Call Me Softly Read online

  The city that had always been her home seemed to be conspiring to purge itself of Wetheringtons. Abigail had begged Lillie to return with her to South Carolina and, for the first time, she was ready to consider it.

  Then the curse struck once again.

  While Abigail was walking down a London sidewalk crowded with a tourist group, someone had tripped her into the path of a car. At first, she seemed to be recovering from her injuries, but her age worked against her. She succumbed to pneumonia and, though Lillie bore the name, the last of the Wetherington bloodline was gone.

  At least that’s what she’d thought before she read Grandmum’s letter.

  Chapter Three

  Crack. The colt swerved as the mallet connected with the polo ball and crow-hopped several steps. It would have thrown most riders, but Swain anticipated the move and easily kept her seat. She laughed aloud, delighting in the challenge, and turned her steed to gallop toward the next of the balls she had scattered midfield.

  Fifteen minutes later, both she and her horse were sweaty and breathing hard. But the colt no longer skittered sideways at the sound and movement of the mallet near his feet.

  “You’re a madwoman on horseback.”

  Swain grinned at the man who pulled his golf-cart-sized Gator alongside her as she walked the long-legged Thoroughbred around the perimeter of the field to cool him down.

  “Hey, Tim. Just starting to break this guy into the game.” She tossed her polo mallet toward the utility vehicle and he caught it neatly in one hand, stowing it beside him without taking his other hand from the steering wheel. She swung her leg over the colt’s rump and jumped to the ground. “You mind walking a bit?”

  “Naw. It’ll help stretch my back muscles.” Tim abandoned his vehicle and fell into step beside her as she continued leading the lathered colt around the field. A squat, bear-like man, he had the thick torso, massive arms, and perpetually sore back typical of his blacksmith profession.

  A huge wire-haired brown dog loped out from the barn and joined them.

  “Hey, Beau. Ya been molesting any poodles lately?”

  He greeted Tim with a low woof.

  Swain snorted. “Mrs. Hitchcock’s poodle is a slut. So, what brings you to speak to the lord of the mansion?”

  Tim roared with laughter. He did everything big and loud. “Lord of the mansion? You ain’t even lady of the mansion, my friend.”

  Swain laughed with him at their old joke. “So you came to see to the stable hand, huh?”

  “I came to see the best trainer in this state. I was working at the track today and saw a filly you’ll want to take a look at.”

  “I’ve pretty much got a full string of made ponies, and several others well along in training already,” Swain said.

  “I’m tellin’ ya that you don’t want to miss this one. She’s another Nor’easter, and I saw Whitney drooling over him Sunday.”

  “Yeah, he wants to make an offer now, but I may make him wait another season.”

  “That horse don’t need another season and you know it.”

  “Hoyt’s going to know that, too, after you let it drop in front of his trainer that I’m just holding on to him so the Wetherington team can bring home the twelve-goal tournament trophy next month.”

  The colt jumped at Tim’s loud guffaw. “Old Hoyt will be cleaning out his safety-deposit box to get you to sell before then.”

  “Exactly. There’ll be something in it for you, if he does.”

  The equine world had a well-defined social pecking order. The wealthy owners were at the top. Just below them were the trainers, who influenced how the owners spent their money. At the bottom was the local, common-bred underbelly of the horse business—grooms, farriers, stable hands, feed-store clerks, and the guys who sold and serviced the farm’s equipment.

  Swain treated them all the same. She always shared the spoils when a helping hand sweetened a deal or a good tip paid off, and that had earned her the underbelly’s respect and loyalty. That’s why Tim was there to tell her, not Hoyt’s trainer, about the filly. That’s why they didn’t bat an eye at her taste for women rather than men.

  They had completed their circuit around the field, and Swain stopped in the outdoor wash area. She pulled her pony’s bridle off and replaced it with a halter and lead line.

