At Risk (16 page)

I went into the lounge and bought a soda.
When I walked back outside, Marty had already helped himself to a
7-Up.

"Isn't that warm?"

"A little."

I made a face, parked my soda on one of the
picnic tables, and sat down. The clip-clop of horseshoes echoed off
the barn siding, and a mild breeze rustled the canvas above our
heads. I took a swig of Coke and rested my elbows on the table. The
day had been a long one, just a taste of what lay ahead with the
show season right around the corner.

I looked up in time to see one of the new
boarders walk past on her way to the barn. Her name was Rachel, and
she'd hauled her horse in two weeks earlier. Since she rode in the
evenings, I'd been staying at work later and later with each
passing day. She looked in our direction and waved. I waved back.
Marty, ever observant, took it in.

After she walked out of sight beyond the
corner of the barn, he said, "Holy shit. You're alive after
all."

"What are you talking about?"

"I was beginning to worry about you Steve,
ol' buddy, ol' pal. Is that the new boarder?"

"Yeah."

"How comes I haven't seen her 'til now?"

"She comes in after you leave." I grinned.
"She must of heard about you."

He chuckled and, as if proving my point,
said, "Man, oh, man. That's the best part of this job. More girls
here than flies on shit. Girls and their horses. And the way they
move their hips when they're riding, wearin' those tight britches
like they do. Man, it's enough to make a guy crazy. What's her
name?"

"Rachel."

"She's got a great ass. Must have somethin'
to do with all that ridin'. Bet she's good in--" Marty looked at my
face, correctly read my expression, and rephrased his statement,
"eh . . . a lot of fun. Fun to be with, I mean." He sat on the edge
of the table. "I was wondering when you were gonna wake up? You
gonna ask her out? After that girl of yours, what's her name . . .
Melanie . . ."

"Melissa."

"You haven't gone out since she dumped you,
have you? I get dumped all the time. Matter of fact, Jessica dumped
my ass the other night. But I don't let it stop me. There's always
a honey out there somewhere. You shouldn't let it get to you. I
don't."

I fingered my Coke can. "Sorry about
Jessica."

Marty shrugged it off.

"And you're wrong," I said. "I didn't let it
get to--"

"Yeah, Steve. Right. Anything you say. But I
know you."

I picked up my Coke and smeared the ring of
wetness across the varnished wood. As much as I hated to admit it,
Marty was right. I'd been devastated, though I'd pretended
otherwise. Almost believed it. But what really bothered me was that
I'd gotten it so wrong. I wasn't going to let that happen again,
and yet, here I was, crashing headlong into those old, overwhelming
feelings. At least Rachel wasn't attracted to me because she
thought I was loaded, like Melissa had been. Being poor had its
advantages.

"So. You gonna ask her out, 'cause if you
aren't--"

"We already have."

"Have what?"

"Gone out. Three times, in fact." I grinned
at him.

"You're shittin' me?"

I shook my head.

"Well, fuck me." He jumped off the table,
extended his arms toward me, and wiggled his fingers. "He no longer
slumbers," he said with what he hoped was a spooky-scary voice.
"He's--"

I threw my empty Coke can at him.

With the party clearly on everyone's mind,
the crew wrapped up the day's work in record time. I drove home,
shaved and showered, brushed my teeth, then struggled over what to
wear. I decided on a striped Oxford that I'd always liked, pulled
on a reasonably new pair of jeans, and found a pair of clean socks
that actually matched. The nights were still chilly, so I topped
everything off with my old leather jacket.

I went back into the bathroom and looked in
the mirror. My hair was too long. The warmer the weather, the
shorter I kept it, and it wasn't behaving. I combed it again,
without effect, then leaned over the sink and squinted at the scars
on my face. Even though they'd faded since my stay in the hospital,
they were still depressingly noticeable.

I thought about Rachel, combed my hair one
last time, and grinned at my reflection.

Damn, you're a fool to be liking her so much
so soon.

