“A couple years ago,” she answered Hannah, “after that horrible accident that left him in a wheelchair, I was a wreck. I told Charles I’d had enough. I mean, he’s probably broken nearly every bone in his body. I was done,” she said without malice. Enough time had gone by that she could talk about the accident without despair or tears. “I can’t stand by and watch him in pain any longer. If he went back to jumping, I just knew he’d end up dead or paralyzed. So I told him he had a choice. The two Ds.” She lifted two fingers. “Divorce or dressage.” She smiled smugly. “He chose dressage.” Grace lowered her hand to point teasingly at Charles. “Don’t get tempted. No more jumping.”
Charles smiled back amiably.
Angel stroked Butterhead’s flank slowly as the comment sank in. In the resulting silence, he stepped out of the stall and closed the gate. He looked at Charles, then let his gaze slide to Grace and smiled benignly.
The sound of an engine roaring up the drive forestalled further conversation. As a group they walked out of the barn in time to see a gleaming silver and black luxury trailer cruise up the sloping ridge.
Charles put his hands on his hips and whistled softly. “That thing has to be at least fifty feet long.”
“It’s a frigging luxury liner. I’ll bet it has a sleeping compartment,” added Hannah.
Grace watched as the trailer slowed, then came to a stop, its mighty engine purring in idle. This top-of-the-line trailer that she knew cost as much as a house covered the outer edge of the courtyard.
“This must be Whirlwind,” Angel said, his voice low with awe.
FIVE
August 20, 7:30 p.m.
Freehold Farm, North Carolina
Noelle intensifies to a major Category Five hurricane
Gerta Klug lowered her window as the Mercedes rolled past the entrance gate of Freehold Farm. She slowed to a stop, lowered her glasses, and peered out at the rolling hills. Her experienced eyes noted the new-mown grass filling the air with its sweet green scent, the trimmed boxwoods at the gate, and the riot of summer flowers in front of the imposing barn. They’d arrived. At long last they were off the dry, traffic-clogged highway and here at this green oasis in North Carolina.
She felt dusty and displaced, like a refugee in search of a place to sleep. Her leg was aching something fierce from too many hours in the car. What she needed was a cool drink, a hot meal. To feel safe. Gerta repressed a shiver as she glanced again at the sky. Here the clouds were not dark and threatening, though hints of the advancing storm were apparent in the long, slender gray clouds stretching northward. Yet she felt a stirring of hope in the ripening colors of sunset that tinged the clouds in ochre and gold.
Taking a steadying breath, Gerta drove slowly along the winding driveway, allowing her gaze to roam the extensive property. River rock was neatly collected alongside the road, forming a culvert that channeled the spring water trickling down the road to the pond. The large trees were thinned and trimmed, the rolling hills neatly manicured, and in the distant meadow she spotted a herd of six deer, heads up, ears pricked and alert. Gerta owned several large properties and knew that only a large labor force and an attention to detail could provide such an idyllic setting. A small smile of approval eased across her face. Anything less wouldn’t be Grace.
Gerta Werner Klug and Grace Scott Phillips had been friends since they’d met at a private boarding school in Switzerland. By the age of thirteen, both girls had won medals in jumping. Each girl had selected the school for its excellence in equestrian sports. Though their backgrounds were different, they shared a love for horses and a competitive spirit.
Gerta had been born into an equestrian family in Stuttgart, Germany, where her father was an executive at the Daimler Corporation. She couldn’t remember a time she didn’t ride horses. She’d learned to ride when she’d learned to walk. Riding was in her blood. She’d started in dressage, the sport her parents pursued. Dressage had strong and historic ties in Europe and was considered fundamental to most equestrian sports. But Gerta loved jumping. She loved the adrenaline rush, the feeling of oneness with the horse as they flew over the jumps. And she was good.
Grace came from a United States military family. For most of her early years her family had moved from state to state as her father advanced in rank. When her father made colonel, they’d moved to Virginia while her father worked at the Pentagon. Grace was in horse heaven in Virginia, a bastion of hunters and jumpers. During these formative years, she focused on her riding lessons and had done fairly well in local shows. When she was thirteen, her father was promoted to general and sent to Germany. Grace was offered the opportunity to attend the ultra-elite boarding school in Switzerland. She was over-the-moon excited to be taught by some of the world’s greatest equestrian trainers.
But their friendship didn’t get off to an easy start. Grace’s German was stumbling at best, so she tended to hang around with the English-speaking girls. Gerta, who was fluent in three languages, had taken an instant dislike to the leggy American girl with dark hair that flowed from her head like a wild horse’s mane. Gerta’s own blond hair was neatly tied back. Many of the girls, especially those from Europe, brought their own horses to school. Those who didn’t—including Grace—rode one of the thirty-some horses in the stable. On the first day of riding class, Grace was given a spirited horse, one that required an experienced rider. Gerta and three other girls who knew the horse’s reputation clustered together expectantly, watching Grace mount. Gerta was ashamed to admit they all hoped she’d land on her pretty ass.
Grace settled in the seat readily and held the reins loosely. The horse, an Irish Thoroughbred, was skittish, but Grace brought him under control with seeming ease. She started smoothly, but on the first jump her horse refused and dumped Grace ungracefully on the ground. As the trainer ran to assist, some of the girls snickered. Not Gerta. She watched the pretty brunette to see what she’d do. Having grown up in an equestrian family, she knew that how one handled a fall spoke of character.
Grace slowly rose, calling out assurances to all that she was fine. She brushed herself off, then walked back to the horse, trying to disguise her limp. Rather than scold or, worse, walk away and not get back on, Grace stroked the horse warmly and apologized to the animal for her mixed signals. She smoothed back her mane of hair, readjusted her helmet, then mounted again. Her eyes focused and her jaw set, Grace guided the horse to successfully make the jump, and together they finished the round beautifully.
Gerta respected her calm confidence, and even more the connection Grace had made with the horse. When Grace dismounted, Gerta walked up to her and, in slightly accented English, introduced herself. From that day on, they were inseparable. If someone saw Grace, they saw Gerta nearby, and vice versa. They trained together and competed against each other in school and at events. For four years they compared grades, medals, points at competitions. Nonetheless, they were also each other’s top cheerleaders.
They went on to different colleges, but continued to visit each other during the summer. More often, Grace traveled to the Werner estate in Stuttgart to study with German trainers. Gerta also came to the United States as a working student to experience American show jumping competitions.
After college, Grace chose to stop competing. Gerta had never understood her friend’s decision and had argued against it. But as with most things, once Grace had made up her mind she didn’t go back. Gerta persevered with competitive jumping, reaching the ultimate Grand Prix level. It was common knowledge she had her eye on the Olympics.