  “I’m headed to Hitchcock’s place next week to shoe a few ponies,” Tim said. “I reckon I can add some fuel to his fire.” Tim pulled a foil pouch from his back pocket and opened it to select a plug of chewing tobacco and tuck it neatly in his cheek.

  When Swain unbuckled and pulled the horse’s saddle from his back, her assistant trainer, Rob, appeared and took it from her. Beau licked at the salty sweat caked on the leather, but Rob pushed his head away.

  Rob nodded to Tim, but addressed Swain. “How’s he coming?”

  “Good. I’ll need you next week to start working with us on ride-offs.”

  “That soon, huh? Ya got a full string. What’s the hurry?”

  “I’ve got a buyer for Nor’easter.”

  “Damn, Swain. We’re a shoo-in for the twelve-goaler if you’re still riding him.”

  Tim laughed and slapped Rob on the back. “This is about making money, boy, not winning trophies.”

  “So, back to this filly you were telling me about…” Beau’s low woof and his sweeping tail stopped Swain mid-sentence.

  A stranger was standing on the rear terrace of Abigail’s sprawling home, her hand raised in a tentative wave. “Hel-lo there,” Swain said under her breath. The woman’s height appeared a near match to Swain’s five foot eight, and a thick mane of blond curls cascaded across her slender shoulders.

  Tim and Rob turned to see what had caught Swain’s eye.

  “Hoo-rah. Who’s the skirt?” Tim muttered.

  “No shit,” Rob chimed in.

  “Mind your manners, boys. Probably someone looking for Abigail,” Swain said, her eyes never leaving the beautiful woman. She handed off the colt to Rob and gave Tim a dismissive pat on his shoulder. “Tell Rob when and where, and I’ll take a look at the filly.” She pointed to Beau, and Tim grabbed his collar to hold him back as Swain headed for the visitor.

  *

  Cornflower blue was the only thought in Lillie’s head when the woman approached and smiled. Her eyes shone like sapphires contrasted against thick black lashes and tanned skin. Her jeans were tucked into knee-length boots, and the short sleeves of her faded polo jersey exposed tanned, muscled arms. The vision was speaking to her.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Can I help you with something?” the woman repeated.

  “Oh. Yes! I…I just arrived and I was looking for who might be in charge around here.”

  “That would be me, I guess. Mrs. Wetherington is out of the country.”

  “I know, yes, I…I know that.” Lillie briefly pressed her fingers against the pain that had begun throbbing in her left temple. “I apologize. I’ve had a very long trip, and I don’t seem to be organizing my thoughts very well right now. I’m looking for Ms. Butler.”

  The woman pulled off her leather riding glove to offer her bare hand. “Swain Butler.”

  Lillie blinked at the hand. She expected someone hardened from work and weathered by the sun. She didn’t envision the strong, handsome young woman who stood before her.

  “I’m Swain Butler,” the woman repeated. Her eyes twinkled as she continued to hold out her hand. “At your service, Miss…”

  “Wetherington. Lillie Wetherington,” she answered, hastily clasping Swain’s hand. It was callused and firm, but carefully gentle as it closed around her fingers.

  A flurry of emotion rolled through the blue eyes like fast-moving clouds—surprise, curiosity—before they quickly cleared.

  “I’m so sorry. The way Grandmum spoke about you, trusted you with her business dealings, I expected someone older.”

  “No harm done.”

  Swain was solidly built with wide, muscled shoulders that tape
red down to narrow hips and well-developed thighs. Her dark hair was cut short in an attractive but androgynous style. From behind, it would be easy to mistake her for an athletic young man. But when she turned around, the gentle swell of small breasts, the soft angles of her face, and her eyes were much too sensuous to be anything but female. The way those eyes traveled over her now felt like soft, curious touches. The voice was deep and smoky. “So you’re Lillie.”

  “Yes. You know who I am?” What had Grandmum told Swain about her?

  “Yes. Abigail spoke—bragged—about you often.”

