Showdown
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dylan McDonald was up in his room at Highwood, painting. Since Hank’s passing, life at the ranch had been so hectic that he’d had even less time than usual to work on his art. But today was Sunday, and the light pouring in through his dormer window when he woke up was so good, he’d decided to skip breakfast and get straight to it.
Perched at his easel in an old pair of Nike sweatpants and a T-shirt, he was adding the finishing touches to the portrait of his father that he’d started in secret some three months ago, working from an old photograph.
He was disturbed by a knock on the door. Hurriedly, he grabbed a towel to throw over the canvas, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Summer. I brought you up some sugar with a little coffee in it. Can I come in?”
Grinning, he opened the door and bundled her inside, relieving her of the steaming cup of syrupy joe, his absolute favorite. Dylan loved all his family, but he felt closest to Summer. Less grown-up and serious than Tara, she was the one he had most in common with. Although looking at his jet-black curls and olive skin next to her Swedish blond complexion, no one would have guessed the two were even related.
“Can I see?” she asked, gesturing to the hastily covered easel.
He frowned. “I guess.” He hated, dreaded showing his work to anyone. Like most talented artists he was ridden by neurotic self-doubts, but in his case they were made worse by the knowledge that his dad, not to mention all the other Highwood hands, figured painting was for sissies: the Santa Ynez equivalent of announcing you were moving to San Francisco, changing your name to Peaches, and planned on performing Barbra Streisand numbers in drag for the rest of your life.
Summer was different, though. She’d always understood.
“Shit, Dyl,” she said, whistling with admiration as he tentatively peeled back the towel. “That’s amazing. You’ve really got him. How old was he then?”
He handed her the picture of Wyatt he’d been working from, a battered old black-and-white snap he’d “borrowed” from his mother’s album. “It’s not dated. But I’m guessin’ twenty-two, twenty-three?”
Summer shook her head and laughed. “Handsome son of a bitch, wasn’t he? What happened? He looks like a prune.”
“Oh, stop it,” said Dylan. “You wait and see what you look like in your late fifties, after forty years out in all weather, working the land.”
“Me?” She flung herself backward onto his bed, her long, tanned legs dangling down over the edge like two supple sticks of caramel. “I’m not spending forty minutes working the land, never mind forty years. I’m going to go to Berkeley, and then Harvard Law.” She counted her future achievements off on her fingers nonchalantly. “Then I’ll make millions, live in LA, and be so rich I can get my face lifted at the first inkling of a wrinkle. No prune face for me.”
She will, too, thought Dylan, looking at his sister’s flawless face, awash with the promise and confidence of her youth, as smart as she was beautiful. She’ll do all that and more. And I’ll be stuck here, driving cattle and breaking horses for Bobby till they carry me away in a box.
“What d’you think she’ll be like?” asked Summer, abruptly changing the subject. Milly’s arrival had been the hot topic of conversation at the ranch since Bobby called to say he’d be bringing the English breeder’s daughter back with him. The plan was apparently for Bobby to train her to race quarter horses, in return for which she’d help out at the ranch.
Dylan shrugged. “I don’t know. Bobby says she’s a terrific rider.”
“Hmmmn.” Summer frowned skeptically. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Everyone else was excited to meet Milly, but Summer was distinctly nonplussed. The truth, though she would rather die than admit it to a living soul, was that she had loved Bobby for as long as she could remember. The last thing she wanted was some snotty-nosed English madam waltzing in and stealing his attention.
Not that he had ever showed the slightest romantic interest in her. As far as he and everyone else at Highwood was concerned, Bobby was her big brother in all but genetics. But one day, she meant to change that. And in the meantime, she took comfort in the knowledge that he’d never been serious about any of the many girls he dated. As unsatisfactory as it was, the sisterly bond she shared with him remained his closest female relationship.
This Milly chick was the first girl ever to threaten it. And though they hadn’t met, Summer already hated her with a passion she was having more and more trouble concealing.
