the race had been worth it.

S
o many nights at Ludwell, Christian had awakened from dreams that he was riding. He had promised himself that if a miracle happened and he got out of prison before he died, the first thing he would do was saddle up and ride away. Despite that, he hadn’t been on a horse since his release.

“Christian, I’ve got something to show you.” Peter came into the kitchen where Christian was finishing supper. Christian had spent the past three days in the kennel getting acquainted with the hounds and learning to work with the staff, Fisher and Gorda, who rightfully resented his sudden appearance and authority. He thought he’d made inroads with both, but no opportunity had presented itself to ride.

Or he’d made no opportunity. He wasn’t sure which.

Now he looked up at Peter, who had an uncharacteristically broad smile on his face. “What is it?”

“Come see for yourself. You’re finished there, aren’t you?”

Peter had been gone most of the day. Now Christian figured he was about to find out why. He carried his plate to the counter. Peter’s housekeeper, Rosalita, had made it clear he was not to lift a finger around the house.

“You had a good day?” Peter asked on the way outside.

“Productive. I think I’ll get along fine with Fish and Gorda.”

“Fish will get used to you quickly enough. Gorda is happy as long as she doesn’t have to do all the dirty work by herself. Fish’s been known to wiggle out of it.”

“I’ll make sure we share it.”

“I know you’ll do your share, but remember, son, you have bigger fish to fry. Your first responsibility is to the kennel and the staff horses, but I want you to save time for working with some of our steeplechasers. You were on your way to being a top-notch trainer before you went…”

“You can say it, Peter. I haven’t forgotten where I’ve been.”

“I hate to say the word prison. I hate that it happened.”

“We share that.”

Peter laughed, and tension drained out of the conversation as they made their way toward the stable.

“Okay, get ready to meet an old friend,” Peter said.

Christian could think of a number of old friends he did not want to meet just yet. And one he’d surprised in the dark at Ashbourne, the one he had wanted to meet least of all.

Peter flipped a switch, and more lights came on overhead. They started down the center aisle, paved in an intricate herringbone pattern. The fir walls were stained a golden-brown and varnished to a high gloss; there was enough brass over stall doors to keep the stable hands busy for hours. After the fire, Peter had reconstructed the barn using the original plans. It was the same layout Christian remembered from his boyhood. Only the central tack room had been replaced by two rooms on the end of each wing. Christian wondered if Peter had done this so he wouldn’t think of Gabe Carver every time he stepped foot inside.

Peter motioned Christian to a stall nearly at the end of the row. “Seen this fellow before?”

Night Ranger whinnied a welcome.

“I don’t believe it.” Christian stepped forward and ran his hand along the horse’s muzzle. “Where’d he come from?”

“Remember I sold him to a farm in Kentucky?”

Christian remembered. The sale had come three months after Fidelity’s death, and the offer had been too good for Peter to pass up. Christian had still been free on bail to bid farewell to his favorite mount, but it hadn’t been a particularly good day. “What happened to him afterward?”

“They raced him for a while. He did well, but he damaged a knee. It healed, but they lost interest and sold him to a smaller operation, who sold him to a smaller operation….” Peter grimaced. “The last place was a two-bit horse barn in Maryland. He wasn’t getting much care and not doing particularly well. Our old friend here was on his way to becoming dog food.”

Christian winced. “Hey, fellow,” he said, continuing to stroke the horse, who didn’t seem inclined to move away. “You’re home now.”

“I don’t think it’ll take that long to get him back in shape. Good feed and pasture, the right kind of exercise and care. I wish I’d never sold him. I know he was your favorite.”

“I wouldn’t have been around to ride him, anyway.”

“Well, I have the chance to make it up to both of you now. He’s yours. Your name was on the bill of sale.”

Christian stepped back. “I can’t accept him.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a valuable horse.”

“Not anymore, except to you and me, maybe. But he’s still got some good years ahead of him. And even at his age he’ll make quite a hunter. As huntsman, you’ll need a mount you can count on. Here he is.”

Night Ranger snorted, as if he agreed.

Now Christian knew why he hadn’t ridden. He had been waiting for this horse, as big a piece of his past as almost anything living.

“I’m going for a ride,” he told Peter. “Want to come?”

“I think not. You two have some catching up to do.” Peter clapped him on the back before he left.

Christian stared at the horse in front of him. “We’ve both been in some pretty awful places, huh, guy?”

Night Ranger nuzzled him, as if he really did understand and agree—or at least wanted an apple.

Christian laughed. “Okay, let’s go see if we can get some of it out of our systems.”

Julia liked quiet evenings. Bard often had night meetings, and once Callie was in bed she had usually taken advantage of them to paint. With that diversion gone, she had too much time to think, her hands stilled and useless, her mind wandering places she wished it wouldn’t go.

Tonight she sat on the front porch and listened to the sounds of evening. The family had just finished supper, and Callie was riding Feather Foot under Jake’s watchful eye. Julia was still thinking of her session with Yvonne that morning. Christian and Fidelity had been the topics of conversation. She had told Yvonne that Christian was Callie’s father, and that he didn’t have any idea he had a child.

“Keeping your daughter away from him must have been a hard decision,” Yvonne had said. “You must have been very angry.”

“No, I loved him.” Julia cleared her throat. “And he loved me.” She thought of the man who had confronted her in the darkness, and tears filled her eyes. “But that was a long time ago.”

“Would you like to talk about this?”

“You must read the papers.”

“I do.”

“Then you know he was accused of a murder he didn’t commit.”