  Lillie felt herself flush, and she glanced down at her feet to hide her embarrassment.

  “I was very sorry to hear about the loss of your parents,” Swain said gently.

  “Thank you.” Lillie had just met this woman, but the concern radiating from her was comforting.

  Swain looked hopefully toward the house. “Abigail is finally home? She should have called. I would’ve met y’all in Columbia.”

  During the long flight over the Atlantic, Lillie had rehearsed what she would say. It seemed hardly appropriate, though, to just blurt out the news of Abigail’s death while standing on the terrace. It didn’t feel like the right time, so she skirted the issue.

  “Not exactly, no. She won’t arrive for another two days.” She held up the keys. “I let myself in the house. I just wanted someone to know I wasn’t a burglar bumbling about.”

  Lillie had felt like she was trespassing. Although Abigail hadn’t been there for many months, the house didn’t look or smell like it had been closed up. She called out and searched about, but it soon became apparent she was alone in the expansive residence. So she’d found her way out to the wide terrace that overlooked the stables.

  “Do you stay there?” she asked tentatively. “I didn’t want to go poking about in someone else’s rooms.”

  “No. The upper floor of the barn is an apartment. That’s where I live.” Swain gestured toward the house. “I’d be happy to show you around and help you get your luggage up to one of the guest rooms.”

  “Thank you. The driver left my bags in the foyer. I’m sure you have other work to do, but I’d be grateful for the assistance.” Lillie was relieved to have an escort. The residence was five times the size of her London flat and a bit daunting.

  Swain led her back through a sunroom that opened into a state-of-the-art kitchen.

  “The refrigerator is empty except for a few sodas and bottles of water. There’s still a supply of soups and other canned goods in the pantry, though. Abigail probably told you that when she left for Europe, her housekeeper decided it was a good time to retire. A janitorial service opens the house one day a week and cleans. But nobody’s been living here.” She pointed toward one side of the kitchen. “Through those doors are the pantry and laundry room. The door over that leads to a housekeeper’s suite.” She looked at Lillie. “I’ve never been to London. That’s where you live, right?”

  Lillie nodded.

  “Well, I don’t know how different your appliances may be, but if you need help figuring out how to use something before Abigail arrives, just ask. Number one on the house phones speed-dials my cell phone. Number two dials the barn office.”

  As they walked through the downstairs, Swain pointed out the formal living room and Abigail’s study, which adjoined a cavernous library. They circled back around to the foyer and Swain picked up the two largest of Lillie’s bags as though they were weightless. Lillie grabbed two smaller ones and followed her up the curved mahogany staircase. Swain set the bags down at the top of the stairs and indicated for Lillie to do the same with the ones she carried.

  “The master suite where Abigail stays is to the right.” She led Lillie down a long hallway to the left, opening doors to reveal various bedrooms, most with private baths. “These are all guest rooms. Take your pick.”

  Two bedrooms on the front side of the house featured rich, masculine colors. The two bedrooms that overlooked the back lawn and terrace felt more feminine. The last door Swain opened was on the right, closest to the stairway. “This is the one you may like best,” she suggested.

  The room was a calming combination of cool blue and green pastels that accented the dominant crème décor. Swain opened a set of double French doors that led onto a balcony overlooking the terrace. Another door led to an extravagant bathroom.

  Lillie nodded her agreement. “Yes. I should be more than comfortable here.”

  “It’s also close to Abigail’s rooms.” Swain ducked into the hallway to retrieve the luggage. “Would you like to walk down to the stables? Or would you rather settle in here first?”

  Lillie rubbed her temple again. “I would like to sit down for a moment.” She walked over to the small sitting area in the corner of the room and sank into an overstuffed chair. She gestured toward a divan, indicating that Swain should sit, too. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter Four

  Swain hesitated, then walked slowly over and sat. Lillie stared down at her hands, her blond mane falling forward around her face. Her long, slender fingers gathered the errant curls and draped them behind her shoulders again. It was a very feminine gesture that Swain found unexpectedly appealing.

