Unbridled Page 7

  I scour websites, try four different search engines, and subscribe to at least six equestrian publications to gain access to their archived stories. After some hesitation, I access my two subscriber services that search all public records, including police and court records, property, and business records.

  According to her list of past addresses, she lived on the West Coast through her teens and most of her twenties. She made annual trips to Germany for about five years, staying several months each time, according to an interview she gave while on the US Equestrian Team. I sip coffee as I scan through the records data, then nearly spit it all over my laptop when the next page includes a criminal record. I grab my reading glasses I rarely use with my computer and squint to make sure I’m seeing the report clearly.

  She was charged with drunk driving and underage drinking when she was eighteen. Eh. A youthful indiscretion. She also had a couple of traffic tickets, mostly speeding. But the year she disappeared from the equestrian-team news, she’d been charged with conspiracy to commit fraud, cruelty to animals, and destruction of private property in North Carolina. All three charges were later dismissed, but, like things posted on social media, they last forever on public records. Is that why she doesn’t ride competitively anymore? Cruelty to animals? I just can’t see it. Even the most cantankerous horse gentles under her hands. Barn cats lounge in her office, and Alex constantly complains that his terrier likes Marsh better than him.

  So, what happened that year?

  Chapter Seven

  Monday dawns bright and cloudless. The early morning air is crisp even though the day is forecast to warm to a pleasant seventy-two degrees by afternoon. Autumn is right around the corner, and the weather people are predicting a colorful display as Virginia’s hardwood forests transition for winter. I already see glimpses of bright red and yellow as I drive to my much-anticipated riding lesson with Marsh.

  The rest of my internet searches the day before turned up nothing else, so I mentally gather all the questions in my head and tuck them away for later. Right now, all I want is to concentrate on my lesson so I can impress Marsh. Then I want to drag her someplace where we can be alone and kiss her until my lips are sore. I want to… I slam on the brakes of my Volvo SUV and whip the steering wheel sharply to the right, nearly taking the turn into Langston Farms on two wheels. God. I have to stop the sex daydreams. I park beside the huge oak where I sat most of the summer watching my niece take lessons. Or, rather, watching Marsh teach the lessons. The thought instantly conjures a vision of Marsh’s ass in skin-tight riding breeches as she turns in circles to watch individual students. I grasp my crotch with my left hand and squeeze to discourage the throbbing in my sex.

  I jump at the sharp rap on the hood of my vehicle. Alex, leading a schooling horse up from the pasture, peers at me through the windshield.

  “You plan to sit in your car all morning? Fancy’s waiting in her stall.”

  I unbuckle my seat belt and climb out of the SUV. “Is Marsh here?” I sound a bit too eager. “I was wondering if everything went okay Saturday…with the horse she had to take to a surgery center.”

  Alex nods but doesn’t smile as we head to the barn. “Butter survived, but Marsh thinks the client needs to lease a different horse. It’s his third colic, and each episode has been worse. He just isn’t cut out for trailering all over the countryside to shows. Some horses aren’t.”

  “That makes sense, doesn’t it? I would think surgery will require several months of recuperation. They’re going to miss the rest of the show season if the rider doesn’t lease a different one.”

  “The rider is a fourteen-year-old girl, and she’s gotten attached to Butter. She wants to buy him, but her father says if he buys Butter for her, then he won’t be paying for a lease on another horse for her to show.”

  I remember being fourteen and filled with the confusing onslaught of puberty-induced hormones and emotions. I was also terrified of my father, who considered bullying an effective parenting tool.

  “Is the girl any good as a rider?”

  “Exceptional. Marsh says she could be Olympic material by the time she’s eighteen if she stays focused.”

  Hmm. Rough spot for a teen. “Still, I’m sure it’s hard to give up a horse you’ve come to love.”

  Alex shrugs. “The kid needs to toughen up, and her father needs to learn something about raising daughters. Marsh will work it out so everybody’s happy. She almost always does.”

