The fact that Milly had never bothered to think of herself as being in competition with Rachel—that she rode for the sheer love of it and nothing else—only infuriated Rachel more. To her, Milly’s obliviousness of her rage was an insult. By the time of Milly’s accident, her hatred ran so deep that she could no more let it go than stop breathing. Milly was, and always would be, the enemy.
“Oh look, Daddy, here he comes,” she squealed as Easy made his stately entrance into the breeding shed. One of the things that Milly hated most about Rachel was her voice: a contrived, high-pitched, little-girlish squeak that made her sound as if she’d been inhaling helium balloons. Men, needless to say, all seemed to adore it.
“Good heavens, he’s no spring chicken, is he? How old is that horse now?”
“He’s fifteen, and he’s in terrific condition,” bridled Milly. Cecil shot her an early warning glance, but she ignored him. “His sperm are all Olympic swimmers too, aren’t they, boy?” she couldn’t resist adding.
“Oh, hello, Milly,” said Rachel in the tone of a duchess acknowledging the presence of a new underhousemaid. “I didn’t see you there. Have you come to have a look at my mare? Isn’t she a beauty?”
My mare? Give me a fucking break, thought Milly.
“She’s a doll,” said Jasper, oozing forward to kiss Rachel on both cheeks. “You must be thrilled with her.”
“I am. She was a present from Daddy.” Rachel beamed.
Of course she was, thought Milly bitterly. Sir Michael Delaney was a lovely man, but he had a complete blind spot when it came to his daughter. Whatever small success Rachel had enjoyed as a junior jockey, she owed almost entirely to the fact that her father had poured millions into getting her not just the very best horses but state-of-the-art training facilities, trailers, and equipment way beyond anything that other riders at her level could afford.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Sir Michael,” she said, pointedly ignoring Rachel, “how come you never raced her?”
“Do you know, Milly, I can’t quite put my finger on it,” he said, rubbing his spreading paunch thoughtfully. “She had a bit of lameness right after I bought her in Kentucky. The vets thought they had it under control, but I always felt she wasn’t quite right. I suppose I just didn’t want to risk her.”
Milly wondered again how on earth such a decent, unassuming man could have produced such a monster of a daughter. Not many owners would drop a million on a racehorse and then “not risk” running her. Clearly Rachel’s father had a genuine affection for his animals.
“It was always my intention to breed her,” chipped in Rachel self-importantly. “Wasn’t it, Daddy?”
Silly cow. Who did she think she was, John bloody Magnier?
“Right,” said Cecil, sensing the rising tension between the two girls. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
Easy, his nostrils flared and eyes rolling with desire, intoxicated by the mare’s smell, was shoved unceremoniously forward by Pablo. Letting out an almighty bellow, he reared up and came down on Bethlehem Star’s back. Davey had rushed forward at exactly the right moment and grabbed the base of the stallion’s penis, guiding him firmly into her and helping to hold him in place until the deed was done, which it was within about twenty seconds.
Fifty thousand pounds for twenty seconds of action, thought Milly. Nice work if you could get it.
Even she had to admit that the mare had behaved beautifully. No kicking, no bolting, nothing. The Dormosedan seemed to have worked wonders. For a moment she felt another, sudden stab of envy at the thought that this beautiful horse, and soon her foal too, would belong to Rachel. Sometimes it felt as though the girl had been put on this earth to torment her.
“Will we see you at Epsom on the fourth?”
To her horror, Milly saw that Rachel was not only addressing this question to Jasper but gazing up at him coquettishly and flicking back her long blond hair in an unmistakable gesture of flirtation as she did so.
Oh please, please God, no. Don’t let him fall for her!
Until recently, Rachel had been on the junior circuit, so her path and Jasper’s had rarely crossed. But whereas Milly’s brother took six long years to ride out his claim, Rachel’s apprenticeship was a “blink-and-you’ll-miss-it” affair. Now she’d turned eighteen she’d already started to get entered in some of the same events as him. As far as Milly knew they were nothing more than acquaintances. But now the hideous prospect dawned that perhaps there could be more to their relationship.
