I took a taxi back to Laurel, glad I’d remembered to stuff cash into my black bag. The memory of Clay’s chill expression and irritation was unpleasant.
“You shouldn’t be so quick to judge,” he’d said. “You’ve got me all wrong, but suit yourself.”
I sighed and settled back into the taxi’s bench seat. In the rear-view mirror, the eyes of the cinnamon-skinned driver watched me. Layers of black cloth wound about his head, making me feel like I fled America’s capital with a terrorist disguised as a taxi driver. Of course, this man probably had me pegged as a rich party bitch. How do you know about people?
I should have seen the con in Clay from miles away, the way he’d schmoozed Janet LeGrange, given her that excited smile. The same smile that danced so recently on my lips. He seemed to genuinely like women — just didn’t mind profiting by their inevitable attraction to his handsome face and flattering ways. Any man who took advantage of a woman like that dragged me right back to my stepfather, Stanley. I shuddered.
“You cold, missy?” asked my turbaned driver. He started to roll up the window that was cracked about two inches.
“No, I’m fine.” The car had a peculiar odor, like stale sweat mixed with pungent spice. “Open is good.”
He grinned at me in the mirror, and we motored out New York Avenue toward the Baltimore Washington Parkway. I arrived at my apartment after midnight, deflated, tired, and glad I didn’t have to show up at the track by 6
A.M.
I wasn’t looking forward to relating the last part of the evening to Carla. She’d been so determined to fix me up with Clay. I’d probably downplay the con angle.
Slippers greeted me at the door, the little point on his head listing to one side, drooping.
“I know just how you feel,” I said, and scooped him into my arms. We agreed to call it a night, purring and sleep being high on the agenda.
In the morning, a yearning drew me back to Jim’s barn, a need to soak up those familiar racetrack surroundings. As I drove in around nine, my tension eased, the glitz and uncertainty of the previous night fading.
A horse van stood outside Clements’ barn, and a reluctant Helen’s Dream, or Hellish as I liked to call her, fought with a groom near the van’s ramp. I parked and double-timed it over to the groom. He wasn’t such a bad guy. At least he didn’t beat on horses.
“Hey, Charlie. They shipping that filly out?”
The groom’s pudgy face held a scowl, no doubt put there by Hellish. “Not soon enough for me. You wanna help me get this bitch on here?”
Hellish emitted a growling grunt and tried to leap backward.
“Here, let me have her,” I said.
Charlie handed her over, and I eased up and scratched her neck, cooed a little, and she let me lead her into the trailer like a lamb. I felt smug.
“Where’s she going?” Now that I’d helped, I knew he’d tell me. Before, maybe not. Clements tended to be secretive. Loose-lipped help received a quick slug of Clements’ anger.
“Dark Mountain,” he said with satisfaction.
My hand snapped Hellish’s halter to the trailer tie and froze. A low-level dread spread through me. “Why?” I almost whispered.
“Don’t look at me like that,” said Charlie. “She’s asked for it, nasty bitch.”
“No one will buy her at Dark Mountain. She’ll go to the killers.” The town Dark Mountain, up near the Pennsylvania border, had a farm auction notorious for getting rid of unwanted horses. I’d never been there but I’d heard buyers from the slaughterhouses went there regularly to hook horses that couldn’t find a new home.
“Look, it’s not my problem,” said Charlie. “I’ve got to load another one and drive them up to Dark Mountain for tonight’s auction. Don’t have another sale for two weeks, and Clements’ wants them out of here, so don’t give me a hard time.” He couldn’t hold my gaze and addressed my shoulder. “Could you stay with her while I get the other one?”
I felt like telling him to shove it, but nodded, realizing I wanted these few moments with Hellish. I scratched her neck some more while we waited in the trailer. Her breath was warm and fragrant. Charlie waddled out with a small gelding that limped.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Ah, he’s got a microfracture on his shin. He’s slower ’n dirt, not worth fixing up.”
I’d seen this handsome little dude on the track and knew him to be a quiet, sensible type. They called him Silver Box, and he was cute, with a long forelock over a white blaze and showy white socks. A perfect Pony Club horse for a teenage girl, he’d heal with a little time. He might find a good home. But Hellish . . .
I stepped off the van. Charlie raised the ramp and went around to the cab and climbed in. He cranked the engine, and when he rolled past me, I could see Hellish’s head near a small, open window. She turned, stared right at me, and nickered. Sudden tears fractured my vision.
Enough.
This one wasn’t going to die. I swiped at my eyes and hurried over to Jim’s office.
I burst in, agitated, adrenalin pumping. Jim’s gaze left his charts and veterinary records, registering surprise.
“I gave you the day off.”
