Still, their friendship endured. They were in each other’s bridal parties and subsequently were delighted that they each had a daughter. Their friendship had weathered four decades of life’s vicissitudes, but like the horsewomen they were, they crossed each hurdle—the great distance, sparse communication, and the occasional argument. Now in their fifties and successful, they appreciated each other all the more in light of experience.
Gerta may not have won her Olympic medal, but she did succeed in creating one of the most respected and sought after breeding programs for Grand Prix horses in the United States. Grace’s success was her family, first and foremost. She was a major force in horse rescue and the hunting community. Grace believed staunchly in the idea of giving back. Gerta thought that in the end, both of their lives were busy and fulfilled, and in this, Gerta knew they were indeed fortunate women.
Still, with her wealth and position, Gerta didn’t have many friends and her relationship with her daughter was strained. Grace was one of the precious few women she could trust. One who knew the secrets of her heart. One who always had her back. And there was comfort in knowing the feeling was mutual.
Gerta’s mind was filled with these thoughts as she drove into Freehold Farm and wound up the gentle curve that led to the barn. She saw that the enormous trailer was already here. She glided the Mercedes past its long length to park in front of it, then turned off the engine and sighed, letting her hands rest on the wheel. She glanced in the rearview mirror and frowned with disapproval. Elise lay sprawled on the backseat, her long, unbrushed blond hair looped into an erupting bun on top of her head, earbuds in her ears. She was pale and appeared bored to tears.
“We’re here,” announced Gerta.
Her redundant statement went ignored. Gerta sighed and pressed the button to raise the window. It had been a punishing seven-hundred-mile drive from Florida to North Carolina. Elise had barely spoken a word to her, and when she did, she’d found a way to make each statement negative or some sort of rebuke. Gerta was too tired to argue with her recalcitrant daughter and too eager to see her old friend.
She pushed open the car door and felt the evening air, moist yet sweet. She set one brown leather shoe on the pavement and, with effort, slowly pulled herself up from the car. Her prosthesis chafed, and she grimaced. There’d be hell to pay tonight when she removed the leg. But she’d deal with it later, she resolved. She hated weak people and would die if someone considered her as such. Gerta smoothed the tan pants over her false leg and straightened, gathering her balance and composure.
“Gerta!” Grace called.
Gerta felt a spark light up in her chest and a smile burst onto her face. Lifting her chin, she scanned the area. Across the courtyard Grace shot an arm into the air and waved it in an arc over her head. Her dark hair, still thick and curly, was barely restrained, and Grace’s wide smile lit up her face as she began walking toward Gerta.
Gerta moved forward; then almost on cue, both women lost all sense of decorum and broke into a trot straight into each other’s arms. Gerta felt her friend’s strong arms tighten around her shoulders as they rocked from side to side, caught the scent of her perfume, closed her eyes and felt the years peel back. They were teenagers again, squeezing tight at seeing each other again, hopping up and down in excitement.
“I’ve missed you,” Gerta whispered into her ear.
“Me too.” Grace pulled back, eyes blinking away tears. She looked off, gesturing toward the trailer. “You certainly arrive with panache!”
Grace often deflected the rush of emotions with humor, which spared them both. Gerta gave a slight, dismissive wave of her hand and stepped back.
“Oh, ja, that . . .” She laughed, her German accent flaring a bit in her otherwise impeccable English. “It’s just a trailer. Mein Gott,” she added with a hint of distress. “I had to evacuate twelve horses in a rush. I can’t tell you what a scramble it was. I bought this one, but rented a fleet of trailers, not to mention hired additional grooms. Evacuation is a trauma. All hands on deck. And then all that driving.” She sighed dramatically. “I’m exhausted.”
Grace offered a reassuring smile. “We have the cottage all set up for you and a hot meal waiting.” She looked up. “Where’s Elise?”
“In the car.” Gerta made a face. “We’re hardly speaking. It’s been hell on wheels, I can tell you. She is always mad at me. At the world. Sulking. I’m at my wits’ end.”
Grace’s eyes reflected concern. “And Whirlwind is here?”
“Of course. I’m boarding the other horses at the equestrian center. But Whirlwind—he must come with us. Thank you for letting us board him here.”
“You know all you need ever do is ask.”
Gerta met her gaze and felt as she always did the strength of the bond between them. “I know.”
There was an explosion of noise inside the trailer, followed by a loud, low-pitched whinny echoing with frustration. A kind of how dare you make me wait in here?
“That horse . . .” Gerta shook her head with impatience. “He’ll either be the making of us, or the end of us.”
Grace smirked. “Well, I’m voting for the former.”
At the horse’s demanding neigh, the narrow metal door of the trailer’s front living quarters opened. A lean young man with bluntly cut blond hair and dressed in jeans and a blue WEG T-shirt, stepped out.
Karl Reiter, Whirlwind’s trainer, squinted in the sunlight and then, spotting Gerta, raised a hand in silent greeting. She tightened her lips as she nodded in acknowledgment. Karl was a well-respected trainer, though still young. Like the horse he trained, he had great promise. She’d brought Karl from Germany soon after she’d acquired Whirlwind, at the recommendation of the breeder. He’d been Whirlwind’s trainer in Germany, and the horse had bonded with the young man. Over the years Gerta had further trained Karl, and he was fast becoming a dressage master in his own right.
But Whirlwind was for Elise. She would be the one to ride him to the Olympics. Gerta was aware of the struggle between Elise and Karl over who truly managed the spirited horse. Gerta wanted Elise to handle him—but conceded that, up till now, only Karl could. She watched as Karl descended the trailer steps and walked in his rolling gait toward the rear of the trailer, putting on gloves en route. As he passed the Mercedes, its rear door opened, blocking his path. It nearly hit Karl, and it was too close not to be deliberate.
Elise emerged from the car in form-fitting black yoga pants and a cut-off T-shirt that bared a slim midriff. She had the body of a ballerina, small and lithe, but slammed the door like a truck driver. She turned on her heel to glare at the young man.
“You are not unloading Whirlwind,” Elise shouted. Her fists were balled at her thighs. “I am.”
“No, I am. It is your mother’s wish.”
“It is not my mother’s horse! It is my horse. I’m sick and tired of you refusing to get that.”
“Stop acting like a spoiled child and let me do my job.”
Their voices rang out, and everyone stood openmouthed, watching the spectacle.
Gerta strode toward them muttering, “Such children!” She was fed up with Elise’s theatrics. She reared on her daughter, eyes blazing. Unlike theirs, her voice came out in a low hiss, which had a greater effect.