“Absolutely.” He smiled. “I’m confirmed for the Oaks actually. Wasn’t sure if you knew that.”
Milly felt her insides churning as she saw her brother’s hand slip over Rachel’s white, jodhpur-clad bottom and give it a highly visible squeeze.
“I didn’t know that.” She sounded suitably impressed. “How exciting. You must be thrilled for him,” she added vindictively to Milly, knowing full well how miserably envious she must be.
Epsom, in fact, had become a huge sore point in the Lockwood Groves household for more reasons than one. Not only had Jasper, by some miracle, been picked to ride in the Oaks—Marcus O’Reilly, an up-and-coming Irish owner and one of Cecil’s clients, had lost his first choice of jockey to injury after a fall in the 1,000 Guineas and had persuaded his reluctant trainer to give Jasper a shot on his gorgeous three-year-old filly, Marigold Kiss—but Milly was being forced to miss the event altogether. June 4th was the night of her dreaded debs’ ball and Linda had insisted she spend the whole day in London “preparing.”
“Milly won’t be there on the day,” said Jasper, deliberately rubbing his sister’s nose in it. “But it would mean so much to me to know that you were there, Rachel, cheering me on.”
“Of course I’ll be there!” There was that voice again, like a speeded-up record. Just listening to it made Milly’s hands twitch. She found herself wishing she had a pillow at hand. Surely no one could blame her if she smothered the shit-stirring little witch?
“But do tell, Milly. What are you up to on the fourth?” She couldn’t have sounded more patronizing if she’d tried. “One of your little plays, is it?”
“No, actually,” said Cecil, apparently unaware that Rachel was goading her, “Milly’s going to her coming-out ball.”
Milly’s heart sank. Why, oh why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut? Just for once.
“Are you, Milly?” Rachel giggled. If her voice got any higher, she’d be audible only to bats. “How sweet. You must get your mother to take some lovely pictures. I can’t imagine you in a coming-out dress though, can you, Daddy?”
“Hmm? Er, no, I suppose not.” Sir Michael’s gaze was still glued to his mare and he wasn’t really listening.
“She’s going to look an absolute knockout.” Cecil beamed, wrapping a proud, paternal arm around his scowling daughter.
“I’m sure she is,” said Rachel, looking triumphant. “And I’m sure Jasper’s going to do us all proud in the Oaks.”
Another hand squeeze. Milly thought she might be sick.
Both Cecil and Sir Michael were completely oblivious to the little tableau being played out in front of them. But Nancy, who had seen it all, smiled at Milly in silent sympathy.
Poor kid. As if her life weren’t bad enough already.
She was dreading that ball and absolutely gutted about missing the Oaks, even if it was her poisonous brother who got to race there and not her. But Rachel and Jasper getting it together? Now that really would be adding insult to injury.
CHAPTER THREE
“Can I get you something, sir? A drink?”
The oversolicitous French stewardess cocked her head slightly, her long ponytail swishing behind her as she did so, and smiled down at Bobby. She was a pretty girl, but tonight he barely registered her presence, let alone her looks.
“Coffee,” he said. He had so much to think about before he got home tomorrow, he needed to stay awake. “Please,” he added as an afterthought.
It was
only a few hours since Pascal had told him about Hank’s death, and it still hadn’t really sunk in. He’d barely had time to get rid of Chantal and throw his stuff into a bag before the helicopter had shown up to take him to Nice. All noise and fury, blades whirring, the chopper had frightened the horses. His last image of the farm was of their anxious whinnying and circling in the paddocks below him, their ears flattened in protest. He’d looked around for Mirage, but she had sensibly chosen to stay in the barn. She was a smart horse, that one. He felt bad leaving her with the irascible Henri, but it couldn’t be helped.
Now he was on the late flight to London. It was too late to catch a direct flight to California. He’d have to lay over at Heathrow and catch the first plane out to LA in the morning. Normally he hated layovers, but this time he was happy for the delay. He needed more time to get his head together.
