“I’m glad my ex-wife didn’t have her lawyer.”
“Lotta guys say that.” She flashed me a flirtatious smile.
She looked fresh out of college, which made her about a decade too young. Still, it gave me a lift like I hadn’t felt in a while. I gave her a wink and a smile and left. I slid behind the wheel of the Taurus, surprised to find myself whistling.
T HE DRIVEWAY LEADING to Valerie Shepherd’s house and barn was long, winding, and surfaced with a layer of fine, dusty gravel. The grassy slopes that rose and fell to either side were a lush, uniform blue-green that meant they had probably been seeded with Kentucky bluegrass. In the rippling heat, the white barn with its brick-red roof looked like a mirage.
To my left, several horses, including a couple of spindle-legged foals, grazed in one of the pastures. They looked like fine stock. Sleek, healthy-looking Arabians with good conformation.
I parked beside a candy-apple red Chevy LS with a red and white cooler and a bag of sweet feed in the back. Before I got out of the car, I dabbed at my fake mustache with a Kleenex. It itched, and my upper lip sweated beneath the spirit gum. It wasn’t comfortable, but I was pretty sure it would hold.
It was another steaming day, and by the time I stepped into the comparative coolness of the barn, my shirt already had dark patches at the armpits. Sweat trickled down my stomach and into my waistband. I pressed the Kleenex to the beads of perspiration on my forehead and looked around.
Two cement-floored corridors stretched to my left, each with a row of ten stalls along each side. To my right was an arena strewn with rubber granules ground from old tires. They were more expensive than sand or dirt flooring, but eliminated the need to hose down the arena to keep the dust down.
The wash bay and the office were at one corner of the arena, next to a rotating fan and two Pepsi machines. Above it all, on a loft that rested over the entire middle section, were the hay bales that would supplement the feed mix and the sweet Kentucky bluegrass in the pasture. Through the opening at the far end of the corridor to my left, I saw a chestnut mare circling sleepily on a hot walker.
All in all, it was a beautiful setup.
In the arena, the woman I’d seen in the Hartwell driveway was riding patterns. She was a good rider, though a little sharp with the spurs, and I noticed that she kept the sorrel gelding thinking, bending him first right, then left, doing two turns on the forehand, then three on the rear.
I leaned my forearms on the top of the arena fence and watched as she did a near-perfect figure eight. Then she noticed me.
“Hey,” she called, then trotted over to the fence in front of me and pulled the gelding to a stop. She was wearing tight jeans, a sleeveless blouse knotted just below her breasts, and a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots with sharply pointed toes. Her strawberry-blond hair had been pulled back into a long braid that lay along her back like a copperhead. A drop of perspiration trickled down her neck. Watching it, I felt an almost overwhelming desire to trace it with my tongue.
In Calvin’s driveway, with the heavy makeup and the big-blown mall hair, she’d looked like just another pretty woman. With her hair pulled back and her skin bare, she had a primal beauty that seemed independent of her wide, mobile mouth and the sharp planes of her face.
“May I help you?” she said. Her voice was sultry and a little hoarse. She sounded like she should be singing from the top of a piano.
I gave her the same story I’d used back at the tack store, that I was looking for a good Arabian horse, a mare or gelding between three and seven, fast and supple, with good wind and a willing temperament. Also, no vices.
She cocked her head and gave me an appraising look. “What would you use the horse for?”
“Trail work. Poles and barrels. Endurance.” I’d never ridden Endurance, but Arabians excelled at it. “And I
“Lotta guys say that.” She flashed me a flirtatious smile.
She looked fresh out of college, which made her about a decade too young. Still, it gave me a lift like I hadn’t felt in a while. I gave her a wink and a smile and left. I slid behind the wheel of the Taurus, surprised to find myself whistling.
T HE DRIVEWAY LEADING to Valerie Shepherd’s house and barn was long, winding, and surfaced with a layer of fine, dusty gravel. The grassy slopes that rose and fell to either side were a lush, uniform blue-green that meant they had probably been seeded with Kentucky bluegrass. In the rippling heat, the white barn with its brick-red roof looked like a mirage.
To my left, several horses, including a couple of spindle-legged foals, grazed in one of the pastures. They looked like fine stock. Sleek, healthy-looking Arabians with good conformation.
I parked beside a candy-apple red Chevy LS with a red and white cooler and a bag of sweet feed in the back. Before I got out of the car, I dabbed at my fake mustache with a Kleenex. It itched, and my upper lip sweated beneath the spirit gum. It wasn’t comfortable, but I was pretty sure it would hold.
It was another steaming day, and by the time I stepped into the comparative coolness of the barn, my shirt already had dark patches at the armpits. Sweat trickled down my stomach and into my waistband. I pressed the Kleenex to the beads of perspiration on my forehead and looked around.
Two cement-floored corridors stretched to my left, each with a row of ten stalls along each side. To my right was an arena strewn with rubber granules ground from old tires. They were more expensive than sand or dirt flooring, but eliminated the need to hose down the arena to keep the dust down.
The wash bay and the office were at one corner of the arena, next to a rotating fan and two Pepsi machines. Above it all, on a loft that rested over the entire middle section, were the hay bales that would supplement the feed mix and the sweet Kentucky bluegrass in the pasture. Through the opening at the far end of the corridor to my left, I saw a chestnut mare circling sleepily on a hot walker.
All in all, it was a beautiful setup.
In the arena, the woman I’d seen in the Hartwell driveway was riding patterns. She was a good rider, though a little sharp with the spurs, and I noticed that she kept the sorrel gelding thinking, bending him first right, then left, doing two turns on the forehand, then three on the rear.
I leaned my forearms on the top of the arena fence and watched as she did a near-perfect figure eight. Then she noticed me.
“Hey,” she called, then trotted over to the fence in front of me and pulled the gelding to a stop. She was wearing tight jeans, a sleeveless blouse knotted just below her breasts, and a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots with sharply pointed toes. Her strawberry-blond hair had been pulled back into a long braid that lay along her back like a copperhead. A drop of perspiration trickled down her neck. Watching it, I felt an almost overwhelming desire to trace it with my tongue.
In Calvin’s driveway, with the heavy makeup and the big-blown mall hair, she’d looked like just another pretty woman. With her hair pulled back and her skin bare, she had a primal beauty that seemed independent of her wide, mobile mouth and the sharp planes of her face.
“May I help you?” she said. Her voice was sultry and a little hoarse. She sounded like she should be singing from the top of a piano.
I gave her the same story I’d used back at the tack store, that I was looking for a good Arabian horse, a mare or gelding between three and seven, fast and supple, with good wind and a willing temperament. Also, no vices.
She cocked her head and gave me an appraising look. “What would you use the horse for?”
“Trail work. Poles and barrels. Endurance.” I’d never ridden Endurance, but Arabians excelled at it. “And I
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