At Risk

  * * *

  Seven-thirty Sunday morning, and the first A-rated show of the season was half over. Cliff started up the John Deere 960, shifted into gear, and hauled the overflowing manure wagon out of the barn. I walked outside and looked down the lane toward the arenas.

  Exhibitors were already warming up their horses, lunging them in the pasture alongside the road, and hacking them in the ring. In the chilly air, the horses' breath formed misty plumes that shimmered with gold in the early-morning light. The entries were double what they had been the year before. Figures for the day would be comfortably in the black.

  Soon, the quiet, surrealistic moment would be replaced by the hustle and bustle of dozens of people competing against each other, a civilized modern-day imitation of mounted warfare. Risk was noticeably absent.

  When the tractor pulled into the lane between the barns, I headed back. After we mucked out the next group of stalls, Cliff pulled the wagon farther down the aisle, adding diesel fumes to the dusty haze kicked up from cleaning stalls. I picked up the push broom and began sweeping the aisle where we had just finished working. Marty was in rare form, singing a country song rather badly. Some song about somebody losing somebody.

  I looked up when I heard someone walking toward me. Elsa. My muscles tensed. It was the first time I'd seen her since the feed room. I bent over and jabbed the broom toward a tangle of hay and sawdust.

  As she walked past, I glanced sideways at her. Without breaking stride, she slapped my butt—a blatantly clear message to anyone who was watching.

  Marty was watching. He stepped into the aisle and stared at me with his mouth open.

  "I can't believe it," he said. "You fucked her, didn't you?"

  I unclenched my teeth. "Shut up."

  "After all this time--"

  "Shut up, damn it."

  I leaned the broom against the stall front and turned toward the door. One of the boarders had walked into the barn, and she had undoubtedly heard at least part of the conversation.

  I went outside, sat at one of the picnic tables, and rested my forehead on my knuckles. What a mess. I should have known better. Should have left Elsa alone.

  "Sorry." Marty's voice.

  I looked up. There was no humor in his face. No laugh lines crinkled the skin around his eyes. "Never mind," I said.

  He sat across from me. "You're only human, Steve. . . . I know what she's like. The woman's relentless. 'Course all she had to do was look my way."

  "Man." I rubbed my face. "I really screwed up. Rachel will dump me if she finds out, and the thing is, I had no intention, none at all of . . . Oh, damn it."

  He shook his head. "You worry too much. Rachel's a smart girl. Anybody with half a brain can see what kind of woman Elsa is. I mean, it's kind of understandable what happened. And the two of you haven't been going out all that long, right? It's not like you've agreed that you wouldn't date other people, right?"

  "I know."

  "Well, see. She probably won't find out, anyway. Elsa ain't the kiss and tell type. I'll bet--"

  "Could of fooled me."

  Marty grinned. "I think the only reason she made an example of you was because you were a challenge."

  "Ha. Hardly."

  My timing had been awful. A month earlier, and it wouldn't have made any damn difference.