“You could sell that, you know,” she said, sitting up and switching her attention suddenly back to her brother’s portrait. “It’s very good. Why don’t you show it to Martha Bentley’s mom? You know she just opened a new gallery in Santa Barbara as well as the place in Los Olivos?”
About five miles further down the tourist trail from Solvang, Los Olivos was a pretty wine-making town that had lately become a haven for artists, writers, and what Wyatt liked to refer to as “hippie types” from across California. There were a number of galleries there, of which Bentley’s was just one.
“I don’t think so,” said Dylan, covering up the picture again with finality. “No one in Santa Barbara is gonna want to buy a picture of Dad. Besides, I’m not that pleased with it. It still needs a lot of work.”
Wrapping her arms around his waist, Summer gave him a sisterly kiss. “Bullshit. It’s great,” she said. Dylan had always been too modest, happy to hang back in the shadows and let someone else shine. She wished he wouldn’t put himself down so much.
As for her, lack of confidence had never been her problem. Nor was she one to shy away from a fight. If this Milly whatever her dumbass name was thought she was going to steamroll her way into Bobby’s affections, she’d have to get past her first. Summer had her sweet side—she was a loving sister and a loyal friend—but when she put her mind to it, she could also be a formidable opponent.
Some fifty miles away, Bobby was so exhausted he was having trouble keeping his eyes on the road. But despite his tiredness he was enjoying the drive home from the airport with Milly. She’d spent most of the journey with her head thrust through the window, as eager and alert as an overexcited puppy, gazing rapturously at the California countryside as it unfolded before them.
She could hardly believe that the Delaneys’ party, and her father’s collapse, had been only a week ago. The intense joy she’d felt after Cecil’s spectacular change of heart had been followed by a short, sharp shock of grief as the reality of leaving Newells hit home. Not that she wasn’t excited to be going to America with Bobby and, better still, riding competitively again. But Nancy and Pablo and the others had become like family to her over the years. She knew she’d miss them and the horses terribly. In a way, Easy’s death had made the break less painful, as had the fact that Rachel’s constant presence around the yard made it hard for her to relax at home anymore. But it was still a wrench.
Nor had her mother made things any easier, alternating between anger and tears in the run-up to her and Bobby’s departure.
“What will I do without you?” Linda had moaned, the morning they finally left for the airport. “What with Daddy working all hours and Jasper off racing all over the country, I’ll be quite on my own here.”
She seemed to have conveniently forgotten that for the last six weeks she’d spent more time with Rachel than with Milly, and that on the rare occasions the two of them had been home alone together, they’d fought like cat and dog.
“It’s only California, Mummy, not Mars,” Milly tried to reassure her, as she heaved the last heavy case into the boot of the Range Rover. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
But would she? Her invitation to Highwood was open-ended, but despite Bobby’s glowing descriptions of the place, she still had no real idea what to expect. All she did know was that her dreams and her destiny lay on the other side of the Atlantic. And it would take a lot more than a guilt trip from
Linda to hold her back.
“It’s just so beautiful,” she said, gasping in awestruck wonder as they turned a corner and yet another lush, green valley spread itself out before them like Eden. “No wonder you love it here so much.”
“Wait till you see Highwood,” said Bobby proudly. “It’ll knock you out, I promise you.”
Milly didn’t doubt it. She was already knocked out. The scenery was like nothing she had ever seen before. Or perhaps it was more of an amalgam of all the most beautiful places she had seen: the lush, rolling hills of the Lake District meeting the awesome splendor of the Swiss Alps, with Normandy poppy fields and a Côte d’Azur sky thrown in for good measure. The neon-bright, undulating greenery was so pristine it almost looked fake, as if God had picked up an enormous flat, manicured fairway and concertinaed it in his hands, crushing and folding it into steep hills and plunging valleys.
“Actually, that’s pretty much how it happened,” said Bobby, laughing, when she expressed this to him. “It was prehistoric earthquakes that scrunched the land up like that. It would have been flat once.”