“Would you let me borrow your rig? I have to go to Dark Mountain.”
“What the hell you want to go there for?”
I explained about Hellish, how I’d need a stall for her in his barn, how he had to lend me his truck and trailer.
“I probably should refuse you for your own good, but hell . . . you got enough money?”
I leapt around the desk and threw my arms around him. He stiffened and gave me a little half-push away. Then shoved his keys at me.
“You drive carefully now and don’t be wrecking my rig.” His voice sounded gruff, but a smile tugged his lips as I turned to run from the room.
Jim’s red Ford 250 fired right up. I backed it up to the two-horse trailer, hooked them together, and took off up Route 1, merging onto Route 32, where I headed north. Almost two hours later, northwest of Hagerstown, the ground lost its lush green, rising rocky and bare-patched into low mountains. Jim’s V-8 hummed up the steep inclines, the trailer rattling along behind.
I pulled into an Exxon for gas and coffee, then studied my map while I sipped hazelnut and bit into a chocolate bar that somehow followed me from the food mart. Heading out of the gas station, I felt the caffeine and sugar boiling in my system. I might tear the auction grounds apart looking for Hellish. Good thing I hadn’t downed a beer — someone could get hurt.
My bravado and anger dwindled into surprise when I finally reached the sale. A huge circus tent rose behind the parking lot. Small pens holding sheep, donkeys, and goats flanked the tent to the right. A wooden barn, painted bright green, held position on the left. Ponies and horses watched with curiosity over stall doors as children and parents strolled the grounds, eating hotdogs and cotton candy. Wood smoke from a food concession wafted on a light breeze, bringing the smell of sizzling steaks and barbequed chicken, while the scent of popcorn and beer permeated the atmosphere. A musky scent of animal drifted through the grounds.
Beyond the horse barn, additional pens held cows, some llamas, and even an ox. The air buzzed with anticipation. Two bright-eyed boys rushed past clutching boxes with bunnies. What had I expected? Men in hooded black robes wielding sledgehammers? Well, yeah.
I fought the urge to rush into the barn to search for Hellish, and instead headed into the tent. I needed to find the office, learn about bidding requirements, auction rules and regulations. Through the tent opening, bleachers rose on either side of a long dirt runway. This path, enclosed by a sturdy post-and-board fence, opened at the far left end, where another tent door led toward the horse barn. An auctioneer’s stand stood at the opposite end. Behind that I spotted a double-wide trailer rolled inside the tent. A sign labeled “office” hung over its door.
An excessively fat woman wearing a maroon cap and an extra-large Redskins jersey, had me fill out a form for my name and address. Her green-and-red name tag read “Bertha.” She scribbled my driver’s license number in a box at the top with one hand, while the other ferried corn chips from a plastic bag to her mouth.
“I only need this if you’re paying with a check,” she said, her voice a mumble of chips.
“No, I brought cash.” Though not armed with Carla’s expertise in per-pound meat prices, I figured Hellish wouldn’t fetch more than $500.
After scurrying from Bertha’s office into the roundtop, my attention was caught by a small crowd gathered around chickens in cages. Roosters crowed and preened. A man in a green cap led the people from cage to cage, his voice running in the auctioneer’s singsong. I walked over there and immediately fell for a black-and-white rooster with fluffy feathers growing down to his toenails. His soft plumes and pantaloons reminded me of Slippers. An index card taped to his cage identified him as a “Barred Rock Cochin.”
Time for a mental slap. I hadn’t come here to buy a chicken. I bustled off to find Hellish, got almost as far as the tent door leading to the horse barn when I saw the rodent-like face of Dennis O’Brien.
He stood next to the bleachers studying an auction program. I didn’t need a confrontation, didn’t want him to see me. I scooted behind a family of five. The tallest two children, girls about 12, talked about the new horse they hoped to find for trail riding. Maybe a little showing. The father towed a small boy by the hand. The mother, in well-worn riding togs, led the way. I eased into the midst of this family as they moved through the door and headed for the horse barn. Dennis never saw me.
I sped up next to the woman. “Excuse me. If you’re looking for a horse, there’s a nice one here. He’s quiet, kind, got an injury that’ll heal, but probably keep his price down.”
The woman looked a me suspiciously. “Are you selling him?”
Mistrustful of horse traders. Who could blame her? “No. I’m an exercise rider, seen him at the racetrack. Hope he’ll find a good home.” I threw a glance at the girls. “His name’s Silver Box, he’s real handsome.”
Their eyes lit up and the mother sighed, “We’ll look at him.”
We moved into the barn. I spotted Silver Box right off. He poked his head into the aisle from his wooden stall, his rakish forelock partially hiding one mischievous eye. “That’s him,” I said.
