As I waited for the others to go, sometimes a gasp of dismay or appreciation would indicate success or failure. I could also hear the rider of the leggy gray cursing his mount over the jumps. Mrs. Tomlinson employed a vocabulary of assorted monosyllables in praise, silence for under-performance.
The PA announced the winners of the first round and the time limit of the jump-off, over jumps 3, 5, 7, 9, 10, 11, 12. I wondered if they’d decreased the time limit so drastically to eliminate the “slow” horse, me. But then I decided that was foolish. I was being unnecessarily paranoid.
We were down to seven contestants now, three clear rounds, and the others two faults apiece. Best score should win in this round.
I could see better this time. The rangy gray went first and fought for his head between seven and nine, which slowed him badly. He knocked the top bar of the third in the triple-barred fence, which gave him two faults, and he picked up a time fault. Mrs. T. on her mare slid at the water gate, but it was the penultimate fence. The mare managed the final one, but knocked off the top row of bricks, and by the time she wheeled out of the ring, she was favoring her off-front leg.
Then it was my turn. The suspense was palpable as we came onto the course as the time clock began to turn. Those things make me nervous anyhow. I had him well in hand (or vice versa), and he took the first three jumps neatly. From nine on, the jumps were trickier, and his ears came forward as we swung toward the broad gate. He aimed himself squarely, flew over, and then was in position from the triple gate, which you can’t rush. Just as he gathered himself for the third of that trio, a car horn blasted right beside the ring. The audience reacted with an indrawn gasp of horror, but old Orfeo soared effortlessly over, his hooves tucked up. Over the double sixes, away to the water jump, and out. Right on time. There was a spontaneous cheer for us, and as we came cantering out of the ring, people in the end seats leaned toward me to shout their congratulations and heap fury on the inconsiderate lout who had leaned on the car horn. I? I was trembling with reaction, and I wanted very badly to get to a John. Who had touched that horn? At just that precise moment? That close to a horse at a difficult takeoff. That couldn’t have been an accident. No hood, unless he was very, very knowledgeable about horses, could have timed that blast. But someone who knew Orfeo’s reputation, knew how tense the second round could be, how dangerous that turn and jump could be, might try to spook my mount. I’d’ve lost the competition at the least, more likely been hurt.
But Orfeo was impervious to such distractions. There were no faults against him, and he won the blue.
Respectful admirers crowded around us, extolling my intrepid horsemanship. Someone took a photo with a big flash, but I ducked my head and, I hoped, spoiled the picture. Finally, pleading Orfeo’s needs, I got away. As we passed D-Barn, Mrs. Tomlinson was deep in conversation with her trainer as he inspected the mare’s off-front leg.
“Strain or pull?” I asked.
“Not to worry, Miss Dunn,” Mrs. T. shouted, straightening and waving at me. “Beautiful ride. Beautiful ride. Absolutely faultless!”
That horn blowing had come from the south side of the field. She couldn’t possibly have touched it off. Nor would she. She’d already had two faults before the mare went into the second round.
I was suddenly very tired. The fairground clock registered two-fifty, and while it seemed incredible that two hours had passed, I felt their passage in every muscle. Now was when I could have used that swim. And the heartening of Rafe Clery’s cheerful presence. I’d looked for him again when we exited triumphant, but no short man had barged through the mob to congratulate me.
I’d fouled up that relationship, if there’d been a chance of one. He’d only wanted company for dinner last night, a companion to jump against this morning, and a little funsies with a neat not gaudy girl at breakfast.
Oh, gawd, would George think I’d spent the night with Rafe Clery? How many guests went swimming at eight o’clock in a motel, if they hadn’t been badgered to it by their kids?
I dragged the saddle from Orfeo’s high back and stuck it on the top rail of the little practice ring. I shrugged out of my hot coat. I would really have to get it cleaned before the next show. It was like being incased in an unaired gym locker. The hard-top had left a rim around my head, and I pulled off the ribbon, shaking out my damp hair, wishing I could also shake the elephant parade of Marchmount-Clery-Marchmount-Clery out of my mind.
Orfeo butted me with his head, and I realized he wanted a rub where the headband had sweated his forehead. I’d have to wash the shirt anyway.
Could I pick up my prize money this afternoon? Or would I have to wait until evening, when the steward tallied his accounts? The stalls were mine until tomorrow morning. I could pack up and get out this afternoon and disappear into the…
“Grand ride, gal.” There he was, propping up the gate post, hat back on his head, figured silk scarf at the throat of the strawberry-pink body shirt. How could I have missed him in the stands? “Gave the crowd some real exhibition jumping. They loved you!” He fell in step by me.
“They loved me… indeed! Blew their horns to tell me so.”
He scratched the side of his neck. “Well, now…”
“The south side of the field. If I knew…”
“Black Chevy country wagon, with simulated-oak panels, late model.” He rattled off the description. “License number DN-1352, New York.”
“Oh, thank you. I’ll report it to the steward.”
“Already did, and the owner was in the stands at the time. He was a bit put out that someone had used his car for such shenanigans.”
Orfeo butted me with his head. I ignored him, staring at Rafe.
“That wasn’t hoods or troublemakers, Rafe. I’m going to…”
“…Pack up your tent like an A-rab and silently steal away? Fair doesn’t close until eight,” he pointed out. “You’ll have to eat. And you ought to celebrate. So we will. Taking all sensible precautions for your stock. Pick you up at six. The lousy restaurants close early on Sundays in this burg.”
He ducked under the rails and left. I wasn’t alone the rest of the afternoon, though the “sensible precautions” were subtle-a man soaping a saddle draped on the practice-ring bar, someone airing blankets, another fellow washing a car. Two breeders came in, offering a good price for Phi Bete, talking horse with me unaffectedly for almost half an hour. Some kids, impressed by Orfeo’s size, came wandering in (they were genuine, I think); they asked all kinds of things that self-conscious horse-struck kids ask. Pete wandered over to congratulate me in an inarticulate manner, muttering imprecations about the horn-blowing. But he also inspected the barn, peering into every stall and up in the loft. I fretted about not being able to leave. That was silly, when I thought on it later, because at least at the fair there were many people close by-protection. On the road, by myself, in an old car with a slightly shaky trailer, I’d be so vulnerable. But I had to collect the prize money first. So I might as well have one last good dinner in the pleasurable company of Shorty Clery.
I passed time by inspecting the station wagon and trailer, and moving them from the rear of G-Barn to the shade by the ring. They’d be in clear view of people at F- and E-barns. I washed out my shirt and did eenie-meenie over my three dresses. The black linen looked more sophisticated, so there wasn’t any real choice.
Then all of a sudden it was six. The moment I heard the crisp staccato sound of heels on the cobbles, my pulses began to hammer and my cheeks flushed with more than heat. Rafe was talking to someone, his words clear, the answers muffled. But it could only be Pete with him, and it was. He had a white Chicken Delight sack in his hand, and he was grinning. But how could he manage fried chicken without teeth? Then I saw Rafe.