He wasn’t a cruel man; she couldn’t believe that of him even now. But he was angry and had—from his viewpoint, anyway—reason to believe she was a greedy, heartless bitch.
She hadn’t been able to defend herself against that belief, partly because she was just too tired. The past few months, since her father’s stroke, had been mentally and emotionally exhausting. The shock of his illness had been bad enough, but then to find out that he was uninsured and that they were heavily in debt had been almost more than she could handle.
It had been a nightmare, and one she had struggled through with a crushing feeling of hopelessness. Still, she had managed to at least hold back the floodwaters of defeat. She had learned to negotiate with creditors, from the bank that held the stiff mortgage on this house to the IRS—which had granted her a moratorium on back taxes. Forced to get a job doing the only thing she felt reasonably adept at in order to pay for the private nurse her father required, she had been slowly selling off everything she could for living expenses and to whittle away at the mountain of debt.
Her own things had gone first. Her car, the horses she owned, her jewelry. Her trust fund provided some income. She couldn’t touch the principal—a bitter frustration—but the interest brought in at least enough to stall creditors while she struggled to pay them off.
She wasn’t sure, even now, where all the money had gone. Her father was no businessman, but there had at one time been income from real estate property and stocks that were gone now. She couldn’t even ask her father what had happened to it all, because she didn’t want him to worry. His memory had been affected by the stroke, and if he had ever realized he was on the edge of financial ruin he didn’t remember it now.
Spencer honestly didn’t know what she would do when she reached the end of her dwindling resources. Virtually everything of value was gone, the house was not only heavily mortgaged but also had a tax lien against it, and despite the lesser expense of being at home with a private nurse, her father’s medical bills were staggering.
And with all that weighing her down, she was determined to travel alone to Europe, for the first time in her life, and find a holy relic that had eluded experts for centuries.
“Miss Spencer?”
She looked up with a start, her racing heart slowing as she saw Tucker standing in the doorway. If he had knocked she’d been too lost in thought to hear it. “Oh—Tucker.” She forced her mind away from the useless and numbing thoughts. “Is there something wrong?”
He crossed the room soundlessly, his face as usual impassive, and placed a chamois bag on the desk. “Mr. Haviland left this, miss. He said to give it to you. I would have brought it in sooner, but the nurse required my help.”
“Is Dad all right?” Spencer asked automatically, her disbelieving gaze fixed on the bag.
“Yes,” Tucker replied. “He insisted on changing his bed jacket, miss, as he does every night before you visit him.”
It was her habit to spend an hour or so sitting by her father’s bed each evening, talking to him cheerfully or reading to him, and the visits had become a ritual. But Spencer wasn’t thinking about that right now. She was staring at the bag holding the emeralds she had sold.
Why had Drew left them? As a mocking gesture, made in the confident expectation that she would instantly sell them again? It had broken her heart to sell them once. . . . She drew a breath and lifted her gaze to Tucker’s.
“I want the emeralds returned to Mr. Haviland first thing in the morning,” she said evenly.
“Any message, miss?” Tucker inquired.
Her mouth twisted. “ ‘Go to hell’ might be appropriate, but, no. No message.”
Tucker picked up the bag, but hesitated. In his normal colorless voice, he said, “He could help you. With everything. It won’t be easy, finding the cross.”
Spencer had no secrets from Tucker, and he’d been an absolute godsend these past months. She had never viewed him as a servant, seeing him more as her father’s friend and her own. If there was a rock of solid support and quiet understanding in her life, it was Tucker. He continued to run the house and to take care of her father as he’d always done, as well as quietly make her life as easy as he could. And though he was, and always had been, invariably formal in speech and behavior, he never hesitated to offer his opinion or advice when she asked. Or sometimes even when she didn’t.
She half nodded in acknowledgment of what he’d said, and replied, “I know he could find the cross, but . . . I can’t ask him to help me. Not him. Even if he’d agree to do it, which I doubt very much, I can’t ask him. And I don’t want him to know how bad things are.”
“He noticed the missing paintings.”
“Yes.” She forced a rueful smile. “He had his own ideas about those, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I find the cross. Dad’s friend in Austria has talked to the authorities, and even though they don’t believe I can do it, I have permission to bring the cross back here for Dad to see.”
From what Drew had said, Spencer knew that he thought she was ignorant of international law and expected to be able to call the cross her own if she found it; why else would he make that remark about her selling it? Or else, she realized dismally, he thought her totally dishonest and believed she’d try to smuggle the relic out of Austria. But Spencer didn’t consider the cross the answer to her financial problems, only a last gift to her father. And her biggest anxiety . . .
She looked at Tucker with unconsciously pleading eyes. “Dad will wait for me, won’t he? He’ll hang on long enough for me to find it and bring it back here?”
Tucker hesitated, then said quietly, “The doctors give him a few more months, but he’s stronger now. Your plan to find the cross has given him a reason to fight.”
It was all she could hope for—no guarantee, but at least a chance.
Spencer nodded and watched the old man turn back toward the door. Just before he left the room, she said, “Tucker? Have I thanked you?”