One of the girls squealed, “Oh, he’s so cute!”
I left them to it and searched for Hellish.
I passed some old scarecrows with hip bones and ribs sticking out, their eyes dull and patient. They’d reached the end of their story. I cringed at the thought of what awaited them. I couldn’t save them all, but I could find Hellish, keep her from the butcher’s knife.
I pushed on past stalls with ponies and dappled Percherons, rounded a corner and moved down a new aisle. A kind-eyed young man, tall and slender, paced before a group of about six stalls. He’d nailed up a placard that read, “Sensible, sound racehorses looking for a good home.”
I hurried over to him. “I like your sign. Why are they for sale?”
He pushed some brown hair out of his eyes. “They’ve got a bad case of the ‘slows,’ but any of ’em would make a good riding horse. You interested?” He looked hopeful.
“Sorry, I’m here to save a rogue.”
“Good for you,” he said. “But if you change your mind . . .” He waved a hand at the horses.
I gave them a brief glance. They looked pretty good, mostly nondescript bays without much presence. A brief appraisal showed clean legs and healthy eyes. I wished them well and hurried on.
Ahead,a man shouted and yanked a small girl to safety as gleaming bared teeth threatened over a stall door. I caught a glimpse of a lightening-bolt blaze. Had to be Hellish. I reached her stall, found her glowering in the back. She had a white piece of paper glued to her hip with a big number 13 on it. Perfect. At least I knew where she fit into the schedule.
I needed to find a seat on the bleachers, get ready to bid. Slipping into the tent, I scanned the area for Dennis but didn’t see him. They should be racing at Shepherds Town and Dennis usually scored a fair number of rides. His presence at a dog-and-pony-show auction made no sense. He didn’t figure for a bunny-buyer.
I picked a spot up front near the auctioneer’s stand, my fingers tap-dancing on my thigh, keeping time to a tune of anxiety emanating from my core. What if someone fell for Hellish’s beauty and had real money to burn? The French consider horsemeat a delicacy. Who knew how much they’d pay? Did I really think I could train such a hellion?
I longed to get this over with and squirmed on my seat. A familiar prickle crawled down my back, that creepy feeling of someone watching.
Near the top of the bleachers someone wearing a blue baseball cap lurked behind a newspaper. A head edged over the top of the paper, and a pair of dark glasses studied me. Not a bad disguise, but the prick of this particular man’s stare, the sharp cheekbones, and dark hair were all too familiar. Farino. I threw him a big smile and waved. He withdrew behind the news.
Both Dennis and Jack Farino? Too weird for me. I almost wished I’d worn a disguise. The loudspeaker crackled, and a man led a cream-colored pony through the side door.
“Folks, welcome to Dark Mountain Sales. Time for the horses and ponies, and we’re starting with a real pretty one. And who’ll give me one hundred dollars . . .” The voice took off in the almost unintelligible singsong I’d heard by the chicken cages.
Feeling like a sitting duck on the open riser, I drifted toward the side door to find a less vulnerable position. A small group of buyers and browsers stood outside the tent inspecting the line of horses parading from the barn toward us.
A young man and a girl, both in cowboy boots and western hats, strapped a saddle onto a sturdy bay horse. The cowboy swung aboard. He rode the horse into the tent as the cream pony came out. The cowboy jogged and cantered the bay for the crowd, then two guys in auction caps set up a rail, and the rider booted the bay on over the jump. The auctioneer dropped his hammer on a price of $950, and a starry-eyed boy watched his dad sign the ticket.
Someone had told me the slaughter price for a horse ran about $600 and I hoped they were right. I only had $785 in cash. I’d cleaned out my bank account before leaving Laurel and wished I’d thought it through, been less impetuous, and grabbed Jim’s offer for money. Watching more horses sell, I realized the two men in auction caps were spotters, constantly watching the crowd for live bidders.
A man about 30-something hung in the doorway. He’d buzzed his blond hair into a severe cut, and wore overalls and heavy boots. The spotters’ eyes constantly swept his way, as if he were a major player. I got a bad feeling about him. The fifth horse to emerge from the barn shambled by, old and thin, and buzz-cut locked right on him. The horse was barely in the ring thirty seconds before the blond bought him for $750. Guy had to be a killer.
Panic surged through my gut. Hellish weighed more and stood over 16 hands tall. My cash wouldn’t cover her. I looked in my purse at the rubber-banded bills. Shit! Lying useless in the bottom of my bag were the “essential” makeup items Carla insisted I carry. “You never know when you’ll need them,” she’d said.
Yeah right. If I hadn’t spent all that money at the mall . . .
