Showdown

  Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his inhaler and took one long, deep breath. The dander from horses, dogs, and cattle was swirling all around the little box of a room, and he could feel his chest tightening and eyes beginning to redden, despite having dosed himself up to the eyeballs earlier with antihistamine. How anyone could choose to live out in the sticks like this was beyond him.

  “Sorry,” he explained, sneezing. “Allergies.”

  “What interested you about Highwood?” asked Bobby aggressively, ignoring Todd’s evident discomfort. He’d had a grueling morning, after not much sleep, and Wyatt’s pep talk just now had only worsened his mood. He was determined to show everyone that he was more than capable of being a tough negotiator. “The oil, I suppose?”

  “Not at all,” Todd lied, not missing a beat. “First of all, the place has never been properly surveyed. I know there’s been a lot of chat about your grandfather striking oil here, but no one knows for sure how oil rich this land actually is, or whether it could sustain a long-term drilling operation.”

  Bobby listened, trying not to give himself away by looking surprised. He had never heard this theory before. He’d been brought up to believe that Highwood’s oil was a fact: part blessing, part curse, but definitely there. Racking his brains, he thought he vaguely remembered his father telling him that the land had been surveyed, once, many decades ago. But perhaps it was a false memory? Perhaps Todd was right?

  “Besides,” Todd went on, sneezing again. “Oil isn’t my business. I made my money doing one thing and doing it well. Just like your old man.”

  Bobby nodded. “I see. Well, that makes sense.”

  Wyatt could be such an old woman sometimes. Cranborn seemed perfectly straightforward and up-front to him.

  “So your interest now, today, is . . . what?” he asked.

  “Quarter horses,” said Todd, deadpan.

  “Really?” Bobby looked skeptically at his immaculately cut suit and manicured hands, still clasping the inhaler. To say he didn’t look like a typical quarter horse enthusiast would be putting it mildly.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” said Todd, suavely adjusting the knot on his Hermès silk tie. “I’ve no desire to be involved in the nitty-gritty of horse training. None whatsoever. That’s your area. I’m looking on this purely as an investment.”

  For the next ten minutes he smoothly trotted out his newly acquired knowledge of the quarter horse world. As he’d expected, Bobby lapped it up.

  First rule of salesmanship: Tell people what they want to hear.

  “I don’t claim to be an expert by any means,” he concluded, wrapping up his spiel. “But I’ve looked at the numbers, and your performance record as a Thoroughbred trainer, and I have to say I’m excited about the opportunity here. There’s no hidden agenda: You need a cash investor. I need a partner who understands quarter horses and the training business. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Let’s walk,” said Bobby, opening the door onto the yard and letting a blast of warm air into the air-conditioned cool of the office. Todd followed him outside.

  “You’ve been honest with me, Mr. Cranborn,” he said, “so let me be honest with you in return. I’m interested.”

  “Good.” Todd nodded sagely. “I hoped you might be.”

  “But there is one thing I need to be clear about from the beginning,” said Bobby. “Highwood was left to me by my father as a traditional ranch, with traditional cowboys running cattle.”

  Ah, here we go, thought Todd. Right on cue. Nostalgic cowboy bullshit time.

  “I have a number of men and their families depending on me to keep the place going as a ranch and make it work. Horses are my passion, and I’m convinced that’s where Highwood’s future lies. But I can’t just wave a magic wand and turn the place into a quarter horse version of Eight Oaks overnight.”

  “Look, I know that,” said Todd. Eight Oaks was the ultimate Thoroughbred horse farm, and every Kentucky owner’s wet dream. “You gotta clean the garbage off your plot before you can build on it, right?”

  “Right,” said Bobby. “Exactly.”

  “Well, how ’bout this,” said Todd as casually as if it were an idea that had just that minute popped into his head. “I’ll underwrite your debt—all of it—in return for an equity partnership in the ranch.”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . .” said Bobby doubtfully. He could hear Wyatt’s words of yesterday evening ringing in his ears: “If he starts asking for equity, get the hell out.”

  “Hear me out,” said Todd. “I’ll also put up a hundred percent of the capital to set us up as a quarter horse training stables.”

