All the King's Horses Page 7

  And all the while, my stomach sank a little deeper. Moments like this with horses like Chip were supposed to be exhilarating, even when it was something as small as convincing him to eat out of my hand. Earning even the tiniest scrap of trust was a milestone with a horse like him.

  Big surprise: I was still emotionally flat-lining.

  Relieved he was over his panic? Of course. But that grin-inducing thrill, the kind my sister had once compared to watching her daughter take her first steps, was completely MIA.

  “Well,” I said quietly as Chip took some more hay from my hand, “at least there’s hope for one of us.”

  Chip stopped chewing. His ears went up, and when he looked past me, I realized there were footsteps approaching, and I cringed as much as I could without startling the horse. There was no getting out of this one. Whoever it was, they were already too close for me to make an undetected exit, especially since any kind of speed would scare Chip all over again, which also meant I couldn’t jerk back the hay I offered without startling him.

  Right outside the door, the footsteps stopped.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Dustin’s tone was soft and gentle, but I had no illusion that was for my benefit and not Chip’s. The voice was meant for the horse, the words for me.

  With my heart in my throat, I knelt and set the remaining hay on the floor between Chip and me. Then I rose, backed away and stepped through the doorway’s narrow opening.

  Once I was outside, I closed the stall door, and Dustin and I moved away so we were out of Chip’s range if he decided to get territorial again. From the rustling and chomping on the other side of the door, I was pretty sure he was otherwise occupied, but no point in tempting fate.

  “I know I made myself clear,” Dustin said through his teeth.

  “You did.” I put up my hands. “Look, I scared him.”

  Dustin stiffened. “Scared him? How so?”

  “I got too close to his stall while he was eating,” I said. “What you saw, I was just trying to calm him down.”

  “And he could have bitten or—”

  “He did bite me.” I gestured sharply at my arm. “It’s not serious, but he freaked out. I mean, was I just supposed to leave him like that?”

  “As opposed to putting yourself at risk of—”

  “Do I look stupid to you?” I snapped.

  His eyebrow rose. “Less so now that you’re out of his stall, but—”

  “Jesus Christ,” I threw back. “I have worked around horses before, Dustin. Believe it or not, I do know how to keep myself from getting killed.”

  Dustin stepped closer. “I don’t give a shit how much experience you think you have. This horse”—he pointed at Chip’s stall—“has survived abuse you probably can’t even begin to imagine. He’s not just some backyard pony with an attitude problem.”

  “A backyard pony?” I scoffed. “You think I can only be trusted with a backyard pony?”

  “I think you can be trusted with fences and pitchforks,” he growled. “I’m not paying you to do anything with the horses besides turn them out”—he pointed out at the pastures—“and bring them in.” Another gesture, this time at the packed-dirt floor at our feet.

  “And so if I inadvertently scare one of them,” I said, folding my arms across my chest, “I’m just supposed to—”

  “You try your damnedest not to,” he said. “I told you from day one to stay away from this horse. I wasn’t kidding.” He stabbed a finger in my direction. “I hired you to throw hay, fix fences and pick up shit. I’m not going to be liable if you do something outside your experience level and—”

  “Outside my experience level?” I narrowed my eyes. “I beg your pardon? I do know how to handle a horse.” I nodded toward Chip but kept my eyes on Dustin. “Even the ones who’ve been abused, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Do you now?” He eyed me, clearly unimpressed. “Because since the day I met you, you’ve been like a robot around them. A cold, apathetic robot. The last thing they need, especially the ones who’ve been as mistreated as Chip, is someone who’s completely indifferent toward them.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but the air stopped in my throat.

  Cold. Indifferent. Apathetic.

  A robot.

  The last thing they needed.

  He was right, wasn’t he? That was exactly how I felt, and the fact that it showed, that he’d noticed, mortified me beyond words.

  “I’m sorry.” I turned to walk out of the barn and, as I left, muttered over my shoulder, “It won’t happen again.”

  And I got out of there before he could stop me.