  When Lillie looked up, her brown eyes were dark and her expression troubled. Swain waited patiently while she nervously smoothed her linen trousers with her hands and crossed, then uncrossed her legs and cleared her throat.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  After another handful of seconds ticked by, Swain raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Yes, well. I’ve rehearsed what to say, but it all seems so inadequate now. I guess there’s nothing to do but blurt it out.” She took a deep breath. “I’m terribly sorry to have to be the bearer of this news. However, no one but me is left to tell it. Grandmum succumbed to a very bad case of pneumonia. The doctors did everything they could, but…she has passed away.”

  Swain’s breath left her lungs. Her heart stilled for a beat, two beats, three before it fluttered back to life. No. She must have heard wrong. “You said she’d be here in two days.”

  “She wanted to be buried here in South Carolina. It took me nearly a week to make the arrangements, but her body is being shipped here.”

  No. It couldn’t be true. She sat perfectly still, as if not breathing, not moving would make the words go away. She stared at Lillie in disbelief.

  “She died a week ago and nobody thought to tell me until now?” Her voice was even, but her tone bitter and accusing. She felt betrayed, cast aside. Lillie couldn’t know what Abigail meant to her, but Bonner sure did. He should have at least shown her the courtesy of a phone call.

  The day Abigail hired her had changed Swain’s life.

  She had been working that year as an assistant trainer and rider for a polo team in Wellington, Florida. The team had traveled to Aiken for a twelve-goal tournament that they won handily. Swain was unsaddling the pony she rode in the last chukker when Abigail appeared and invited her to dinner. She wanted to discuss a job opening.

  Abigail was direct, intelligent, and engaging. They talked about horses and the tradition of polo long into the night, and before they parted, Abigail offered her a staggeringly generous long-term contract to be her head trainer at the Wetherington stables and captain of the Raiders.

  The offer stunned her, but only a fool would have turned it down. She could stop bouncing from team to team, working under seasonal contracts. She could train and ride horses the way she felt was best. She signed the contract that very night and never regretted it.

  Abigail had loved to watch her work the ponies. She was remarkably hale for her seventy-two years and would sometimes saddle a pony and accompany Swain on long rides to build the horses’ stamina. They often dined together, talking for hours about everything from sports to philosophy, film to politics, and evolution to reincarnation. She made Swain feel, for the first time in her life, like she had a home. Abigail and the guys who worked under Sw
ain became like family. The only family she’d ever had.

  “I’m so very sorry,” Lillie said. “I know it seems horrible to have kept it from you, but Grandmum wanted me to tell you in person. She didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else, or learn about it in an e-mail or phone call.”

  Confused now, Swain teetered between anger and despair. “We were friends. Close friends.”

  Lillie’s eyes were sad. She looked tired, very tired. “I miss her terribly,” she confessed. They sat in a companionable silence for a moment, sharing their grief, before Lillie spoke again. “She said I could trust you…to help me settle her estate.”

  Swain frowned. She hadn’t had time to digest the fact that she would never see Abigail again. This conversation was moving too fast. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  Lillie stood and walked over to retrieve an envelope from her purse. She held it out to Swain.

  Swain rose and took the letter, turning it over several times and studying her name written on the front.

  “Although I imagine it will require several weeks to sort things out, I’ll be leaving as soon as her will is read,” Lillie said. “I expect that letter contains some instructions for you concerning the horses.”

  “Surely you’re not talking about selling the Wetherington stables?”

  “Quite honestly, I doubt that will be up to me. I don’t know what is written in Grandmum’s will. But I don’t plan to stay in America.”

  If she wasn’t planning to stay in America, then why would she keep a polo stable here? Did this woman not understand what the Wetheringtons had built? Did she not understand the tradition and the responsibility that came with her last name? Her fury bubbled up so quickly, she had no time to rein in her caustic words.