“I’ve hopes for that youngster,” Rafe said. “Bred him myself. You’ll see his dam later on.”
We drove straight into a wide flagged yard, through an arched passageway into the inner stable yard. On three sides were box stalls; the fourth, pierced by the arch, was broader, and held, I learned, twelve straight stalls for lesser breeds of horse, a hayloft on one side, and the tack room, garages with grooms’ quarters above, on the other.
Everything was fresh paint and sparkle, the yard well raked and concrete hosed down, with a sense of order and prosperity that ought to soothe but suddenly distressed me.
I had no time to wonder why I was upset. This was the kind of stable, barring a slight difference in style, in which I’d grown up in Lexington. I ought to be reassured. But Rafe had swung out of the car, and Dice was anxious to leave too. I just got the door closed in time to keep him in. Somewhere dogs barked fiercely.
As we let down the ramp of the trailer, a bowlegged man in the tightest pants I’ve ever seen on an adult, male of fifty came rocking through the arch. He was clean-shaven, and his gray hair bristled from his scalp in a month-old crew-cut, but he looked permanently stained. He gave Rafe a dour nod, looked through me, but his face lit up when he saw Rafe backing out Phi Bete. He hurried to take the lead, stroking the mare’s nose and crooning to her lovingly as only a misogynistic horseman can. Her restless prancing ceased, and she snorted at him, butting his shoulder, twisting her neck for his flat-handed caresses. Shameless hussy.
“A beauty, a beauty! Where’d you steal her, boy?”
“She’s my wife’s. Out of Smart Set by Professor D.”
The hostler was impressed, but he still hadn’t acknowledged my existence. Rafe took me by the arm and led me right up to him.
“Albert, this is Nialla Donnelly Clery. We were married today.”
“Meetcha, ma’am…” he mumbled, touching his forehead with a purple-gentian-stained finger of a badly scarred hand. Some horse had teethed on him, from the look of it. Then he did a double-take, and his watery brown eyes gave me. a keen raking. “No relation to Russ Donnelly?”
“His daughter,” said Rafe with almost as much pride as he’d announced Phi Bete’s lineage. He shot me a wicked sidelong glance that intimated I must respond suitably.
“Pleased ta meetcha, ma’am.” And he was. Then he turned to Rafe. “Good blood. Good bones. She ride?”
Rafe’s smile was pure malice as he turned toward the sheeted rump from which Orfeo’s full tail emerged.
“You’d better do the honors, Nialla.” He motioned Albert to move aside as I backed Orfeo carefully down the ramp.
“Juggernaut?” The old man’s eyes widened, and the hand that had been stroking Phi Bete’s nose was motionless.
“Orfeo is what Nialla calls him, and she jumped him two rounds without a fault on those nightmares Sunbury assembled for the trophy this year.”
Albert was not to back down from his position. He gave a grunt. “ ‘S what I’d expect of any foal of Donnelly’s. Put the mare in six?” he asked, turning to lead Phi Bete toward the east side of the stable.
“Yes, and we’ll put Orfeo in seven.”
“I moved the gray like Jerry said I should,” Albert mumbled as he stumped off.
Rafe was feeling Orfeo’s legs with a practiced hand. He tipped up the injured hoof and inspected the frog.
“I’ll give MacNeil a call. We’ll have him fixed up in next to no time, Nialla.”
We watered and stabled Orfeo in a huge corner box, knee-deep in clean straw, the hay basket heaped lightly with fresh timothy.
“Now, about that lion of yours,” Rafe said as we viewed Orfeo over the lower hatch of the_ stall door. “There’s half a dozen beagle hounds, a few barn cats,:and the guard dogs. Each is jealous and insists on his. territorial prerogatives.”
“Guard dogs?”
There was a muscle twitch in the corner of Rafe’s mouth, and no amusement in his eyes.
“Against unauthorized entry,” he said succinctly. “I’ll introduce you to the dogs later. They’re out at night, but they won’t bother anyone to whom they’ve been properly introduced.” He placed his hand on the flat of my back, pushing me toward a break in the hitching rail that ran the three sides, under the roof’s overhang.
Dice was quite glad to be released from durance vile and made a low-haunched run around the yard, stopping to sniff at selected spots. Then he headed straight for Phi Bete’s stall, jumped to the top of the open hatch, teetered, landed on the ground, and trotted to Orfeo’s. He angled his rear legs and leaped up and over. I had to giggle at his muffled “yowie” of surprise. He’d’ve been submerged in the straw. I heard Orfeo whicker.
“Not that I wouldn’t bet on Dice against any animal in the place.”
“Boss, whatin’ell was that just now?” Albert demanded, appearing at Phi Bete’s door.
“Mrs. Clery’s coon cat. He stays with the gelding.”
“Goddamnedest thing I ever saw,” Albert muttered, and turned back into the dimness of the stall.
“Dice’s not aggressive.”
“He doesn’t need to be,” Rafe said with a snort.
He pulled the ramp up, telling me this’d take only a minute, but could I open the second garage door from the end. He backed the trailer into its slot with the ease of long practice, and I know how easy that maneuver is not. He unhitched the tow bar and motioned me to get into the car.
“Albert has obviously fallen in love with Phi Bete, and if Dice takes care of the gelding, they’ll feel at home by morning.”
When we rolled out of the stable yard, Rafe turned right, up a short drive flanked by heavy rhododendron and myrtle plantings, edged with ivy. Slightly hidden by three massive copper beeches was a hip-roofed, dusty-gray-shingled house, looking settled and pleased with itself. And welcoming.
The double-hatched front door was green and welcoming, too. With strap hinges of a trefoil pattern. Before I could take the first step from the car, Rafe swooped me up into his arms and carried me up the short flight to the porch. How he managed the door, I don’t know, but it pushed in.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Clery,” he said in a low voice, his eyes dark with feeling. I buried my face against his neck, against the pounding of his pulse. He let me slowly to my feet, his hands pressing me against him. “Never was able to do that before. Always married Amazons.” Then his hands tightened on my shoulders. “None of them wanted to live here, Nialla. None of them ever came here. You belong here… with me.”
There was an aching hunger in his kiss that effectively erased all thought of my predecessors. He broke the embrace abruptly, standing away and turning me toward the big living room, which ran across the entire front of the house, leading into a dining ell. It was a fireplace-leather-chintz room, with two huge soft Persian rugs. A dignified grandfather clock presided by the staircase opposite the door, by the cloak closet. I suspect there had been alterations on the original floor plan, because the house looked like the front-parlor type. It would likely have a huge kitchen, where most of the living had been done until recently, for the house was old, with broad-planked floors. And while it was not exactly the type of house I’d’ve thought Rafe would live in, it was exactly right for him now that I saw him here. It reflected tried comfort and taste, scrupulously clean and shining. Rafe Clery might affect “mod” sartorial elegance, but he demanded warm serenity, not modern sterility or passing fancy, in his home.