He looked back at her, the hint of a smile softening his stolid features. “Yes, miss,” he said quietly.
She gazed at the closed door long after he’d gone, her own faint smile slowly dying. She was booked on a flight to Paris only a few days from now, and after that her journey would take her by train to Austria. She would arrive there virtually without money, driven to hurry because her father’s health was precarious, and knowing no one there except an old friend of her father’s who wouldn’t even be in the area she had to search.
And if all that wasn’t enough, now there was Drew. She had no doubt that he would make good on his promise to take her, a prospect that was both humiliating and painful but also something a longing part of her desperately wanted, if only . . . But she had thrown away his love once, and this was hardly a second chance for that. He meant to use her, to—what had he said?—hold her in thrall to him. And despite her knowledge of his motives, her ability to resist him sexually was nil. She’d gone to pieces when he kissed her, instantly mindless with pleasure and need, totally unable to resist what she had craved for so long.
And he knew. He knew she couldn’t fight him. She wasn’t smart enough to outthink him, or quick enough to outmaneuver him, or fast enough to outrun him. Her pride wouldn’t let her surrender, yet her body already had, and she lacked his force, his will, his hatred. . . .
Spencer hated feeling inadequate. It was like her own personal nemesis, a sick, shamed feeling that dogged her steps constantly. She always seemed to be at the mercy of that painful emotion, and suddenly, knowing how easy it would be for Drew to destroy her, something snapped. All her weariness coalesced into a single, wildly fierce realization.
She was tired of it. Tired of feeling powerless and inept and somehow lacking. Tired of being afraid. And tired of being tired. All she could do was her best, and if that fell short of her own standards or someone else’s, then so be it. She wasn’t her mother. Elegance and assurance couldn’t be borrowed or fashioned out of thin air?
??they had to be earned. She had her own strengths, and those would become apparent with time.
And if she couldn’t fight Drew physically, she could at least struggle to have something left when he was through with her.
With that decided, Spencer felt strangely calm. No more pretense. She straightened in the chair, aware only then that she’d been slumping. One hand lifted to her hair, and she mentally pushed aside the unbidden image of Drew’s hand there even as she wondered what Tucker had thought when he’d seen her. Probably, she realized, he had a very good idea of at least part of what had happened in this room, but he would, as usual, keep his thoughts to himself.
She got up and went around the desk, bending to collect the scattered hairpins. She left them among the cutter on the blotter, deciding not to try to put her hair back up. It was getting late and she wanted to sit with her father for a while before she went to bed. Tomorrow would be a long day, since her job began early in the morning; she was trying to put in as many hours as possible before she left.
She turned off the lights in the library and left the room, and for the first time she didn’t notice the missing paintings in the foyer as she went steadily up the curving staircase.
“ ARE YOU SURE he’s ready?” Mike Bartlet asked the next morning as Spencer was leading her third mount of the day out into the big ring. “You’ve done wonders with him, but after that hellish fall he took, any jump higher than a foot makes him crazy with fear.”
Spencer stroked the glossy chestnut neck of the young horse and smiled at his owner reassuringly. “He’ll be fine. I want to take him over the jumps this week, and then we’ll let him stay in his paddock until I get back. With no pressure and no show crowd to get on his nerves, he’s already gotten a lot of his confidence back.”
Bartlet smiled at her. It was almost impossible not to, because her smoky eyes and slow smiles were so direct and honest. She was such a little thing he’d initially objected to her handling his big, rawboned hunters, but the owner of this farm, where he boarded his horses, swore she had a special talent for gentling the ones that were bad tempered or that had picked up nasty tricks and habits. After several months of watching her work, Bartlet definitely agreed. She certainly knew what she was doing and the horses clearly loved her. Whether it was her soft, sweet voice or gentle touch, they responded to her in a way he’d never seen before.
A middle-aged man with a weather-beaten face and gruff manners, Bartlet found himself speaking softly around Spencer Wyatt. She had that effect, he’d noticed, on a lot of people. There was something very fragile about her despite the physical strength and endurance she showed with the horses, and people in her presence wanted to do things for her. Especially men. She could hardly lift a saddle without one of the grooms rushing over to help her, and even though she gently and firmly insisted on doing her own work, they kept right on trying.
She worked on a commission basis, being paid for each horse she handled. This farm was a large one with scores of boarders year-round, most of them hunters and many of them temperamental, and Spencer was easily the most popular trainer who worked here. She had a great deal of quiet confidence, and she was always even-tempered and friendly.
Bartlet liked her very much. And he worried about her. Though she never said much about herself and certainly never complained, he had the feeling that she was having a difficult time right now. Sometimes she arrived here with a look of strain around her fine eyes, and even though she seemed to forget her troubles while she worked with the horses, it bothered him.
Life should be good, he thought, for someone like Spencer. She was such a gentle lady. Sometimes he tried to make her laugh, just to hear the sweet sound and see her eyes light up.
“You be careful,” Bartlet said now, unable to help himself.
