Charles looked up.
“You should know. Gerta does not own Whirlwind. Elise does.”
EIGHTEEN
August 23, 8:15 a.m.
Freehold Farm, North Carolina
Hurricane Noelle is downgraded to a tropical storm
The two riding arenas at Freehold Farm lay parallel to each other on two level plateaus up the hill from the barn. The upper arena was used for jumping practice. The white-fenced arena had all-weather footing and a series of jumps and obstacles. A tractor with a drag sat ringside. Lower on the hill, the dressage arena was a long rectangle equipped with low white boards and cones with markers set at particular distances.
Charles walked up the hill at a leisurely pace. His boots were wet with dew and the world was lush green from all the rain. He looked up at the sky. The weather station reported that the tropical storm was continuing to rapidly weaken as it moved over land. This was hopeful news. But they were not out of the storm’s threat yet. He used to feel that being in the mountains, they were safe from storms. After all, Tryon was in a unique microclimate in Polk County, North Carolina, called the thermal belt. Frost and freezing temperatures were less likely to occur, giving them milder temperatures and a longer growing season. And it was good for riding horses, too.
Here in Tryon they were far from safe from hurricanes, however. Hurricanes’ outer bands often brought days of tropical wind and rain and flooding. For North Carolinians—and many people living inland in the South—the wind wasn’t the factor they were most fearful of. It was the rain. No, he decided. Never good to let one’s guard down when it came to storms.
There was no rain yet today, though the sky was gray and an armada of clouds was amassing again in the far distance. A small breeze harkened the storm, and feeling the cool moisture on his cheeks, it was welcome. It would be a nice morning to ride.
And today, everyone was turning out for what they hoped would be some spectacular showmanship.
Charles heard Grace call him and he turned to wave. She was coming out of the barn. He was eager to tell her about Elise’s kinky haircut, but then he spotted Gerta behind her. Later, he decided. He wouldn’t be the one to bring the subject up to Gerta. It wouldn’t be right.
“Good morning!” he called out.
Grace returned a wave, and he waited while the two women trudged up the hill. He caught sight of a glimpse of metal beneath Gerta’s breeches. He was mightily impressed by her ability with the prosthesis. She’d told him this one had changed her life. There were microprocessor computers in the leg that sensed movement. She could walk uphill, in the rain, even swim. There was no stopping her.
Grace’s eyes were sparkling with anticipation. “I’m so excited. Let’s go watch Angel.”
“He’s not jumping today,” Charles reminded her. “He’ll just do gentle flat work. Because of the colic.”
“I know. But I still want to watch the master ride.”
Gerta let them go ahead. She watched them walk arm in arm, her heart beating faster not from the climb, but because of the proximity of Angel. Grace and Charles were, she knew without doubt, her very best friends. She felt she could share almost anything with Grace. Still, she wanted to be alone while watching Angel de la Cruz ride this morning. Her feelings for that man were jumbled up between her heart and her head. She had much to think about.
She also kept her eye open for Elise. She didn’t come home again last night. She probably slept at Moira’s again, but Gerta had waited up quite late in hope she would. Grace was right. They did need to talk. Perhaps today they could have a new beginning.
She looked at her watch. Speaking of late, Elise was late for her dressage lesson.
She spotted Moira higher on the hill near the jumping arena, in black riding breeches and boots. She veered off to talk to her. She was such a delightful girl, always so wise. She hoped she’d also glean some information about Elise. As she approached, she read the words of Moira’s gray Caroline’s Cakes T-shirt: EAT CAKE. BE HAPPY. Gerta chuckled and wished life could be so easy.
Moira’s hair was down, glossy in the sun. The occasional breeze teased the ends, lifting them in the air. She, too, wanted to observe one of the world’s finest athletes in the sport. But her face appeared troubled.
“Watching the master?” Gerta asked when she reached Moira ringside.
“He makes it look so elegant. Natural. Even just walking,” Moira said with a sigh. “See how collected they are?”
“That’s what the best do,” Gerta replied. She looked into the arena. Angel looked desperately handsome on Butterhead in all black: his breeches, polo shirt, and helmet. As he rounded the arena his chiseled features looked straight ahead. His hands had his horse in complete control. She couldn’t deny the stirring the sight caused her.
She took a breath and turned to Moira. “You look exceedingly pretty today,” she told her. “Positively glowing.”
Moira’s brown eyes lit up. “Why, thank you, Mrs. Klug. I feel good inside. I made a big decision. I’m going to vet school.”
“How wonderful! You’ll make a wonderful vet. Your parents must be so proud.”
Moira smiled. “They are. As you, I know, are proud of Elise.”
Gerta’s smile wobbled. “Yes.” She paused. “Do you know where she is? She’s supposed to be riding Whirlwind this morning.”
Moira’s brightness dimmed. “Uh, no. I haven’t seen her. Not since yesterday.”
“She didn’t stay with you last night?”
“No. She left around ten.”
Gerta’s face stilled as her mind wildly searched possibilities. Where could she have spent the night? This bit of news she needed to keep between herself and Elise.
She was relieved to have the conversation interrupted when Grace came over to join them.
“Look at him,” Grace said. “He reminds me of McLain Ward, the way he holds his reins. Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Gerta said, turning her attention back to Angel. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Not too shabby to be compared to the number-one rider in America,” said Moira.
Angel was giving Butterhead a light workout, flatting rather than jumping. He spotted Gerta and smiled. She did not respond. But Gerta’s experienced eyes missed nothing. Angel was a very composed rider. He sat perfectly on the horse, strong, straight, and knowing just when to guide the horse to a turn.
She also appreciated just how amazing a horse Rogue’s Fancy was. There was a joy in Butterhead today. She looked light on her feet and her ears were always up. It was a shame that they didn’t jump. She would have liked to see them work together. She felt sympathy for Angel’s position of losing his mount. And she admired Angel’s horsemanship. Not only his decision to let Butterhead retire when she was at her prime, rather than let her slowly diminish her reputation in the public’s eyes, but also for not selfishly pushing his horse so soon after colic. Anyone could see the mare wanted to take the jumps, but Angel deftly guided her away.
As she watched him, Gerta was ashamed for the thoughts she had. The rocking motion of his hips was highly suggestive. There were so many seemingly sexual expressions that equestrians used all the time to innocently describe the horse world and yet could be taken out of context. Several of them ran through her head now. You must push harder. He was a good ride. Sit deeper and move with the rhythm. She covered her smile with her hand and blushed, imagining Angel as a lover. As a woman, she appreciated his sex appeal.