  Add diplomatic to her list of qualities—talented, sexy, commanding, devastatingly handsome, so sexy, and now this. Did I mention sexy? Because the word is screaming in my head as she walks Fancy toward where Alex and I are clipping his mount into the cross ties in the spacious corridor of the huge stables.

  “Good morning,” she says, clipping Fancy into another set of cross ties so she faces the horse Alex is saddling.

  “Morning.” Good God. If my voice gets any lower, I’ll be purring. I clear my throat. “Alex is just catching me up on how everything turned out Saturday night. I understand the horse survived and will be fine.”

  “His show career is over, but he’ll be okay.”

  Are we talking about a horse or about Marsh? I can’t put my finger on what is different about her today, but her usual air of authority seems a bit deflated. Her eyes are a pale version of their normal brilliant blue. Still, she moves with the same fluid grace as she wordlessly begins saddling Fancy. Getting my horse ready for the lesson is my responsibility, but when I glance at Alex, he shakes his head and mouths let her. So, I do.

  “You need to stretch,” Marsh says.

  “I’m good. I went for a short run early this morning before I showered, so I’m warmed up.”

  Marsh tightens the saddle’s girth. “That was an instruction, not a request.” She runs her fingers between the girth and the horse’s barrel to make sure no skin is pinched. Her voice is calm for the horse’s benefit, but the hard look she tosses at me carries a different message.

  I snap my mouth shut on the retort forming in my head and step outside to use the hitching rail to perform my warm-up stretches.

  I’m not sure what to make of her mood, and Alex appears similarly at a loss.

  I watch them out of the corner of my eye while I stretch. Marsh seems to take extra care as she checks the fit of Fancy’s bridle, feels along her legs for heat that would signal inflammation, then lifts each foot to double-check for anything like a rock or stick wedged in the metal shoe that could bruise Fancy’s foot. I strain to hear the mumbled conversation between her and Alex, but without success. The sound that does carry is the distinctive ping of Marsh’s phone. She takes it from her pocket and reads the screen, then heads toward me.

  “Alex will get you started. I have to make a phone call or two, and then I’ll be back to see how you’re progressing.”

  I straighten, surprised she’s delivered the message herself rather than just going in the office and leaving Alex to explain. Has our near encounter Saturday changed something between us? Maybe Marsh is having a weak moment. “Okay.” My acknowledgment bounces off her back because she’s already turned away and is striding toward the office.

  Alex is watching her, too, his brow knitted. Then he unclips and leads his horse out into the sunshine. “Bring Fancy. We’ll mount up here and ride to the training ring.”

  “Is Marsh okay, Alex? She looks tired and seems a bit, I don’t know, off today.”

  “She’s got to be tired. She stayed with Butter Saturday night, yesterday, and most of last night, I guess. When our alarm went off at four thirty this morning, we heard her truck pass our house on the way to hers.” He shrugs. “Sometimes, she…” He stops, then shakes his head. “Marsh is very private. I shouldn’t be talking about her.”

  Damn. He was about to give me some inside information, but I have to admire his restraint in keeping her confidences. Alex is a good gu
y, and I’m not going to goad him to say something he’d rather not. Besides, I want to discover everything about Marsh myself. I love the challenge of a good mystery, and Marsh Langston is the most intriguing puzzle I’ve ever encountered or dreamed up for a book.

  * * *

  My lesson isn’t very productive because I can think of nothing but Marsh, who doesn’t reappear the entire hour I bounce around in the saddle. I’m convinced—and Fancy would have agreed if she could talk—there’s no rhythm to be found between us. She waltzes smoothly around the riding ring while I tap-dance in the saddle. We both sigh in apparent relief when Alex calls a stop to it.

  “Don’t get discouraged,” Alex says. “It’ll kick in when you least expect it. You’ll find that rhythm and wonder why it seemed so hard before.”

  I give him a skeptical look. He’s ridden alongside me much of the lesson, trying to get me to match his movements as he demonstrates how to correctly post a trot. He can’t deny my awkward efforts show no improvement.