After another twenty minutes they eventually descended into another valley, and the wild landscape gave way to long stretches of flatter, more cultivated land. Turning off the highway toward Buellton, the long, straight road was lined on either side by sky-high sycamores, giving it the look of a Parisian avenue, and sparkling white fences marked the entrance to lovingly maintained paddocks and stable blocks, horse farms stretching as far as the eye could see.
“I thought you said this was cattle country?” said Milly, surprised.
“It is,” said Bobby. “But cowboys need horses too. These are all quarter horse farms.”
“I wonder why your dad was so against the idea of you starting a training stables then? You know, if everyone else was doing it.”
At the mention of Hank, Bobby’s face fell. In England he’d managed to push the specter of his father’s death to the back of his mind. It had almost been a relief to be sucked into someone else’s world, someone else’s problems, and forget his own. But from the moment they touched down at LAX, he could feel a dark cloud descending on him once again: a miasma of paternal disapproval from beyond the grave.
“My dad was against a lot of things, for no particular reason,” he said darkly.
Milly was about to giggle and say “mine too,” but something about Bobby’s face made her think better of it. Obviously his problems with Hank had gone a lot deeper than simply being forbidden to ride. He might not appreciate the comparison.
It wasn’t until they finally pulled into the long driveway leading up to the ranch that the smile returned to Bobby’s face.
“Hey, boss! Good to see you. Welcome home.” Wyatt bounded across the dusty yard with the energy of a man half his age and clapped his hand warmly across Bobby’s shoulders as he climbed out of the car. “And you must be Miss Lockwood Groves?”
“Milly, please.” She smiled, unfolding her long legs from the cramped confinement of the front passenger seat and peeling her sweaty jeans from the backs of her thighs before offering him her hand. “How do you do, Mr. McDonald?”
Though he looked older than she had imagined from Bobby’s description—sort of gnarled, like Yoda—she knew instantly that this must be Wyatt. She’d been told to look for the open, honest smile and strikingly blue eyes. Even with all the wrinkles, she thought, there was something quite handsome about him.
“It’s Wyatt.” He chuckled at her formality. “And I’m good, thank you, Milly. Welcome to Highwood.”
Before she had time to say another word, Milly found herself being swooped upon by the McDonald women. Maggie came running out of the house first, her kindly face looking flustered, still in her dirty apron and with long wisps of graying blond hair escaping from an unruly bun.
“Bobby Cameron, put me down this instant!” she laughed delightedly as Bobby lifted her up in his arms and started twirling her around. “I’ll put you over my knee, you hear me?”
Bobby had told her Maggie was like a mother to him, and Milly could see instantly how close the two of them were.
“I’m sorry, honey,” said Maggie, offering Milly her flour-dusted hand once Bobby finally put her down. “I’m Maggie. Real pleased to meet you.”
“And you.” Milly beamed. These people all seemed so nice. It was like wandering onto a set of The Waltons. She turned to the pretty girl hovering just behind her. “And you must be Summer?”
“Tara,” said the girl, relieving her of the jacket and purse she was still clutching in her hand.
That was Tara? According to Bobby, she was the plain sister. What on earth must Summer look like then? Claudia Schiffer?
A few seconds later and her question was answered when a ridiculously leggy blonde in a pair of micro Daisy Dukes that wouldn’t have covered even one of Milly’s butt cheeks flung herself at Bobby like a groupie at a rock star.
“You’re back!” she squealed. “You’re back, you’re back, you’re back!”
While Bobby kissed and embraced her, Milly took a closer look at the famous Summer. She was infinitely more beautiful than Bobby had described her. Flawless skin; insanely high, prominent cheekbones; and perfect, palest-pink Cupid’s bow lips were framed by a waterfall of golden hair that would have made Rapunzel weep with jealousy. And as for that figure . . . as far as Milly could tell, 80 percent of her body mass must be made up of femur, and the other twenty was breasts. If Rachel Delaney were taller and willowy and elegant—and about a thousand times more gorgeous—she might look like a pale imitation of Summer McDonald.