  Chapter Six

  Dustin

  Any other day, I’d have flipped my lid if a barn hand—or anyone, really—just turned around and walked off in the middle of a conversation, especially when I was already livid she’d been in the stall with a horse even I had to keep an eye on, but not this time. For a good thirty seconds, I stared at the empty doorway, wondering what had just happened.

  Something about the conversation rattled her, and it wasn’t the fact that I’d told her to back off from Chip. One minute she was the same blank-eyed woman who’d been here when I came back from McBride’s place. The next, I couldn’t decide if I’d hurt her, struck a nerve, startled her. Though I wasn’t sure how or why, some of the ice around her had cracked, if only for a moment.

  That didn’t negate the fact that she’d gone against my very clear instructions to stay away from Chip. Farmhands who didn’t do as they were told pissed me off anyway, but something like that made her a liability. A nasty bite or a busted rib waiting to happen, if I knew Chip.

  I tapped my fingers on top of Chip’s door and chewed the inside of my cheek. I could let her go. Give her the few days’ pay she’d already earned, maybe a week on top of that to soften the blow, and find another farmhand.

  She intrigued me, though. She roused some curiosity I couldn’t quite define. From the day she’d set foot on the ranch, she’d been so indifferent about the horses, I’d wondered if she was a damned sociopath. Or one of those people who just didn’t connect with animals, which wasn’t far from a sociopath, as far as I was concerned.

  But right now, with our conversation still echoing in my ears, I wasn’t sure just what to make of her.

  And I had no clue what to make of the fact that Chip was calmer now. Not because she was gone, either. I may have been angry the moment I saw her in the stall with him, but I couldn’t deny he’d been uncharacteristically quiet and calm while he’d eaten out of her hand. He shouldn’t have been that relaxed around her, and wouldn’t have been if she’d made him as nervous as every other person in the world did.

  For that matter, if she was as indifferent about horses as I’d initially thought, would she have even bothered trying to calm him down? The Amy I thought I’d met the other day didn’t seem to care one way or the other. This one was in the stall with a horse who’d tried to take her arm off, gambling with her own neck that she could ease his fears.

  I officially had no idea what to make of this woman.

  Had I jumped the gun? Maybe she was just adjusting to being here when I’d given her the tour. New home, new job; maybe I was an asshole for taking her indifference toward the foals and other horses as a definitive sign of something beyond simply being overwhelmed by new surroundings.

  Whatever I’d thought or whatever signs she’d given off, the fact was, Chip had felt threatened enough to bite her, but then she got him to eat out of her hand. Replaying that entire scenario in my head, I couldn’t make sense of it. Any of it. Especially now, with my obviously false assumption that she didn’t care about the horses.

  Maybe Mom was right. Maybe there was more to Amy’s story.

  And I was lying if I said I wasn’t insanely curious.

  The next day was, as they often were, busy as hell, and I couldn’t even get near my rescue horses until late. Around seven thirty, after the horses and I had eaten, I returned to
the barn to work the two of them before calling it a night. Blue was well-behaved, Chip was as cantankerous as ever, and it was nearly nine thirty before I got to Star.

  I was just putting the filly away when Amy came into the barn, probably for the late-night feeding. We’d both been so busy today, we hadn’t crossed paths at all the entire day, and as soon as she saw me now, Amy spun on her heel. Back to me, she unlatched the feed-room door, and I couldn’t be sure, but I thought her hands were unsteady.

  Guilt tugged at my chest. We hadn’t spoken since yesterday’s argument.

  “Amy,” I said.

  Her hands stopped, and she turned her head slightly, but she didn’t face me.

  I swallowed. “Listen, I wanted to…” I paused. “Could you please turn around?”

  Her posture stiffened. For a moment, I thought she might insist on making me speak to her back instead of her face, but then she set her shoulders back and slowly turned toward me. As the shadows left her face, I realized she wasn’t wearing her ever-present makeup this time, and one shadow didn’t slide off her cheekbone. With a sick feeling in my gut, I realized it wasn’t a shadow after all. And it wasn’t dust, either.