At Foxdale, cars and pickups and even a
motorcycle or two were jammed into every conceivable space. I
parked on the grass shoulder close to the road and, with an almost
forgotten feeling of lightheartedness, walked down the lane and
joined the party. The last trace of daylight had seeped from the
sky, and the Christmas lights Mrs. Hill had strung in the dogwood
saplings beyond the indoor twinkled in the gentle breeze. The sound
system was impressive, and the food smelled great. I looked for
Rachel. When I couldn't find her, I loaded a plate down with
barbecued chicken and steamed shrimp, grabbed an ice-cold Coke, and
sat on the grass.

I was thinking about seconds when the crowd
shifted. Mrs. Hill was standing under the canopy, talking to a
distinguished-looking man with gray hair and a salt-and-pepper
mustache. He was wearing an expertly-cut three-piece suit that went
a long way toward disguising his bulging middle-aged gut. He bent
forward, cupped his hands around the end of his cigar, and
struggled to keep his lighter from going out in the breeze. I
watched his cheeks work as he puffed on the stogie and idly thought
that he shouldn't be smoking so close to the barn. Someone stepped
in front of me, blocking my line of sight.

"Hello there." Rachel crossed her arms and
grinned down at me. "I was wondering if you were going to
show."

I stood up. "Wouldn't have missed it." I ran
my fingertips along the corners of my mouth and hoped I didn't have
any barbecue sauce on my face.

When she looked over her shoulder and checked
out the crowd, I put the opportunity to good use. She'd ridden
earlier, so I was surprised to see that she'd changed her clothes.
She was wearing a soft-looking sweater and a pair of jeans that
were snug enough to get my pulse racing. Her hair was no longer
confined in a ponytail and hung well past her shoulders. I wouldn't
have minded running my fingers through it. Wouldn't have minded
kissing her, either.

She tilted her head back and gazed at the
night sky. The line of her neck was immediately stimulating. Long,
taught lines. Creamy smooth skin. Form and function blended in such
a way that could only be viewed as sexual by an adult male.

"It's turned out to be a nice evening, hasn't
it?" she said.

I imagined what it would be like to slide my
hand into that sweater of hers. "Um-hum."

"I can't believe how many stars you can see
out here. It's beautiful." When I didn't respond, she turned to
look at me, and I thought it was a damn good thing she couldn't
read my mind.

"Um-hum, beautiful," I mumbled.

She looked at me strangely, and I figured she
wouldn't need to be a mind-reader if I kept acting like an
idiot.

I cleared my throat. "Have you eaten?"

She nodded. "The food's delicious. How often
does Foxdale have these parties?"

"Several times a year. The next one'll be in
June, at the start of the four-day A-rated show. Then there's a
Halloween party for boarders and students. That one's a blast. It's
held in conjunction with a fun-day horse show for the kids. They
wear costumes and compete in silly games. Then there's the
Christmas party. The boarders' committee plans and organizes that
one."

"Very impressive. It must be a lot of work
for you."

"Yeah, but it's fun." I ran my fingers
through my hair.

We were standing close, the goings-on around
us oblivious, at least, to me. Mrs. Hill chose that moment to walk
over and say hello. I didn't hear her at first.

". . . Stephen?"

I turned around. "Mrs. Hill?"

"Stephen . . . this is Mr. Ambrose. Mr.
Ambrose," she said with a look of amusement in her eyes that I
think only I noticed, "Stephen Cline."

Wow. The man himself, and after all this
time.

"Hello, Stephen." Ambrose held out his hand,
and I shook it. "I've heard a great deal about you from Mrs. Hill.
According to her, you're the driving force behind Foxdale's recent
success. Well done, young man."

"Eh . . . thank you, sir."

He took a puff from his cigar and
uninhibitedly looked me up and down. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-one, sir."

He grunted. "I don't mind telling you I'm
pleased with how the farm is prospering just now. When my wife
decided to have it built, I thought it a foolish idea. I continued
to think so for a long time, but when she passed away, I held onto
it in honor of her memory. Now, it is no longer a burden but an
enterprise I don't mind having my name connected with."

I glanced at Mrs. Hill and wished I hadn't.
She was grinning at me with what I could only read as motherly
pride.

"Well done, young man." Ambrose clapped me on
the shoulder.

"Thank you, sir."

He gave me a curt nod, glanced at Rachel,
then put his hand on Mrs. Hill's shoulder and steered her toward
the parking lot. I heard his voice clearly over the crowd.
"Imagine, losing a tax write-off because of a twenty-one-year-old
kid."