  To Alex’s credit, he shrugs off my skepticism and laughs. “Really. It’ll happen. You just need to relax and quit trying so hard.” His phone chimes and he pulls it from his pocket, frowning as he reads the text. “God damn it.”

  “What’s wrong?’ I ask. I try not to gawk over his shoulder, but a glimpse before he begins typing a reply reveals the text is from Marsh. “Alex?”

  He curses again under his breath as he types. Before he finishes his reply, Marsh strides out of the barn and toward her truck. At the same time, a Mercedes sedan emerges from the driveway and skids to a halt. A young teen throws open the passenger door and runs to Marsh.

  “Ms. Langston, you’ve got to do something. Dad says the owner wants to put Butter down, and he can’t do anything about it. You can’t let them. You have to stop them.”

  The driver of the Mercedes gets out but props against the car’s fender rather than approach. She looks young to be the mother of a fourteen-year-old and offers only a helpless shrug when Marsh glances her way. Maybe she’s an older sister or a stepmother?

  Marsh takes the girl by the shoulders and bends so they’re eye to eye. “I just talked to your father, and I’m going back to the surgery right now to consult with the doctors. Then I’ll call the owner. If I can do anything to save Butter, I will. I promise. But, Grace, you need to prepare yourself. He might be too sick, and we don’t want him to suffer needlessly. You don’t want that, do you?”

  Grace shakes her head, but tears run down her cheeks. Marsh pulls a cloth from her pocket and offers it to her. I recognize the bandanna I gave her before, and despite the drama currently unfolding, I feel stupidly pleased Marsh not only kept it but has it in her pocket.

  Grace wipes her face. She reminds me of a gangly colt, all legs and arms. Nevertheless, I can tell she’s an athlete in the making. She’s already tall for fourteen and moves with more coordination than a still-growing adolescent should. She stares at the ground, obviously trying hard to bring her emotions under control. “He’s not going to be able to jump anymore, is he?”

  “Maybe, but I think we need to face that Butter isn’t cut out for going to shows every weekend. He tenses up and doesn’t drink enough water. This is the third time, and the chance he won’t survive increases with each colic. Even if he gets well this time, you’re going to have to find another horse to show.”

  Grace’s breath hitches, and she looks up at Marsh with watery eyes. “What will happen to him?”

  Marsh surprises me by pulling Grace into a hug. “You let me worry about that, kiddo.” She releases Grace and steps back but keeps her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Right now, I need to go to the surgery and decide the right thing to do. I’ll call you after I’ve seen Butter and talked to the doctors, okay?”

  Grace nods, then chokes out, “Tell him I love him.”

  “You bet.” Marsh glances over to where Alex and I stand. “Alex is going to have to teach my classes today while I’m gone, so I bet he could use your help with the younger riders. He also has several horses that need exercising. Can you do that for me while I see about Butter?”

  Marsh looks to the woman leaning against the car. The woman mouths thank you to Marsh and calls out to Grace. “You need to change your shoes if you’re planning to stay. Aren’t your boots still in the trunk?”

  “I’ll get them.” Grace trots back to the car.

  Alex hands his horse’s reins to me and walks to Marsh. I’m not about to be left out of this, so I follow, horses in tow.

  “You’re dead on your feet,” Alex insists, his voice low. “Have you slept at all in the past twenty-four hours?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Marsh says.

  “You push yourself too hard. You don’t have to take care of the whole world, you know.” Alex isn’t backing down. “We can cancel the classes for today. I’ll just turn all the horses out for exercise, and I’ll bring them in tonight.”

  “Call Jules to see if she can help with a class or two. She was planning to train today anyway.”

  “Damn it, Marsh. Listen to me. If the owner has told the surgery to put the horse down, just let them do it. I know you don’t want to hear it, but some things aren’t up to you to control.”

  Marsh shoots him a look that would send any sane person running, but Alex stands his ground, glaring back. “I’m going to call Harrison. Maybe he can talk some sense into you.”

  “No.” Marsh’s answer is curt and final.