  “A hundred percent?”

  Todd nodded. “Uh-huh. Every penny.”

  Visions of the gorgeous stables he could build with unlimited funds swam before Bobby’s eyes like dollar signs. Imagine! He could be living his dream at Highwood, with the bank off his back too, in a matter of weeks.

  Suddenly he felt awash with confidence. Wyatt was a great ranch manager, but he knew nothing about business and even less about horse training and the spectacular money to be made at it.

  “The core cattle business remains yours and yours alone,” said Todd. “Profits from the horse business we split eighty twenty in my favor.”

  “Sixty forty,” said Bobby.

  “Seventy-five twenty five,” countered Todd with a grin. “You’re not putting in a cent, remember.”

  “I’m putting in my expertise,” said Bobby, “and my time. I’ll be the one pulling in the business and running it.”

  “Seventy thirty,” said Todd, extending his hand for Bobby to shake.

  “Done.”

  Poor kid. There he was smiling like he’d beaten him down and gotten some sort of deal. When in fact, for a measly few hundred grand, he’d just bought himself an equity stake in a multimillion-dollar property and taken one big step closer to controlling the Cameron oil.

  The kid was so naïve and so fucking full of himself, he didn’t even realize what had happened. And though he had nothing on paper yet, Todd knew that an old school, my-word-is-my-bond cowboy like Bobby Cameron would rather die than renege on a deal he’d shaken hands on.

  It was done. Mission accomplished.

  Still simmering with inner triumph as Bobby walked him back to his car, he noticed a figure lumbering across the yard toward them, dragging his feet with weariness as if even the effort of walking were too much for him. Only when the poor creature came within a few feet of him did he realize it was not actually a man but a girl. A very young girl.

  She had matted, sweaty hair, a shiny red face, and riding clothes so torn and dirty she looked like she’d been wearing them for weeks. Nevertheless, she was extremely pretty in an elfin sort of way, and her baize-green eyes and wide lips gave her an intoxicating, woman-child quality that even her disheveled state could not completely conceal. Todd had been anxious to get on his way, but suddenly he was more than happy to linger a little. He always made time for extremely pretty girls.

  “Hello.” He smiled down at her. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Todd.”

  “Oh. Hello,” she said absently. “I’m Milly.” The first thing he noticed was her English accent. The second was the way she looked straight through him, focusing all her attention on Bobby, whose body seemed to have tensed up all of a sudden, as though the girl’s attention bothered him.

  Highly competitive in everything, but especially when it came to women, Todd despised being ignored. This was the second time a girl he’d been attracted to had shown a blatant preference for the Cameron boy. It infuriated him.

  “We’re done,” said Milly, looking up at Bobby like a Roman slave girl might look at the emperor. “Is it okay if I go inside and take a bath now?”

  “I guess,” he mumbled gracelessly. “Don’t be too long though. We still have more work to do.”

  His tone was so curt, Todd wondered if the two of them had fallen out. Or if, more probably, the boy’s agg
ression was a symptom of deeper feelings he was unwilling or unable to express. Certainly there was a sexual tension and discomfort in the air that was impossible to miss.

  “Bobby and I are going to be going into partnership together. We’re starting a quarter horse training stable here at Highwood,” he said, making a second attempt to capture Milly’s attention. This time he succeeded.

  “Really?” Her eyes lit up. “That’s fantastic! How soon will you start? Bobby brought me over here to train me, you see. I’m a jockey. Well,” she corrected herself, “I’m training to be a jockey. But I’m much better over short distant sprints, so Bobby thought quarter horses would be perfect for me, because—”

  “Milly, Mr. Cranborn’s a busy man,” Bobby interrupted her tersely. He’d noticed Todd looking at her, and he didn’t like it. He wanted her gone. “He doesn’t have time for a rundown of your career aspirations.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” said Todd, who’d seen the way the girl’s smile had folded in on itself like a house of cards at Bobby’s admonition. “I don’t mind at all. An Englishwoman racing quarter horses, huh? That’s interesting.”