Instinctively, Milly felt a small, sharp stab of hostility toward this goddess who was still showering Bobby with kisses in between bombarding him with an endless battery of questions about his trip. In her experience, girls that beautiful were normally serious bitches.
But she mustn’t prejudge people. Bobby had described Summer as “a sweet kid” and perhaps she was just that? After all, it wasn’t her fault she was beautiful.
Walking around the car, she waited for a lull in their conversation before introducing herself with a smile. “I’m Milly,” she said. “I’m going to be training with B—”
“Yes, I know who you are,” said Summer coolly. The smile was not reciprocated. “The new quarter horse sensation to be, Bobby told me.”
“Oh,” said Milly, flustered. Everyone else had been so polite and welcoming that this sudden rudeness had caught her off guard. “Well, er, I wouldn’t say that exactly. I just want a chance to learn,” she stammered.
“She’s gonna do great,” said Bobby, apparently unaware that Summer had fired a warning shot in Milly’s direction. “Of course, we need to get the training facilities built first,” he added wistfully.
“Yeah. We gotta talk about that,” said Wyatt. “I spoke to the bank again this morning—”
“For heaven’s sake, Wyatt, let the boy in the house before you start talking business,” said Maggie. Then, turning to Milly, “And you must be exhausted, poor thing. Tara”—she looked at her elder daughter—“why don’t you help Milly inside with her things. You’ll be staying in the big house with Bobby,” she explained to Milly, “but you’ll eat most of your meals with us. And, of course, our door’s always open if you feel like company.”
“Thanks,” said Milly.
Summer let out an audible groan.
Well, fuck you too, bitch. Who cares what you think? She was going to be sharing a house with Bobby. Just the two of them. Alone. It would take more than some pouting blond stick insect with her nose out of joint to take the gloss off that.
With Tara carrying her heaviest suitcase—lifting it as effortlessly as if it were empty—Milly struggled behind into the big house, lugging the smaller case with embarrassing difficulty up the wide wooden stairs to her room.
“So. This is the guest suite.” Flinging the suitcase down on the bed, Tara opened the door through to the bathroom, a gorgeous Victorian affair with a freestan
ding copper bathtub and huge white jug beside the basin. “Your towels are in the cupboard there, and there’s soap and toiletries in the basket. But you just let us know if you need anythin’ else.”
Milly sank down onto the bed and tried to take it all in. The room was exquisite—the whole house, in fact, was like a museum piece, a creaking wooden shrine to Wild Western Victoriana, each of its huge rooms still boasting their original floorboards and cornices and heavy oak doors. There was something slightly sad about the place though, despite its grandeur. It still felt like an old man’s house. Perhaps Hank’s spirit was not fully at rest yet? Whatever the root of the eeriness, she imagined Bobby must have felt terribly lonely, coming back here after his dad’s death.
But he wouldn’t be lonely anymore. Not with her here.
He still hadn’t made even the faintest hint of a move on her since the night in Easy’s stable. If anything, he’d become, if not exactly distant, then at least more big brotherly since Cecil had given his blessing for her to come to Highwood. But she wasn’t overly concerned. Before, at Newells, she’d felt the clock constantly ticking. But now she had months, years even, to win him over. Surely here, in this beautiful old house, it could only be a matter of time before he realized that they were meant to be together?
“Supper’s at seven, over at ours,” said Tara, her voice a softer, more feminine version of Bobby’s knee-weakening drawl. “Momma’s made apple and walnut cobbler to celebrate your arrival, so I hope you’re hungry.”
Cobbler sounded nice. But what she really needed, thought Milly, sinking back against the softly plumped feather pillows as Tara closed the door behind her, was a bath. Summer might be a standoffish cow, but seeing her so fresh faced and stunning had reminded Milly how tired and smelly and travel worn she must look. If she was going to get Bobby to fall in love with her—and she was, somehow; she had to—then she couldn’t afford to wander around smelling like a pair of Jasper’s old socks while Summer shimmered beside her like an ethereal rose-scented Venus.