He was a stranger. The white silk turtleneck emphasized his tan, the elegant dark red pongee jacket had been built for him, and the gray pants flared in swinging bells over the darker gray leather boots. I’d seen him in a different outfit every time we’d met this weekend. I wanted to hide, so I held my head up.
“Evening, Nialla. Heard you won’t sell the mare for any price,” he said, eyes dancing.
Dice smelled the chicken and began to make up to Pete, who’d settled himself on an upturned pail.
“When I’ve finished, cat, when I’ve finished,” Pete said, and as Rafe guided me out, I saw Dice obediently sitting down to wait.
Rafe chuckled. “Between that damned lion and Orfeo’s reputation, Pete’s redundant. No, now, don’t start hedging.” He handed me into the car. “It wasn’t a kid who blew that horn. A couple of people saw a seedy guy in a golf cap hanging around cars in that area.”
Caps Galvano!
“Rafe, really. I don’t think I’d better…”
I stopped talking because Rafe Clery leaned toward me, his face blank, his eyes… not angry… clouded.
“That’s why Pete is not redundant, Nialla. You have to eat, and Budnell isn’t on hand till around eight. That’s two hours to stew yourself into a real swivet when you could be packing in a steak. I promise to have you back here. Scout’s honor!”
I nodded, unconvinced. He shrugged and got in.
The Charcoal Grill across from the motel was like many others of the same name all across the country. This one was determinedly picturesque, with wagon wheels and ox yokes, but the management had had the sense to branch out with a bar wing that looked onto an agreeable patio, complete, of course, with the omnipresent charcoal fireplace, white-gowned, mushroom-hatted chef making appropriate passes with a long-handled fork over the broiling beef.
The maitre d’ ushered us immediately, and with deferential cordiality to a corner-window table, although there were a good number of people waiting for seats. That’s the first time thats happened to me. Chalk up another one for Shorty.
It was obvious to me that this place was many cuts above last night’s-real linen, good silver, and the glassware was not restaurant-standard. Judging by the prices of appetizers, the originality was going to be amortized there for many years. A dollar and a quarter for a baked potato?
“Very good potato, grown for this place special. The cows who make the sour cream are bullied night and day. The chives are grown by itty-bitty green men…”
I stared at Rafe before I realized I must have muttered out loud. I giggled, and he gave his head a little shake. “You have the goddamnedest nice giggle.”
“I thought men didn’t like giggling girls.”
“Yours is an uncommon one, dear heart.”
“Hi there, Clery, thought I saw you buzzing around the fair,” said an overhearty voice. I looked up at a man whom I immediately recognized as one of the two I’d heard gossiping.
“Miss Dunn, may I present Jim Field.” Jim Field rested his hands on the back of Rafe’s captain’s chair. Now he stared at me with slightly narrowed eyes, his glance flicking over my dress, my bosom, my left hand.
“Damn fine ride, Miss Dunn. And I want you to know that I don’t believe for an instant that the gelding had been tranquilized. Just your fine riding.”
“Tranquilized?” I was overwhelmed with a white-hot fury.
“Nialla…”
“Oh, no.” And I pushed at the table to make Rafe let me out.
“Nialla!” His voice was still low, but the reprimand was cutting. I was forced to remain seated, seething. “You’re a ring-tailed bastard, Field,” he said very pleasantly, turning his head toward the man but not bothering to look the man in the face.
“What’s this all about?” I demanded, and although I tried to keep my voice down, my rage was being communicated to the people at the next table. “Don’t I have a right to know? He’s my horse!”
“Sorry, Miss Dunn. Thought you’d…”
“You never have thought, Field,” Rafe cut in a flat voice. “Why start now? It’s nice to have seen you.” And he turned away from the man with complete dismissal of his presence.
When Field had drifted off, I leaned across the table. “Tell me, Rafael Clery, who had the-”
“Goddamned bastard,” Rafe muttered, but he looked only mildly annoyed, which inflamed me further. “Sure there was some babble. Too many people remember Orfeo, but it was only idle speculation. Because you damned well can’t tranquilize a horse and have him jump a stiff course so flawlessly.” He put his hand on mine, his eyes dark with sincerity. “Don’t let anger obscure logic, Nialla. Tranquilizers put a horse off his stride, slow his reflexes. By the time Orfeo had completed the first round-you should have seen him in the old bad days charging his fences, wild-eyed, frothing-there was no question in anyone’s mind that he could be drugged. Goddamn Jim Field. Sheer sour grapes. That rangy gray was his. What really shook the audience was your riding Orfeo with a hackamore!” And his grin was malicious, and proud.
The waiter was suddenly at Rafe’s elbow.
“You like shellfish? Two appetizers with the house sauce. Two fillets, one medium, one rare, and I mean rare. Baked potatoes, plenty of butter on the side, green salads. And ask Jack if he put aside that Chateau Mouton Rothschild fifty-nine for me? Cork it now, please. It’ll need to breathe. Don’t rush the steaks.”
“Sure, Mr. Clery.” And the waiter went off, hurriedly scribbling.
“ ‘Sure, Mr. Clery,’“ muttered Mr. Clery, grinning impishly at me, and began to talk of other things with an unforced cheerfulness that was impossible for me to resist.
While he talked, I had to concede that it was ridiculous to fret over snide assumptions. However, I fumed all through the shrimp cocktail, which I really didn’t taste until I was nearly finished.
The wine was presented to Rafe, and he really checked it, label and cork. When the waiter drew the cork and placed it on the table, Rafe picked it up and sniffed it, then nodded to the waiter, who placed the accepted bottle on the table.
“Why does wine need to breathe?” I asked, then wondered if I should display such naivetй. Rafe launched into a gentle lecture with such pleasure in his subject that 1 forgot to be self-conscious.
He knew so much about too many things. It was just as well I would be leaving that night. In two weeks, between this show and the next one I planned to make, I’d get back my perspective on the impossibilities of horses casually passing midstream in the night.
The waiter didn’t rush the steaks, and I forgot the time. The wine was marvelous to sip, and it was so wonderful to be with Rafe. Dessert and coffee were naturally followed by an after-dinner liqueur. So it was long past eight o’clock when we finally rose from the table.
“What does the air remind you of tonight?” Rafe Clery asked as we stepped out into full dark of a cooling summer eve.
I took a deep breath. “Smells like fall. Burning leaves-’’ We both heard the fire sirens, wailing down the road’ the road toward the fairgrounds.
“Goddamnit,” Rafe cried, pointing to the baleful yellow glow above the trees.
It was too bright to be the lights of the town. He and I made for I made for the Austin with single-minded haste, scrambling over the doors. The roadster zoomed out of the parking lot and onto the main road with only inches to spare from the honking Mustang. When Rafe saw stack-up of traffic ahead, he ducked down a side lane that paralleled the wide parking field on the south side of the show grounds. Risking more than he ought with such a low-slung car, he turned the Austin-Healey into the pasture, gunning it up the slope regardless of rocks we both knew littered the field.