His dad’s death had not been totally unexpected. Already sixty when his only son was born, he was now in his eighties and his heart had been playing him up for a while. Even so, Hank Cameron was one of those men who you could never quite imagine not being there. One of the last of California’s old-school cowboys, he had been as much a part of the landscape in the Santa Ynez valley as the vineyards and the lush, rolling hills. For as long as Bobby had known him, the two of them had clashed like fire and water. But still, his father had always been the walking embodiment of the expression “larger than life.” Somehow it was a shock to discover that he hadn’t been larger than death as well.
And now he, Bobby, was expected to fill Hank’s shoes, a thought that made his already aching head start pounding even harder every time it dawned on him. He was to inherit Highwood in its entirety—“free and clear” as Hank used to say, although in reality the Cameron estate was neither of those things. Although Bobby didn’t know all the details, he knew that the ranch had struggled to break even for years and that his father had been forced to borrow a chunk of money against the value of the land. If Hank wasn’t broke he must have been pretty close to it.
The irony was that, on paper, he had been a very rich man. The Highwood land was worth a not-so-small fortune, ever since Hank’s father, Toby Cameron, had discovered a rich vein of oil on the property back in the twenties.
Developers and mining companies had swarmed to Santa Barbara County back then, offering Toby what was at the time an obscene amount of money to sell. But he hadn’t been interested.
“I’m a cowboy. And this here is cowboy land. Always has been. Always will be,” he’d told them.
Bobby must have heard that story from his own father more than a thousand times. It was a mantra he’d grown up with as a small boy, and he’d always imagined that one day, he’d say those same words to his own son: “This is cowboy land. Always will be.”
Carrying on the family tradition.
Making his father proud.
Unfortunately, holding fast to their principles and preserving the Old West way of life had cost the Camerons dear. With profits from the cattle business falling, they had badly needed to diversify. Many local ranches were turning to tourism to boost their incomes, some very successfully. They charged astronomical sums to take wealthy LA businessmen riding through the valleys, teaching them how to ride like cowboys. Some of these so-called dude ranches were more gimmicky than others, offering lassoing classes, even yodeling. But Hank wouldn’t hear of it.
“Turn Highwood into some goddamn Disney theme park? Over my dead body,” he would rage at anyone foolish enough to suggest he open to the public. “This life is our heritage, our history. It’s what this great nation was built on. And you want me to exploit that?”
It still made Bobby laugh when he met people who assumed he must be mega-rich and living some kind of millionaire lifestyle.
“You’re Hank Cameron’s son? The guy that owns the Highwood ranch? Jeez, man, you must be rollin’ in it. Isn’t that, like, the most valuable land in California or somethin’?”
They refused to believe that he had never owned a new car. That as a kid he hadn’t gone to a private school or spent his summer vacations in Hawaii. Even as an adult he had never flown anything other than coach (unless, like today, a rich owner like Bremeau was picking up the tab). True, in the last two years he’d started making good money as a horse trainer on the international circuit. But he still poured every last cent of his earnings back into Highwood’s beleaguered coffers.
He might be officially rich, now that Highwood was finally his. But the reality was he was also desperately strapped for cash.
Pressing his forehead against the cool plastic of the plane window, he strained to make out any shapes or shadows in the darkness outside, but there wasn’t so much as a star to help orient him in the blackness. It would be two in the morning back home. He wondered if Wyatt and Dylan and the rest of the ranch hands would be asleep. Or if they too were lying awake, their minds racing, trying to imagine a world—their world—without Hank Cameron in it.
“Your coffee, sir.”
The girl was back. She handed him a cup of what looked and smelled like liquid mud. In first class, he reflected, the mud came in a china cup, but it was still mud. He grimaced as he took a gulp. At least it was strong.
“Thanks,” he said, rolling back his broad shoulders to try to release the stiffness in his muscles. He was deathly tired, but it didn’t seem right to go to sleep. That would be like letting the sun set on Hank’s death. That would make it real.