Chapter 9

When I looked back at Rachel, I realized I'd
forgotten to introduce her. I apologized.

"That's all right." Her eyes twinkled with
humor. "You were too busy being run over."

I snagged one of the servers, got a beer for
myself and wine for Rachel--served in a plastic cup,
nonetheless--and said, hoping it didn't sound idiotic, "To the
future."

"To the future." She hesitated before taking
a sip. The Christmas lights reflected in her dark eyes, and I
thought that maybe, just maybe, the future would be an improvement
over the past.

We carried our drinks into the barn and
checked out the inhabitants. I stopped at the second stall on the
right. "This is Jake, one of my favorites."

Rachel grasped one of the bars on the stall
door, and the gelding tentatively stretched his neck and nuzzled
her fingers with his velvety black nose.

"Yep," I said. "He's as sweet and as docile
as a lamb, but boy, can he jump. Jumps like a jackrabbit."

We drifted down one side of the aisle and up
the other. Kids were running and squealing in the aisle across the
way, turning the barn into a playground. Most of the horses were
eating their hay, some were dozing, none seemed disturbed by the
activity. When I was satisfied that they were fine with all the
commotion, we crossed over to barn B and eventually stopped at her
horse's stall. The gelding tilted his head to the side, the way
they do when they think they're going to be fed, and tried his
damnedest to look cute.

"You're embarrassing. You know that?" Rachel
stretched her fingers between the bars and rubbed his nose. He
pulled back in annoyance.

Just then, Marty, obviously a shade drunk,
strolled into the barn with his arm slung around the shoulders of a
tall blonde and a beer dangling from his hand. I had never seen her
before, but I wasn't surprised. With Marty's dark good looks and
outgoing personality, he was never alone for long. They came to an
abrupt halt in front of us. The blonde swayed from the unexpected
maneuver. I glanced at my drink and wondered if I'd be driving them
home.

"So-o-o, there you are," Marty slurred. "Was
wonderin' where you'd got to. Steve, this is Angie." He paused, and
I noticed a mischievous glint in his eyes as he added, "Jessica's
sister." He gestured with his hand and beer sloshed down his
fingers. "Angie, Steve."

So Marty's new honey was his ex's sister.
Damn, he didn't worry about anything. I tried to keep a straight
face. "Nice to meet you."

Angie pushed a handful of bleached-blond hair
out of her eyes and mumbled something indistinct. She was heavy
into jewelry and makeup--unappealing to my eyes--but Marty never
sweated the details. His only concern, as he frequently lectured
me, was the main course. And actually, the main course looked
pretty good. She was built a lot like her sister.

Marty gulped some beer, then licked his lips.
"Yep, ol' Steve here's the main man. Our hero. Defender of horses
everywhere. Yep. Got the crap--"

"Marty!" I cut him off. "Marty, this is
Rachel . . . Rachel, Marty. He works here, too."

Marty looked her up and down with evident
approval and swayed when he leaned forward to shake her hand. "Nice
to meet you." He looked past her and winked at me.

I sighed inwardly. Marty, sober, was not the
epitome of tact. Plastered, he was much worse. Pulling his girl
along with him, he stepped over to me and hooked his free arm
across my shoulders.

"Rachel," he said, "take good care of this
guy. I'm happy to see there's life in him after all." He squeezed
my shoulder, then let his arm drop to his side. "Come on, Ange." He
guided her toward the exit. "See ya later," he yelled over his
shoulder.

I leaned back against the stall door,
thinking that Marty could be so embarrassing when Rachel said,
"What was he going to say when you interrupted him?"

The overhead lights shone like silver in her
dark hair. "What?"

"What did he mean by 'defender of
horses?'"

Damn Marty and his big mouth. "Nothing," I
mumbled. "It's just something silly he likes to say."

She frowned.

Rachel, I saw, was not a girl to put up with
evasion. I wondered what I should tell her. If I should tell.

I sighed. "In February . . . some guys stole
seven horses from the farm. I ran into them. That's what he was
talking about." And damn him.

"Is that what happened to your face?" she
said.