“I have read about it.”

“Fidelity, the woman who died, was my best friend. We were closer than sisters.”

“And Christian?”

“It’s a long story. A complicated story.”

Yvonne’s voice was louder, as if she had leaned forward. “I get paid to listen to complicated stories. Life’s messy.”

“Mine certainly is.”

“Then you have a lot to tell me. Why don’t you start with Fidelity?”

So Julia had begun when they were six.

She and Fidelity had become friends in the first grade. That winter they had attended the same afternoon story hour at the local library, where they had been forced to dress up like autumn leaves and fir trees, living illustrations of the librarian’s favorite book. Then and there they had made a pact that they would be princesses or fairies, but never again forest vegetation.

Although South Land was one of Ashbourne’s closest neighbors, Harry’s death had removed Maisy from the Ridge’s Race social whirl, and Julia had vanished with her. But once reintroduced, the two little girls became inseparable.

Fidelity went to private school and Julia to public, but in their free time they swam in the Sutherlands’ pool or Jeb Stuart Creek, played tennis or Barbie dolls or went to movies. They picked Ashbourne apples and grapes, giggled at everything, slept at each other’s houses and refused to be separated, until Fidelity was as much a fixture at Ashbourne as Julia was at South Land.

When Maisy met and married Jake, both girls were bridesmaids. When Flo took thirteen-year-old Fidelity to Paris, Julia ate snails and truffles and prowled the Latin Quarter right along with them.

The time demands of adolescence changed the number of hours the girls could spend together, but they remained fast friends. Fidelity went to art shows to see Julia’s entries and posed when Julia needed a model. For Fidelity’s sixteenth birthday, Julia painted an oil portrait that was so well received she was commissioned to do others for local families.

In turn, Julia went to horse shows to watch her friend compete. Fidelity wanted a spot on the Olympic equestrian team, and the Sutherlands spent a small fortune on horses and special training. When places on the team went to older girls, Julia’s shoulder was the one Fidelity cried on.

Then Christian Carver came into their lives, and nothing was ever quite the same.

The porch creaked, followed by Maisy’s voice. “You are too alone out here.”

Julia put her hand on her chest. “You startled me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Maisy said. “I thought you heard me coming.”

“I should have. I was a million miles away.” Or ten terrible years.

“I have another place where you can do your thinking, if you’d like.”

“Where?”

“Come with me and I’ll show you.”

Julia rose. She was glad for the interruption. “Let me put my hand on your arm.”

A few minutes later Maisy sat her on a chair in the enclosed porch behind the kitchen. The room had been a studio, an exercise room, even a warm spot to hatch baby chickens the year Maisy decided they needed fresh eggs. The last time Julia had been in there the room was used for storage, but clearly it had been emptied and spruced up since then.

“I’d tell you not to peek, but I guess that’s not necessary,” Maisy said.

Julia figured they had come a long way if her mother could joke about her blindness. “I’m going to counter every one of those little quips with a joke about your diets.”

“I’ve heard them all. If Y2K had panned out the way it was supposed to, I would have had my own personal storehouse.”

“I’d give a lot to see every single pound of it.”

“You will.”

“What are we doing here, Maisy?”

“You’re about to get a surprise.”

Maisy was the mistress of surprises. Julia had been treated to them throughout her childhood. Her favorite desserts, doll clothes patterned after her own, wildflowers in cut-glass vases on her dresser.

“Growing up here was good,” Julia said, as she waited. “I was spoiled nearly as badly as Fidelity.”

“Not even close. I loved old Fiddle-dee-dee, but Flo and Frank loved her so much they never gave that girl a chance to develop an ounce of character. She was always swimming against the tide.”

“She did pretty well anyway.”

“You still miss her, don’t you?”

“The clouds never seemed to reach me when Fidelity was around.”

“Clouds?”

Julia was still thinking about the session with Yvonne. “What do you remember about my childhood, Maisy? Was I a happy little girl?”

Maisy was silent so long Julia wasn’t sure she planned to answer.

“You weren’t unhappy,” Maisy said at last.

“That’s how I remember it, too. Never unhappy, exactly. But always searching for something. Needing something I didn’t have.”

“Sunshine.”

“Maybe. And Fidelity brought that with her. Sometimes we were all blinded by it. I know that now. But I’d rather have too much than too little.”

“I never really knew what to do for you. I guess I still don’t.”

“You don’t have to do anything. This is my battle.”

“Well, here’s something that might help. Put out your hand.”

Julia extended her hand and touched something cool and damp. She pressed her fingers into it, and a pungent odor arose. “What? Clay?”

“Jake and I have set up a little studio for you. It’s not much. But there are three kinds of clay, brayers, wooden tools for shaping, even hand cleaner. Enough to keep you busy for hours if you like. You might not be able to see what you’re sketching, but you can certainly feel whatever you sculpt.”

Julia dug deeper, and the clay gave slightly. It needed working to soften it, a job she looked forward to. “This is a great idea. What made you think of it?”

“I’ve spent a lot of hours with clay. I know how therapeutic it can be.”

“Therapeutic?”

“Here, let me slide the table in front of you. It’s not much more than a card table, but it holds everything you need.”

“What do you mean therapeutic?”

“Dealing with my life and your father’s death. Who I am, where I was going. The things we all deal with.” Maisy hesitated. “The things you
weren’t
dealing with until you lost your sight.”

“Maisy…” Julia warned.

“Am I wrong?”

“You’re treading where you shouldn’t.”

“I ran into Peter Claymore in town this afternoon.”

“And?”