“Right next to each other, just outside the back door.”
“I parked two blocks away thinking—”
“No need to think right now,” he said, putting down his champagne, taking her hand, and pulling her toward him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you’d like me to do to you?” he asked. “I’ve been hard as a rock since I saw that incredibly sexy bra and panties.”
Chapter Three
HOLLY
But being bold doesn’t mean there won’t be risk—strap on that helmet.
—“How I Lied about My Name and Discovered My Truth,” a TED Talk by Jon M. Wright
Appearances were important, which was why Holly never went riding in jeans and an old T-shirt but always put on riding pants, boots, a formfitting jacket, and a helmet. Yes, she knew that made her a caricature to her neighbors and even her kids—Barrington Hills Horse Lady—but she had a bigger agenda than impressing the local dunderheads or her own easily embarrassed children. The horses she rode needed all the positive PR they could get.
As luck would have it, this morning offered its own reminder of why she did what she did. After a raw, unseasonably cold handful of days, the sun had come out, the air had warmed and stilled, and early October was showing its kinder side. Holly supposed they might be in for a spell of what she was sure they were no longer allowed to call Indian summer. Shortly after dawn, while Jack was still in bed and Galenia was cooking breakfast and packing lunches for Ava, Logan, and Paige, Holly had stolen out to the stable, saddled her blaze-faced bay, Wags—named for his twitchy tail—and cantered around the pasture a few times before deciding on a slightly longer ride.
They were clopping alongside the all-but-empty road when they were both startled by the nearly silent passing of Theresa Yadao’s silver Tesla. Wags spooked, crow-hopping and nearly throwing Holly, who even as she fought to keep him under control still saw Theresa shaking her head, her eyes invisible behind huge black sunglasses.
Reining Wags in, Holly patted his neck and cooed to him as the Tesla glided away like some sinister hovercraft. Then, without thinking, she gave her horse a gentle nudge with her heels, flicked the reins, and shouted, “Hah!” as she galloped off in pursuit.
Like a dog chasing a car, Holly had no idea what she’d do if she actually caught Theresa. But the entitled bitch had scared her horse, and Holly was pissed off. Maybe she wanted to give Theresa a scare, too—or at least a piece of her mind.
She almost caught the car, but Theresa saw them coming in her side-view mirror, and instead of slowing at the stop sign, she sped up, rolled through it, and turned left, her car disappearing into the gently rolling hills. No doubt on a coffee run. Maybe an early yoga class. The adrenaline still surging in her veins, Holly imagined riding into town, tying Wags to a parking meter as if she were in some western, and slapping the Frappuccino out of her enemy’s hand. Better yet, slapping her.
But no. Of course not. Holly slowed again and turned the opposite direction. Ironically, if she’d been able to use the bridle path she and Theresa were warring over, she wouldn’t have been near the road at all. Theresa and her husband, Larry, had bought a sprawling colonial on ten acres of prime pasture—but the only animals to use that grass were two massive, shaggy Bernese mountain dogs who barked at cars and horses and left massive piles of poop that were never picked up. The Yadaos, upon learning the previous owners had granted the village an easement at the back of their property for a planned bridle path extension, had tried to reverse that decision, citing their need for privacy and decrying what they viewed as an ironically socialist land grab by a few wealthy elites.
Never mind the fact that they were all wealthy elites—why else would they live where they did?—this left Holly with a larger question: Why move to horse country if you hated horses?
Holly and Jack had moved here specifically for Holly’s horses, so she wouldn’t have to commute out of the city every day just to ride and care for them. And her horses needed love more than most: before she found them, they were castoffs, unwanteds, candidates for rendering or zoo meat. She’d never understood the obsession with Arabians and Thoroughbreds when there were so many beautiful, unloved animals just waiting for a patient owner to bring them back to full health and fitness.
Besides Wags, she had Alderman, a formerly obese quarter horse who was finally shedding the gut acquired by years of poor diet and neglect. There was Royal, her underfed paint, who still wouldn’t let anyone ride her. Silk Purse and Sow’s Ear were two quarter horses she’d rescued from a situation of extreme neglect downstate—Holly still shuddered when she pictured the owner’s home, which had been even more disgusting than the confined horses’ stalls. And Mini-Me, her miniature, had formerly been owned by a family under the misapprehension that it was a house pet, not an actual horse. (Although, truth be told, Mini-Me did live in the backyard, not with the rest of the horses.) Easy Rider, a Tennessee walker, was her only horse who’d never faced adversity, but she had always thought it wise to have a mount for guests—and her husband.
Jack was not a horse person but joked to their friends that he was a “Holly person,” and over the course of their marriage had not only tolerated but encouraged her lifelong passion, from their move to what passed for the country in Greater Chicagoland to his significant financial support of her charity, Horse Stability, which last year had raised more than $400,000 to support horse rescue and adoption. Holly had long hosted school groups so kids could meet the horses and take brief rides on the gentlest ones,