  Milly smiled at him gratefully and noticed for the first time that he was actually quite handsome—for an old man, obviously. She didn’t know why Bobby was being so mean.

  “I hope we’ll talk more, next time I’m here,” he said, ignoring Bobby’s scowl of disapproval. “But right now I do have to get going.” Pressing a button on his car key, he popped the driver’s door open and climbed in. “I want to stop into Buellton on my way home,” he said to Bobby. “And, if I can, talk to my attorney tonight about our venture. Have him draw up some initial paperwork.”

  “Sounds good,” said Bobby, shaking his hand again through the window.

  With a rocket-launcher roar, the Ferrari’s engine rumbled into life and Todd executed a lightning three-point turn, sending dust flying everywhere. “I’ll call you,” he yelled to Bobby, making a telephone sign with his hand, and then, to her acute embarrassment, blew a kiss to Milly before speeding off down the drive.

  “What did you go and do that for?” Bobby turned on her as soon as the car was out of sight. He knew he was being a jealous prick, but he couldn’t help it.

  “Do what?” said Milly, fighting back tears.

  “Flirt with him,” said Bobby.

  “What?” Her eyes widened. If he weren’t being so mean about it, it would be funny. As it was she felt sick. “I didn’t flirt with him!” she said hotly. “Don’t be so ridiculous. He’s ancient. I would never—I could never—” Fear and stress were making her insides flip like pancakes. It was hard to get a coherent sentence out.

  “Hmmm,” mumbled Bobby. “Well, okay. But just remember, he’s a business partner, not a friend. I’ll be running all the training day-to-day, so you’ll have no reason to cross paths with him again. None whatsoever.”

  “Fine,” said Milly defiantly, running back into the house so as not to give him the satisfaction of seeing the hot tears of anger and shame rolling down her cheeks.

  How could he accuse her and humiliate her like that in front of a stranger? What had she done to deserve it?

  She knew it was wrong to expect life at Highwood to be perfect, especially on day one. And she knew the pressures he was under. But not even Rachel’s bitchiness, or Jasper’s cruelty, or her mother’s constant nagging were as bad as the way Bobby just turned on her.

  It was almost enough to make her wish she’d stayed in Newmarket.

  And that was saying something.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Milly sat on the battered leather couch in the McDonaldses’ family room with a horse blanket pulled over her knees and the local paper open in front of her, wiggling her toes in cozy contentment. It was a Sunday in November and the first afternoon she’d had completely off in almost two months. She intended to enjoy it.

  From the moment Bobby had signed on the dotted line with Todd, the quarter horse enterprise had taken off with breakneck speed, and she soon found herself training almost full-time. Riding again was a joy, but she was still expected to pitch in with ranch work too, and the combination was utterly exhausting.

  And then there were the emotional stresses too. Things with her and Bobby were still not great. Admittedly there’d been no more blowups like the one they’d had on her first day over Todd Cranborn. But the closeness they’d enjoyed in England seemed to have evaporated for good. In its place had grown a working relationship that was cordial but heartbreakingly distant.

  There were moments when the façade slipped. When she won her first race, a tiny local event sponsored by the agricultural college in Santa Ynez, Bobby ran over and hugged her, and she could see from the way he looked at her that he was genuinely proud. But it was no more than a flicker of the warmth he used to shower her with in the old days. Generally, now that he was training her, he was very much her boss. And though she still fantasized about him constantly, she had gradually started to give up all serious hope of anything romantic happening between them.

  The truth was that even if they had been closer, they were both so tired and so focused on their respective futures, there wouldn’t have been much time for a relationship, anyway. Every second of Milly’s days was accounted for, and if anything Bobby was even busier: trying to split himself three ways between training her, running the ranch, and building the new quarter horse business.

  He’d made remarkable progress, though. Even Wyatt had to admit that. Stable blocks and a spanking new indoor school were erected within weeks, in a frenzy of efficiency never before seen at Highwood. Tara was dispatched to print up beautiful glossy brochures, aimed at tempting owners and syndicates away from more established training schools at Bonsall and Romoland. And Todd Cranborn, for all that Wyatt still distrusted him, had so far been as good as his word, pumping a seemingly never-ending stream of cash into the ranch’s coffers and coming up with a debt-restructuring plan that had finally gotten the bank off their backs.