Horse number six plodded by about the time my brain rocked with a go-for-broke idea. I zipped into the tent, not caring who saw me. Dashing into the double-wide office, I halted before Bertha. She was fighting with the plastic wrap on a bag of cashews.
“Do you take . . . I think they call it an absentee bid? You know, leave money with you and somebody with the auction bids on the horse for me so I don’t have to?”
Her plump hand, finally filled with cashews, paused, then rushed for her mouth. She held up a finger in a just-a-moment sign, and I felt like slapping her around.
She swallowed.
“Yes, ma’am. You fill out a form earlier?”
“Yes. Latrelle,” I said, spelling it out.
“We need the highest price you’re willing to pay in cash money, but my boys are fair. They won’t bid the horse up. I’ll phone your limit over, and you pay what the market bears.”
I dug out my money roll and thrust it at her.
She took her time pulling off the rubber band and counting the bills. A frown produced a small canyon between her brows. “Miss, this won’t pay for much more than a small pony. Is that what you’re gettin?”
“Whatever, but she’s coming up soon. Could you call that bid over?”
She drew back, gave me her hard stare. “Don’t get your panties all bunched up. I’ll take care of it.” She reached for the phone with one hand, digging for cashews with the other.
I left Bertha, found a ladies room, dashed in and stood before a small mirror, cracked and scored with grime. I pulled out Carla’s essentials, swiped mascara onto my lashes, dabbed concealer under my eyes and gel rouge onto my cheeks. I lined my eyes in black. Lipstick. Much better, but something was missing.
What would Carla do? I’d never tried this before, but when the going gets tough . . .
I grabbed toilet paper, wadded it into balls, lowered the half-zip on my cotton top, and stuffed my bra. The top’s heavy fabric hid any lumpiness, and in the mirror cleavage erupted. Time to zip up and head out.
I jogged through the tent, heading for the meat buyer’s hangout spot. He’d held his position, bidding now on a large palomino with a slow, crippled walk. Made me sick. I inhaled a quantity of air, slid the zipper back down, and eased over. “Feats Don’t Fail Me Now,” one of Mom’s favorite songs, played in my head. I fixed a stare on the horse stumbling by and bumped into the man, dropping my bag at his feet.
He had plain, blue eyes, thin lips and a three-day-old stubble. His sleeveless tank displayed muscular arms, but his belly suggested a strong inclination to beer.
I tried to gaze at him like he was a rock star. “Hi,” I said, drawing the word out, making my voice a little husky. “Sorry I bumped you.” I got no reaction. Suppose he had no use for women?
Time to lean over and retrieve the bag. I pressed my arms against the sides of my breasts, and they obliged nicely, enhancing by at least a cup size. I rose slowly, to find the man’s eyes locked on my chest. He ripped his gaze away and finished bidding on the palomino.
“What did you say your name was?” he asked with a slow smile.
If ever a woman felt like a piece of meat. “Dusty,” I said. Hoping to beguile with a mask of lust, I sent him my best grin. In my peripheral vision, Silver Box ambled past us into the circus tent.
“Here’s a good one,” said Buzzcut.
My stomach clenched. Then I saw the mom in riding clothes, sitting in the front row of the bleachers. Her body line tense, she raised her hand and began bidding with determination. Relief flooded me when the family bought the horse for $800, outbidding Buzzcut. But he didn’t drop out until $775, way too near my limit.
I moved closer to him, praying I could keep up my lecherous performance, amazed by my talent for deceit. My stepfather had jammed up my sexual flow years ago, and now this sudden capacity for acting lecherous, along with Clay Reed’s ability to suffuse me with desire, surprised me. Then Hellish appeared, leaping and plunging as they tried to drag her to the tent.
Buzzcut examined the filly, then me. “Got two wild ones here today, and both just my type. Dusty, let me bid on this horse, then buy you a drink.”
I struggled to appear relaxed and thirsty for sex. Hellish reared up, scattering shrieking children right and left. Fuck! What was I supposed to do?
Buzzcut put his arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze, his eyes glued to the area below my collarbones.
I pulled back. “That horse scares me. Couldn’t we get that drink now?”
“Got a job to do, darlin’, but I surely do love an anxious woman. Just give me a minute and I’ll be done here.”
And so would Hellish. I rose on tiptoes, leaning into the guy, brushing my breasts against his chest.
“Please.”
“Oh, hell,” he groaned. “Whatever you want.” He forgot about Hellish and steered me in a lover’s lockstep toward the beer stand.
Behind us I heard an announcement. “Folks, this filly doesn’t wanna come into the tent, so were just gonna leave her outside for the bidding. Who’ll give me one hundred dollars?”
I could use a beer.