And he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
Dylan McDonald gave his pony a perfunctory pat on the neck and tied his lead rope loosely to the stake in front of the house. Making sure the horse could reach the water trough but didn’t have enough rope to make it to his mother’s petunia bed, he pulled off his hat and began walking up to the porch.
“Oh, Dyl, there you are.” His sister Summer, known as “Summer lovin’” to the local boys because she was so good-looking, all long tanned legs and white-blond California hair, was waving at him from across the yard. Dressed in her favorite pair of green Gap shorts and a T-shirt, she had a big pile of books under one arm and a half-eaten bagel in her free hand, obviously off to the library for another day of studying. Summer was the brains of the family. She’d been working like a demon all summer in preparation for her SATs in the fall, and was determined to score high enough to get into Berkeley next year.
“Dad’s been looking for you,” she said. “I think he wants you to go to the airport later and pick up Bobby.”
“Cool,” said Dylan. “Where is he?”
“In the kitchen, I think.” Clambering up into her ancient pickup, she hurled her books on top of a pile of broken bridles on the passenger seat. “He and Mom have been talking about the funeral all morning. It’s depressing.”
The McDonald kids—Dylan and his two sisters, Tara and Summer—had all been born at Highwood and had lived on the ranch their whole lives. Their father, Wyatt, was ranch manager and had been Hank Cameron’s right-hand man for more than forty years. Wyatt was also the closest thing Hank had ever had to a friend, although the largely silent, symbiotic relationship between the two men was more complicated than simple friendship. Hank had relied on Wyatt and trusted him. Wyatt, in turn, had offered his boss the sort of unswerving, unquestioning loyalty that was part and parcel of the culture at Highwood.
Both were hardworking, honest men. But while Wyatt was devoted to his wife, Maggie, and their children and led a full social life in the local community—sitting on church and school committees, acting as treasurer for the sports fishing club and the like—Hank was taciturn and withdrawn to the point of being reclusive. Truth be told, he had been a difficult man to know and an even harder one to like.
But Wyatt had understood him, and his kids had been used to Hank’s taciturn, broody presence at the periphery of their lives since babyhood. Neither Dylan nor Summer could pretend to feel real grief at his passing, but that didn’t stop them worrying about their dad. Wyatt had been with the old man yesterday
when he died, holding his hand in death just as surely and steadfastly as he always had in life.
Dylan was sure his dad must have been hit hard by the boss’s death. But Wyatt was not a great shower of feelings, and so far his response to what had happened had been characteristically practical. Within an hour, he’d been on the phone to the local undertaker in Solvang and sent word to both Bobby and to his mother down in Santa Barbara with the sad news. This morning, instead of riding out with Dylan at dawn as he usually did to move the herd to the lower pastures, he had stayed home with Maggie drawing up a to-do list in preparation for the funeral, which was tentatively scheduled for next Tuesday.
Walking into the kitchen, Dylan found both his parents at the table, surrounded by a sea of Post-it notes and with the phone book open beside them.
“Hey.” Maggie McDonald beamed at her only son as he walked over and kissed her. With his strong legs, slightly bowed from so much riding; his mop of dark curls; and his honest, rugged, slightly sunburned face, Dylan wasn’t classically handsome like Bobby. At five foot nine he was a little on the short side, with a wide neck and stocky torso that gave him the look of a young bull. But there was such a playfulness and warmth in his eyes that even the faults in his features—his broken nose, his top lip so thin it disappeared into nothing whenever he smiled—somehow seemed to work. Maggie was biased, of course. But no one could deny he was a fine figure of a boy and that he had grown up to be every inch the seasoned rancher, on the outside anyway.
Inside, his mother knew, it was a different story. Dylan had always struggled with the cowboy life. While his sisters were free to go off to college and would eventually marry and move away from the valley, he had no such freedom. His destiny was already mapped out: He was expected to take over from his father one day and to make his life at Highwood. Turning his back on that heritage would break Wyatt’s heart. It simply wasn’t an option.