She looked a little surprised, but nodded, and as he gave her a leg up into the saddle Bartlet reflected that she seemed to have no idea why people—especially men of all ages—wanted to watch over and protect her. He stood watching as she rode the big hunter in an easy trot around the ring, then went back through the gate to get out of her way and watch from outside the ring.
Spencer eased the hunter into his workout, allowing his muscles to warm and loosen in slow gaits and a series of limbering turns. She spoke to him softly, watching his ears flick backward. At first he hadn’t wanted to pay attention to her, but after weeks of rides he now responded as quickly to her voice as he did to her knees and hands. Unlike many of her mounts, he had no vices; a crashing fall in his first show had simply resulted in a bad case of terror. It had taken her days to get him anywhere near a jump, but her idea of turning him out into the jumping ring every night for a week, alone and riderless, so that the fences could become familiar and un-threatening sights, had worked.
Now he trotted and cantered past imposing jumps with no sign of fright, weaving in and out among them obedient to her guiding touch, his gaits smooth. When she calmly put him to a very low and simple jump, his ears pricked up and he took it in stride.
Praising him with her voice and a stroking hand, Spencer felt a sense of heady accomplishment. She loved horses, and handling them was the one thing she knew she did well. From the time her father had set her atop her first pony twenty-five years earlier, it had been a love affair. Until a few months ago she had never considered riding as work, but her position at this farm was one she valued over and above the necessary earnings; she could be herself here, with no need to pretend. Her abilities were genuine, and her confidence in them secure.
For the next half hour she rode the powerful chestnut, gradually putting him to higher jumps—though she had mentally set a limit of four feet. The only jump he seemed wary of was one resembling the one he’d fallen at, an obstacle built to resemble a red brick wall. Its height was set at three and a half feet, the top foot of that made up of lightweight “bricks” that would dislodge easily when bumped. Spencer had no doubt that the gelding could take the jump—it was his confidence that was in question. She was determined to try it, however, and lined him up with the fence steadily.
She felt his stride falter just a bit, a minute hesitation, saw his right ear flick back as she crooned softly, and then he gathered himself and easily cleared the fence.
Delighted, Spencer praised him, beginning to check his stride because the next fence was a bit higher and she wanted him to take it completely balanced. That was when she glanced aside, wanting to see Mike Bartlet’s face at his horse’s success.
Drew was standing beside him.
Spencer was never sure what happened then, although she blamed herself for it. Perhaps she tensed and jabbed at the gelding’s sensitive mouth, or lost her balanced seat, or perhaps, with the peculiar ESP of horses, he sensed her sudden disturbance. In any case, the chestnut’s stride broke awkwardly and he couldn’t stabilize himself in time to attempt the jump looming in front of them. He tried to stop or shy away or both, and Spencer was unprepared for the sudden violent movements.
She went over his head and crashed into the fence.
chapter three
THE JUMP, LIKE all the others in the ring, had been designed with an eye to falling riders and horses. From the ground to a height of just over two feet the barrier was merely a line of neatly trimmed potted hedges, and above them two red-striped poles rested on pegs so that they’d be easily dislodged. If she had to fall, Spencer thought somewhat dizzily, this was one of the least dangerous jumps at which to do it.
However, she’d come off an unusually large horse moving at a fast gait, and even if bushes were relatively soft and wooden poles designed to give way when struck, the jarring contact with the ground was more than enough to knock the breath out of her. She had released the reins as she started to fall, partly because they were in a training ring where the chestnut would be confined and partly because she had a poor opinion of riders who dragged at the mouths of their horses by throwing the whole weight of their falling bodies against the reins.
It wa
sn’t the first time she’d fallen, and it wouldn’t be the last; she had learned as a child how to fall with the least risk to herself. Her jumping helmet protected her head, and though she was vaguely aware that one of the poles had left its mark on the small of her back, she was also reasonably sure that she hadn’t broken or seriously bruised anything. She didn’t move right away, knowing from experience that it was best to just remain still for a few moments and recover her breath and equilibrium.
She had turned a somersault in the air, landing flat on her back on the far side of the jump with her head toward it, and found herself gazing up at a cloudless blue sky—and then a very worried chestnut face. A slightly breathless laugh escaped her, and she thought for perhaps the thousandth time that the animal experts could say what they liked about people’s tendency to accord horses human emotions but anyone who knew a particular horse well was convinced they felt emotions just like people. And any horse who felt a bond with his chosen rider tended to get visibly upset when he lost that rider. Spencer had known horses to express emotions that varied from sheepish embarrassment to panicked anxiety when they and their riders, from whatever cause, parted company.
The chestnut, Beau, was dismayed and anxious about her. She would have tried to reassure him, but the involuntary laugh had taken what little breath she could claim and she wasn’t quite ready to try moving yet. Though it felt like hours, only moments had passed, and as she felt Beau’s warm, grass-sweet breath and looked up into his worried brown eyes, she heard quick steps approaching. The horse was pushed back roughly, and Drew knelt beside her.
“Is she all right?” Mike Bartlet asked hoarsely as his face appeared on her other side.