“No, you watch,” he told me, pointing to the window at the end of the cross-aisle. “It’ll be more fun to solo.” There was no answering twinkle of amusement in his eyes. He was dead serious and strangely grim.
Stepping jauntily, he led my gelding up the deserted corridor between the hot and empty stalls. As soon as he turned to the main door, I hurried to a dust-fogged window and rubbed a clear space. He must have recognized the voices, or the brand of curses, for the anger made the voices anonymous. But there was the putteed Colonel and Mrs. Flashy-Black up on an equally raw-boned hunter who was clearly dissatisfied with the exercise. Two other men leaned over the railings of the small ring, and an assorted number of fringe observers lounged in the shade of the oaks by F-Barn. Then, even the hunter seemed to freeze.
The Colonel, sensing that he’d a rival for everyone’s attention, cut off his directions and turned. The shock on his face quickly turned to tight-lipped anger. With puttees, how else would he reflect anger manfully? Mrs. Flashy-Black’s mouth dropped open, and she let up the savage hold on the hunter’s mouth. He took the opportunity to pull her half down his neck as he got the bit between his teeth. Of course, he wasn’t upset by Orfeo’s leisurely stroll to the watering trough, but every other witness was.
No one said a word as Shorty stood while Orfeo snuffed over the water. The horse wasn’t thirsty, but he stood, politely, switching at importunate flies with his beautiful full tail. You always knew what Orfeo was thinking by his tail movements. They were as good a gauge of his temper as Dice’s. Shorty looked nonchalantly around and then shrugged a “you-can-lead-a-horse-to-water-but…” and led Orfeo back in.
I could hear him suppressing his laughter all the way down the aisle. In fact, I wonder he didn’t choke on it, for his eyes were tearing when he slapped Orfeo’s rump affectionately as the gelding plodded back into his stall and resumed his chewing.
“Could you see their faces?” He was doubled up with an excess of mirth. “I’ll stand you a drink… Scotch, whiskey, champagne. Worth it. Worth it! Shut Colonel Melvin T. Kingsley up in the middle of Lecture Number Forty-two. And you did it…” Then he stopped, stared at me. “I don’t know your name. I haven’t picked up a program yet.”
“Nialla… Nialla Dunn.” I’d almost goofed.
“Nialla? A good tinker name for a horse-handling witch! C’mon.”
He clipped one warm, strong-fingered hand under my elbow, and I have never been more conscious of a square inch of my own flesh than that moment. As if he sensed my reaction, he removed his hand and gave me a quick searching look.
“It’s a cup of coffee, Miss Dunn, not an invitation to rape!” And though he spoke flippantly, there was a hint of defensiveness in his tone. “The name’s Rafe Clery… a fellow mick and horse-coper.” Evidently he could turn on the charisma-as he did now-instantly, and the flicker of deeper emotions was gone.
“I am thirsty,” I admitted, covering my embarrassment by nodding toward the gelding. Then I walked quickly up the aisle so he wouldn’t have an excuse to touch me again.
The main refreshment tent was scarcely conducive to any refreshment, for the canvas trapped the heat, and the heat trapped the people there in a sort of trance as they waited for watery franks, dry sandwiches, lukewarm beer, tepid soft drinks, and limp potato chips., Two cubes of ice withered in my container of coffee as I looked at them. The cardboard was hot in my hand. Before I could get it to my lips, Rafe had it out of my hand and was grinning at a harried counter girl. In moments it was back, crammed to the brim with ice. A turkey sandwich appeared before me, too, and because I was starving for something besides peanut butter, I didn’t mention that he’d suggested only a beverage.
“You’re brave, you know.”
“Hmmm?” The dry bread threatened to go down the wrong way.
“Brave to go the circuit alone. I assume you’ve just the two horses,” He looked somewhere over my head, concentrating. ‘That means, to make ends meet,” and suddenly that impish grin lurked in his eyes as he glanced at the turkey hanging out the end of the sandwich. He meant to pun “meet” for “meat.” “… You’ve got to place in all the competitions here, in every show, including the Jump Trophy at the Garden.”
I nearly choked. He reached across the table and casually thudded me between the shoulder blades with such expertise that the bread descended.
“I left the crystal ball at home, but you’d be a fool not to try, with a leaper like Jug-Ooops, sorry-Orfeo. If I had one who could clear anything in sight, and I’ve seen him go over pickup trucks, I’d try for the big prize, too. Only I haven’t got an Orfeo, and I’d be three kinds of a fool to pit any horse in my stable against him. He does still jump like he used to, doesn’t he? Or did that go?”
My eyes were watering from coughing and choking, and I still couldn’t speak.
“Take a couple of deep breaths,” he suggested amiably.
I did. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Well?”
“He’ll jump anything.” And my voice was patchy. He handed me the coffee, and obediently I took a big swallow. The icy stuff was soothing. “You know, he’s awful fast, too.”
Rafe grinned sardonically. “I don’t think anyone ever bothered to find out. It was usually a question of staying up and holding back rather than urging him on.” He paused, his eyes unfocusing. “Though there’s a look of speed about him, for all that bulk.” Then he looked at me, blinked, and seemed to be measuring me against some unknown gauge. “No! You haven’t breezed him, have you?” And his eyes dropped to my hands. He covered his face with mock dismay. “Goddamn, you know,” and he was suddenly eager, “with his speed and stamina, he’d make one helluva steeplechaser.” He caught my look and began to shake his head emphatically. “Miss Dunn, you’d never get a man up on him, not with his reputation.”
“He’s changed!”
Rafe Clery gave a derisive guffaw. “I have to admit to witnessing a minor modern miracle, but his angelic disposition is going to take a lot of publicity before anyone else believes it. How did you do it?”
“I didn’t. Dice did.”
“That mountain lion?” He gave me a sideways look of pure skepticism. “Ah, c’mon. No feline could mesmerize that black piece of unadulterated-sorry-could make him as gentle as a kitten. Even one sired by that lion of yours.”
“Dice helped, but it was a case of winning his trust.”
Rafe snorted. “What’d you do? Hold his hoof to keep the ghosties away?”
That was far too close, but the ghosties had been mine, not Orfeo’s. “You should have seen his mouth. And his poor tongue. I don’t know what they crammed into his jaw, but it must have been something from an inquisition. And his head…” I shuddered.
“I don’t need the details. I’ve got a vivid imagination, and remember, I knew him ‘when.’ Oh, don’t glare at me, Miss Dunn. And don’t demand why I didn’t try to stop it. I did. But you ought to know that the ASPCA has only just started slapping wrists for ‘blistering’ walking horses. Some of these small-town judges don’t know when a horse has been ‘treated.’“ His face was grim and bleak. He had altered again. I’d hate to get on the wrong side of this small man. As abruptly, he was grinning again. “It restores my faith in humanity to see a good horse in good hands. Where’d you acquire the mare? She’s well bred.”
“Phi Bete’s been mine since she was foaled.”
“Yes, I thought she looked misused.”
“Fer chrissake, boss, I been looking all over…” said a voice behind me. Rafe Clery looked up, his face assuming the mask of another role.