  Things were definitely looking up.

  “You’re not still reading that, are you?”

  Summer, just back from her ice hockey match, had flopped down in an armchair on the other side of the room. Of course, it wasn’t enough for her to be stunning and a Doogie Howser, M.D. brainiac. She had to be a brilliant sportswoman too.

  “Surely you’ve soaked up all the praise by now? It was only a local race, for God’s sake. Hardly Los Alamitos.”

  Keeping her temper for once, Milly put the paper down. There was a review in the sports section about her performance at Santa Ynez—the journo had described her as a “British cowgirl,” which she secretly thought was incredibly cool. Dylan had pointed it out to her this morning and been lovely and encouraging about it, as he always was. But Summer, equally typically, couldn’t resist having a dig.

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” said Milly. She had long ago given up trying to be nice to Summer. “But I was actually looking at the article on the Ballard Rodeo. Bobby’s entered me for two races there next weekend.”

  Summer yawned pointedly. “Whoop-de-do. The Ballard Rodeo. Big wow.”

  “Well, actually, it is pretty big,” Milly shot back. “There are some top-name competitors entering this year.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” said Summer, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “This is your ticket to the big time all right. Next stop Ruidoso Downs. Hollywood! The world!”

  “Bite me.” Milly picked up the paper again to block her royal bitchiness out. Summer’s hostility was as baffling to her now as it had been the day she first arrived, but she’d given up trying to figure her out. If the girl wanted war, she could have it. After a lifetime of Rachel Delaney, Summer McDonald was a walk in the park.

  “Hey, guys.” Tara, bubbly as ever, bounced into the room bearing a package for Milly. From the beginning she’d refused to be drawn into Milly and Summer’s battles, and she pretended not to notice the tension in the air now. “This came to the office,” sh
e said, handing Milly the parcel. “Looks like it’s from your folks.”

  Brightening, Milly began tearing it open. She felt a bit guilty that she hadn’t called home much, especially with her dad still recuperating and apparently quite weak. But she’d been so caught up in racing and training, she hadn’t felt remotely homesick. Besides, by the time she got done with work it was usually the middle of the night in England and too late to call.

  Whatever it was, it was bloody tightly wrapped. Gnawing at the tape with her teeth, she decided it felt like magazines and hoped it might be the back issues of the Racing Post and Horse & Hound she’d asked Cecil for two weeks ago. But it wasn’t. As the brown paper finally fell away, she saw with disappointment that it was a copy of this month’s Tatler, with a brief note from her mother attached.

  “Mills. Thought you’d like to see this,” it read. “Page 34. Missing you. Though must say Rachel has done a marvelous job taking care of me—feeling quite spoiled! Call soon. Kisses. Mummy.”

  Instantly Milly felt her blood pressure rising. In the first place, why did her mother need to be taken care of? Other people’s mothers didn’t. She could just imagine the “marvelous job” Rachel had been doing in her absence, worming her way into Linda’s affections like the snake that she was. She’d never forget her fake concern the night of Cecil’s stroke and how she’d muscled in on the family.

  Evidently, that night had just been the tip of the iceberg.

  “Good-looking guy,” said Summer, walking over to the sofa and looking over Milly’s shoulder as she flipped gloomily to page thirty-four. “Someone you know? An old boyfriend perhaps?”

  Any crush that wasn’t Bobby was a good crush as far as Summer was concerned.

  “Hardly,” said Milly frostily. “It’s my brother. And that slapper standing behind him”—she jabbed a finger at Rachel, as if she could somehow hurt her through the page—“is his girlfriend. Worse luck.”

  The shot was of Jasper and Rachel at a society hunt ball—her mother’s wet dream, basically. They both looked as smugly attractive as a pair of children’s TV presenters with their straight, gleaming white teeth and revoltingly regular features. The caption underneath read: “British racing’s star couple: Rachel Delaney and Jasper Lockwood Groves dazzle on the dance floor.”