  Fancy chooses that moment to head-butt me in the back, pushing me practically between the two as they quietly argue. She’s probably impatient to be rid of her saddle and get some turnout time. Because, you know, she’s a horse and couldn’t possibly understand what’s going on. Right?

  “I can drive you,” I offer. “You can catch a nap, and Alex won’t have to worry about you falling asleep and running into a ditch somewhere.”

  Alex jumps at the offer. “You don’t mind?”

  “Maybe I mind.” Marsh glares at Alex.

  “Really, I have absolutely nothing else planned for today.” I fish for a more convincing reason. “Besides, I’m thinking about making one of the main characters in my next book a veterinarian. I’d love to see the surgery and maybe talk to them about letting me come back another time and spend the day…you know, for research.”

  They both look at me for a long moment.

  “Okay,” Marsh finally says. “But you do exactly what I say when we get there. This trip may not have a happy ending.”

  “I know.” Just the thought makes me want to cry. I’m empathetic that way. Sometimes I cry when I write emotional scenes, but I’m the only one who knows that. Well, Edith knows. But she’s my editor. I square my shoulders. I can do this. For some reason, I need to do this for Marsh. And it isn’t about getting in her pants, or her getting in mine.

  “We’ll take your car.” Marsh makes it clear she’s still calling the shots.

  Chapter Eight

  I bring my car to a gentle stop but leave the engine running. Afraid the absence of the motor’s faint purr will wake Marsh, I want a moment or two to observe her.

  She’s propped against the passenger door, her face relaxed and long-fingered hands resting on her thighs. Her short hair is dark blond, naturally streaked an array of shades by her hours in the sun. At least, that’s how I add up the clues. Amy’s first riding lesson—the day I initially laid eyes on Marsh—was nearly three months ago. During that time, I’ve seen her stylishly messy hair cut long enough to hang over her sunglasses, short right after a trim, and longer again. But I’ve never seen any telltale dark roots of beauty-shopped color.

  Her face is a geometric study in arcs and planes. Her darker eyebrows are elegant arcs ending near the curve of her perfect high cheekbones. Her jawline and chin are squarer than the feminine ideal but combine with that brow and those cheekbones for a striking visage. And tho
se sky-blue eyes—currently hidden behind thick lashes—are breathtaking. At least they steal my breath. I have a sudden longing to see them.

  “Marsh. We’re here.” I keep my voice soft so I don’t startle her from the all-too-brief nap.

  I expected it would take some convincing to get Marsh to rest, but she took the pillow I pushed into her hands without protest and tucked it between her head and the passenger door while I input the address of the animal surgery center into my GPS. She was out minutes after I pulled onto the highway. More than exhaustion, it’s like she is so in command of everything that she simply told her body to sleep. And it did. Now she tells her body to wake, and I marvel as I watch her systems come back online.

  I can discern the very moment my voice rouses her. She becomes absolutely motionless for a brief second while her brain goes from off to on. Her eyes don’t open, her breathing doesn’t change. Then her nostrils flare as she sucks in a deep breath. Her eyes spring open, clear and cognizant. No fluttering of the eyelashes. No yawn or stretch. No eye-rubbing. It’s like a switch flipped. Asleep. Awake.

  She clears her throat. “Are you sure you want to go inside?”

  “Of course.” I didn’t drive ninety minutes to sit in the car. Okay. I drove ninety minutes to be here with Marsh. For Marsh. “I won’t get in the way. I promise.”

  She opens her door. “Stick close, then.”

  * * *

  The lobby feels like any other hospital lobby, except for the tile floor instead of sound-softening carpet. Several animal patients wait to be admitted while their human companions fill out the necessary paperwork. I follow Marsh to the reception desk, where four clerks are either registering someone, answering the phone, or digging through file folders. A young man finishes his phone conversation and looks our way.

  “Can I help you?” he asks.

  Marsh shakes her head and points to an older woman who is registering a middle-aged woman’s cat. “I’ll wait for Celia.”