  I damn near forgot how to breathe. “Amy…”

  Her dark eyes held a mixture of contempt and what I could only imagine was…fear? Like she refused to break eye contact but wanted nothing more than to look anywhere that wasn’t right at me.

  She set her jaw and pushed her shoulders back. “Was there something you needed?”

  “I…” What was it? Christ, had Chip left that bruise? Or had she had it all along, or—

  “Dustin?”

  I quickly cleared my throat. “I, um, wanted to apologize for yesterday. For the way I talked to you.”

  Her eyes darted toward the ground between us. “Oh. Um…” She looked at me through her lashes. “I’m sorry. I should have listened to you and stayed out of his stall.” She folded her arms across her chest and shifted like it was a nervous move and not a defensive one. “It won’t happen again.” Then she turned toward the feed room, shielding the bruise on her face out of my sight. “I need to feed.” She disappeared into the feed room, leaving me in the aisle to wonder once again what the hell to make of everything.

  As hay rustled and grain clattered into coffee cans, I stood there slack-jawed and watched Amy’s shadow moving on the open feed room door.

  What happened to you, Amy?

  The conversation bugged me. Long after I’d gone back to the duplex, showered and slipped into bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about Amy. The way she’d spoken. The way she’d walked out when we’d argued outside Chip’s stall yesterday and when I apologized beside the feed room. The bruise on her face.

  So she had more experience than met the eye. So she had a mark she obviously didn’t want anyone to see. So my mom was sure Amy had a story she wasn’t telling.

  I didn’t know much about her to begin with, but it seemed the more I was around her, the less I knew, and I was beyond curious now. Where did she come from? Who was she in that world? And why, why, why was she here of all places? Sometimes I wasn’t even sure why I was still here.

  With any other woman in the horse world, I could have explained away the mark on her face as an occupational hazard. I’d had my share of black eyes, and no one had ever laid a hand on me. But no one tried to hide a bruise unless there was a reason for it.

  I glanced at the clock beside my bed. It was coming on midnight, and if I wanted to get anything done tomorrow, I needed to sleep. Sleep, however, wasn’t happening as long as I had so many questions tunneling their way through my brain.

  Curiosity finally got the best of me.

  I went to the other side of my bedroom, sat at my desk and opened my laptop. For a good ten minutes, I debated whether this was creepy or made me some kind of stalker. I wasn’t out to track down everything she’d ever done or everywhere she’d ever been. I was just curious about this enigmatic woman who’d come to my farm out of nowhere.

  Finally, I pulled up a search engine and entered her name. It was probably a long shot but worth a try.

  Numerous results came up. A doctoral candidate in Rochester, New York. A member of a youth soccer team somewhere in Iowa. A reporter for a small town news site in Arizona.

  I added quotation marks to the search. Then “Washington”.

  The first result read: Dover Equestrian. Snohomish, Washington. Owned by Sam & Amy Dover.

  Sam? Immediately, my gut twisted with jealousy, and just as quickly, I felt like an idiot. Jealousy? Really? I didn’t know for sure yet if this was the Amy Dover I was looking for, and even if she was, where in the world did I come off being jealous?

  I shook my head. Losing my mind. Clearly.

  There was a link to the farm’s main page but also one below it for “Meet Our Trainers”, so I clicked on that one.

  The page loaded, and my heart skipped. That was definitely Amy. She held up a huge silver trophy in white-gloved hands. Her hair was neatly tied back beneath a black top hat, and the white breeches, shadbelly coat and canary vest were a far cry from the jeans and T-shirts she wore here, but her face was unmistakable. I hadn’t seen her smile much, if at all, never mind like she did in that picture. My God, she was gorgeous. Dressage clothes made most women look good, but Amy put every last one of them to shame, from the curve of her hips and waist inside that form-fitting black coat to the way the white breeches clung to her legs. That smile, though, made me dizzy. Christ, she was beautiful.

  Beside her photo was her bio.

