three-quarter moon, along with all those stars, provided plenty of light.
Zane headed straight for the barn, made his way to Blackjack’s stall, braced his forearms against the top of the gate and let his gaze range over the shadowy bulk of his horse.
On his feet, Blackjack gave a soft nicker of greeting, then went back to his midnight snack, the last of the hay Zane had given him earlier.
Zane felt a strange, swelling gladness in his chest, looking at that horse, but there was some sorrow, too. Or was it guilt? Before Hollywood, he’d taken Blackjack with him wherever he went. Afterward, he’d been lucky to get to the gelding once a month, what with all the demands of making movies, promoting movies, reading scripts for more movies.
His ex, Tiffany, had been after him to sell Blackjack, every hour on the hour, from the day of their hasty Las Vegas wedding to the moment the ink dried on the hefty settlement check he’d handed her when their divorce became final. Now, hindsight being twenty-twenty, Zane knew the marriage had been doomed from the first, if only because Tiffany had never been able to wrap her narcissistic little brain around the fact that he loved this horse, that getting rid of him wasn’t an option because Blackjack was as much a part of him as his arms and legs. Forced to make a choice, he’d probably have sacrificed one of his limbs, if it meant he could keep the gelding.
To Tiffany, all animals were mere nuisances, shedding on her clothes, chewing up her shoes, in constant need of some kind of care and attention—God forbid. Not that Tiffany’s antipathy to critters was the only reason things didn’t work out. There were plenty of other problems.
Remembering their relatively brief but tempestuous time together, Zane shoved a hand through his hair, annoyed with himself, even now. Sleeping with Tiffany had been one thing—he’d been a free man at the time, after all—but marrying her? What had possessed him to do a stupid thing like that? They’d had nothing in common, outside the bedroom.
Tiffany, the daughter of a very successful Beverly Hills cosmetic surgeon, had never worn secondhand clothes in her life, unless they were “vintage,” of course, with a pedigree to prove they’d been owned and worn by some famous actress like Vivian Leigh or Loretta Young or some other paragon from the golden age of motion pictures. She’d never had to wonder where she’d sleep that night, or whether there would be anything for supper. She liked to think of herself as an actress—they’d met when she was an extra in his first movie—but the truth was, Tiffany was basically a party girl, living on a generous allowance from Daddy until she and Zane were married. Once they were legal, she spent his money at warp speed, pouted when he said he wanted to get a dog, dragged him to black-tie shindigs where he found it easier to identify with the household help than the other guests.
She’d never loved him, he knew that now. If she had, she wouldn’t have lobbied to get rid of Blackjack the way she had. To be fair, though, he hadn’t loved her, either. He’d loved going to bed with her. He’d loved the idea of a wife and eventually a family, which was, like dogs and horses, definitely not on Tiffany’s to-do list, as things turned out.
Kids? Was he serious? Pregnancy would ruin her admittedly remarkable figure, she’d informed him coldly, not to mention tying her down like some housewife and putting an end to her social life—though she’d been careful to avoid the subject of children until after his wedding band was on her finger.
One night, Tiffany had finally leveled with him. He’d been away on location, and they’d just had sex—even that had been more fizzle than fireworks by then. They’d been lying in their dark bedroom, with what seemed like an acre of icy sheets between them, and she’d told him, her voice dripping with contempt, that her friend Annette was expecting a baby.
Zane headed straight for the barn, made his way to Blackjack’s stall, braced his forearms against the top of the gate and let his gaze range over the shadowy bulk of his horse.
On his feet, Blackjack gave a soft nicker of greeting, then went back to his midnight snack, the last of the hay Zane had given him earlier.
Zane felt a strange, swelling gladness in his chest, looking at that horse, but there was some sorrow, too. Or was it guilt? Before Hollywood, he’d taken Blackjack with him wherever he went. Afterward, he’d been lucky to get to the gelding once a month, what with all the demands of making movies, promoting movies, reading scripts for more movies.
His ex, Tiffany, had been after him to sell Blackjack, every hour on the hour, from the day of their hasty Las Vegas wedding to the moment the ink dried on the hefty settlement check he’d handed her when their divorce became final. Now, hindsight being twenty-twenty, Zane knew the marriage had been doomed from the first, if only because Tiffany had never been able to wrap her narcissistic little brain around the fact that he loved this horse, that getting rid of him wasn’t an option because Blackjack was as much a part of him as his arms and legs. Forced to make a choice, he’d probably have sacrificed one of his limbs, if it meant he could keep the gelding.
To Tiffany, all animals were mere nuisances, shedding on her clothes, chewing up her shoes, in constant need of some kind of care and attention—God forbid. Not that Tiffany’s antipathy to critters was the only reason things didn’t work out. There were plenty of other problems.
Remembering their relatively brief but tempestuous time together, Zane shoved a hand through his hair, annoyed with himself, even now. Sleeping with Tiffany had been one thing—he’d been a free man at the time, after all—but marrying her? What had possessed him to do a stupid thing like that? They’d had nothing in common, outside the bedroom.
Tiffany, the daughter of a very successful Beverly Hills cosmetic surgeon, had never worn secondhand clothes in her life, unless they were “vintage,” of course, with a pedigree to prove they’d been owned and worn by some famous actress like Vivian Leigh or Loretta Young or some other paragon from the golden age of motion pictures. She’d never had to wonder where she’d sleep that night, or whether there would be anything for supper. She liked to think of herself as an actress—they’d met when she was an extra in his first movie—but the truth was, Tiffany was basically a party girl, living on a generous allowance from Daddy until she and Zane were married. Once they were legal, she spent his money at warp speed, pouted when he said he wanted to get a dog, dragged him to black-tie shindigs where he found it easier to identify with the household help than the other guests.
She’d never loved him, he knew that now. If she had, she wouldn’t have lobbied to get rid of Blackjack the way she had. To be fair, though, he hadn’t loved her, either. He’d loved going to bed with her. He’d loved the idea of a wife and eventually a family, which was, like dogs and horses, definitely not on Tiffany’s to-do list, as things turned out.
Kids? Was he serious? Pregnancy would ruin her admittedly remarkable figure, she’d informed him coldly, not to mention tying her down like some housewife and putting an end to her social life—though she’d been careful to avoid the subject of children until after his wedding band was on her finger.
One night, Tiffany had finally leveled with him. He’d been away on location, and they’d just had sex—even that had been more fizzle than fireworks by then. They’d been lying in their dark bedroom, with what seemed like an acre of icy sheets between them, and she’d told him, her voice dripping with contempt, that her friend Annette was expecting a baby.
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