'Nervous, Steve?'
'A little… So where the hell've you been?' I looked at my watch. 'It's one-fifteen.'
'Sorry. Fell asleep.'
'In whose bed?'
Marty grinned. 'Wouldn't you like to know.' He yawned and rubbed his face. 'I take it Whitcombe hasn't showed?'
'No. Even if he got past me while I was asleep, he still needs to come in here and pick up his paperwork before he can get his deposit refunded.'
'Think he's gonna show?'
'Who knows,' I said. 'This is the last thing I feel like doing right now.' I looked at Marty. 'Or you, either. Thanks for coming in.'
'Well, I would of felt like shit if Whitcombe planned some pay-back and you were here all by your lonesome.'
'Didn't know you cared.'
'I don't.' Marty dropped down onto the sofa. 'I just don't like guilt.'
'Now, that sounds like the Marty I know-'
'And love?'
'Not on your life,' I said. 'Not in this life. Not in any life.' Marty was still chuckling when I walked over to the soda machine and slotted some coins into the machine. 'I think you're confusing me with Whitcombe. Want a Coke?'
'No, I'd be awake half the night. Speakin' of sex-'
'I thought we were speakin' of love,' I said. 'Or sleep.'
'Whatever. Anyhow, that Rachel's sure cute.' He leaned back against the sagging, worn cushions and hooked his leg over the armrest. 'Maybe she'll wake you up.'
I grinned.
Marty lifted his head off the cushions. 'Well, hallelujah. I was afraid you were gonna turn into a monk or somethin' and be celibate for the rest of your godforsaken life.'
I swallowed some Coke, and we both looked up when a horse van rumbled down the lane past the lounge door.
I lowered the can from my lips. 'Party time.' I grabbed the paperwork off Mrs. Hill's desk.
The van had parked in the pool of light between the barns. As Marty and I approached, Whitcombe hopped down from the cab and turned toward me with a smirk on his face that disappeared when he saw Marty.
Marty worked out every day. Excluding the opposite sex, it was his passion, and I'd often thought that I wouldn't want to find myself on the wrong side of his anger.
The passenger's door opened. Someone got out and walked around the front bumper. He stopped behind Whitcombe, and I thanked my lucky stars I'd had the sense to get reinforcements. He looked like a goon-all muscle, no brain-and he didn't look like a horseman. Light glinted off his bald head, and despite the chilly night air, he was wearing a muscle shirt that showed off his tattooed biceps to best advantage.
'Get the horses for me, Cline,' Whitcombe said.
'Get them yourself.'
Marty snorted, prompting a scowl from Whitcombe and a grin from me. Whitcombe turned and strode into the barn, followed obediently by his friend. I took a swig of Coke. When they finished loading the horses, I handed Whitcombe the forms.
He creased them in half and wedged them into his jacket pocket. 'Unlock the tack room, Cline. I need to get my gear.'
I walked down the barn aisle, sorting one-handed through the keys, and thought how nice it was not having to say Sir to that creep anymore. When I paused to unlock the door, I glanced at Marty. My own personal bodyguard, I saw with amusement, was checking out Whitcombe's friend. Marty winked at me when he saw me looking.
I suppressed a grin and flicked on the lights. Whitcombe and his friend followed me into the room. Before I realized what was happening, his friend closed and locked the door.
Damn.
My bodyguard was on the wrong side of the door, and I doubted he had his key.
Marty yelled and banged on the door.
Whitcombe and friend closed ranks. I backed up until my back was pressed against a row of lockers. They stopped short of bumping into me, and I felt like a damned idiot, standing there with a soda in one hand, keys in the other, and without a useful thought in my head.
Whitcombe leaned in closer. His hot breath stank of beer. 'You caused me to lose a damn good job, you little shit, and I'll get even.'
'You didn't need my help, losing your job,' I said. 'You did it all by yourself.'
His eyes narrowed to slits, and his lower lip looked fatter than ever. 'When you first started here, I thought you were different. But you're just like all the rest. Afraid of anybody who's different than you.'
'No, I'm not.'
'Don't kid yourself. You make me sick.'
He signaled to his friend, and I tensed. Instead of laying into me, he walked across the room and unlocked the door. Marty stood glaring at them with hunched shoulders and clenched fists.
Whitcombe walked over to his locker as if nothing had happened and hauled his stuff out to the van. Marty and I watched in silence until they'd finished loading Whitcombe's tack and had driven away.
'What happened?' Marty said.
'Nothing.'
He frowned at me. 'He say where he's going?'
'Nope,' I said and couldn't help but wonder if he'd be back.
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.