  Amy’s passion for horses began when she was a little girl, and with the love and support of her family, she went from a young horse lover to a world-class trainer.

  My jaw dropped. I looked at the picture again, certain this couldn’t really be the same woman, but indeed, that was Amy.

  Beside the next paragraph was an image of the cover of National Oxer magazine with Amy in a red hunt coat on the back of a seal-brown horse as they sailed over a jump. Beneath the brim of her black velvet helmet, her expression was one of pure concentration, and both her form and the horse’s were flawless. This woman wasn’t the lost, empty-eyed girl who picked out stalls and turned out horses and lived quietly on the other side of this wall. She couldn’t be.

  Intrigued, I read on.

  Amy holds countless regional, national and international titles in Hunter/Jumper, Show Jumping and Dressage. She is a two-time recipient of the Washington State Equestrian of the Year Award, and in the fifty-year history of the Rainier Valley Regional Jumper series, Amy is the only rider ever to win the coveted Grand Champion titles in both Hunter/Jumper and Show Jumping in the same year, an honor she has achieved twice.

  Amy offers comprehensive training in all disciplines, including lessons for horses and riders of all ages and experience levels. Private and group lessons available.

  ADDENDUM: As of June, Amy is taking a leave of absence and will be unavailable until further notice.

  I furrowed my brow. A leave of absence? Interesting.

  I clicked on the main page.

  On any farm’s site, the main page would feature a photo of the facility, a stallion or a recent win. On this one, though, there was a photo of Amy in a green dress beside a slick-looking guy in a suit and tie. He had his arm around her waist, and his smile looked way, way more genuine than hers. In fact, hers looked a lot like it had since she’d been here: mechanical, for someone else’s benefit rather than a reflection of her own feelings. And maybe I was reading too much into things, but I swore she subtly leaned away from him. I could imagine her waiting until the photo was taken, and then shoving his arm away from her.

  Above the photo: In Loving Memory of Samuel M. Dover, Jr.

  I scrolled below the picture.

  It is with tremendous sadness that Dover Equestrian must unexpectedly say good-bye to owner and founder Sam Dover, Jr., who passed away after a motorcycle accident on June 17th.

  The date took me aback.
I had to look twice at the date on my screen to confirm it, but there was no mistaking: He’d died not five days before Amy came here. Three days before we got the call in response to our ad. Just a week ago.

  Funeral services will be held, the page continued, at Valley Congregational Church on June 21st at 1 p.m.

  The twenty-first? My God, she’d come here straight from her husband’s funeral?

  I very nearly had to scroll up and check the photo once again to confirm this really was Amy and not some woman with the same name and an uncanny resemblance, but below the announcement of the date of the funeral was another photo of Amy and Sam. There was a gray horse between them wearing a rose collar around his neck, and Amy wore a medal around hers on a red, white and blue ribbon. Sam beamed at the camera, holding up a trophy and a bottle of champagne, but in Amy’s expression, I caught another glimpse of the woman living on the other side of my bedroom wall. She smiled, but it didn’t come close to reaching her eyes.

  The memorial page continued, Sam is survived by Amy, his devoted wife of eleven years, and was preceded in death by his parents, Sam Sr. and Lynette Dover.

  In light of her husband’s sudden and tragic passing, Amy has taken a leave of absence and will be unavailable for training of any kind until further notice.

  I sat back from the desk and stared at the screen. My mouth was dry. I wasn’t sure what surprised me more, that Amy was a world-class trainer or that she was a grieving widow. A trainer who probably didn’t bother with a trophy case and instead had an entire room, and a widow who’d left everything behind on the day of her husband’s funeral to come to my ranch and work as a farmhand. Grief did strange things to people, but what was it about Sam and his death that had driven Amy to the equivalent of an Olympic rider quitting the US Equestrian Team to join the Pony Club?

  And the mark on her face…

  As I shifted my gaze to the wall that separated her side of the house from mine, the same question as earlier echoed in my mind:

  What happened to you, Amy?