“You bet. What was the Sunbury man giving him by way of tranquilizers and medication? And, by the way, put the quietus on any brush or refuse fires for a bit. We don’t need to stir up unpleasant memories in this boy, do we?”
The two men exchanged a glance of past experience which I knew neither would explain to me. I’d seen my father look that way at another man-a closed, men-only, questions-unsolicited look.
The vet gave Orfeo a thorough check, grunting occasionally as the horse submitted without resistance. He was shaking his head as he signaled us out of the stall.
“I know it’s the same horse, Mrs. Clery, but I’d swear it wasn’t.” Then he snorted, rather like a restive horse himself, as he eyed Rafe’s arm around my waist. “Seems your soothing influence extends to more than horses and cats!” His perpetual frown lifted in another of his beamish grins. “You brought him two horses?” he asked pointedly.
Rafe laughed and gestured toward Phi Bete’s stall. She, coquette that she is, put her head out and farruped at her visitors. She looked inordinately pleased with herself, her hide shining like dark amber, her eyes rolling as she tossed her head against MacNeil’s caress. “Fine mare. Fine girl! Going to breed her?”
“Not with that crowbait stallion of yours, Mac,” Rafe replied.
“I was talking to your wife, Clery. She’s got a mind of her own as well as an eye for horseflesh.”
“I bred her myself, but I want to jump her for a while.” I glanced at Rafe, not really sure what my plans were for Phi Bete.
“Don’t mind him, Mrs. Clery, he’s just miffed because I bought Galliard right out from under his nose at an auction. What’s her blood?”
“Professor D out of Smart Set.”
“Say, you know Marchmount’s been staying at the big house. You aren’t going back to jockeying to give him a hand, are you? Seems his colors haven’t been doing so well lately.”
“I’m out of racing.”
“Except steeple racing,” MacNeil said in a sour tone of disapproval. “Well, I’ll send over some more tranquilizers for the black.” And he left.
“You’d like to steeplechase Orfeo?”
“The notion has certainly entered my mind since I won your hand in marriage, ma’am.” And Rafe’s accent was pure Kaintuck. “That is, if you really need an ulterior motive or two.” His eyes dared me to challenge him.
“Boss?” Jerry leaned out of a nearby box stall. “You going to ride the bay?”
Rafe gave me a squeeze. “Your turn to watch me work… and marvel.”
He gave the bay gelding a bruising workout in the jump ring, the big animal fighting him at every jump approach, standing his jumps occasionally in an effort to-thwart Rafe. Jerry and the two boys drifted to the ringside and off again, watching the fray, Jerry occasionally using body English along with Rafe’s efforts to curb the bay’s tendency to run out of the jump. (The gelding had a particular dislike for the brush fences.) The young Dennis blew only two bubbles on his gum, and then forgot to chew as he watched, and the other boy never dragged on the cigarette he was smoking. For when Rafe said he was a horseman, he had every right to capitalize the H. He was. The bay jumper stood seventeen hands in the shoulder or I’d lost my ability to judge; the gelding was nearly as broad in the chest as Orfeo, and certainly as well sprung, but the bay was rebellious. If he’d been Rafe’s previous candidate for any steeple chasing, no wonder the man had hesitated. You couldn’t expect to win on a horse that fought every direction of hand or knee; you needed one that would swerve pile-ups, take off-center jumps without shenanigans about when or how. Though the bay obviously had bottom enough for the arduous jump racing. No, Orfeo was the horse for Rafe. With my blessing now I’d seen him handle the bay. In spite of the amount of frustration, Rafe had rarely used his spurs, relying more on the crack of his riding bat to dissuade the gelding’s notions. His hands on the bridle were firm, not rough, and despite the swearing phrases in which he addressed the horse, there was no hint of anger or impatience; sound but no fury.
Both horse and rider were wringing wet at the end of the session, but I felt better. Rafe had no sooner given the lathered bay to Jerry to walk than a gong sounded mellowly from the direction of the house.
“Good, I’m starved. Damned gelding pulls like a dredger,” he added, slapping the flank of the bay in a “well-done.” “We’ve time to shower. That was the warning gong. I hate to sit down sweaty if I’m not riding again, and we’re going shopping this afternoon.”
Actually we showered together, which was a unique experience for me, Rafe barking like a seal and making like a porpoise. I’d never thought showering could be sexy, too. Then he suddenly “turned off’ and began kneading the muscles along my shoulders. With a slap on my fanny, he pushed me toward my clothes and strode off to get dressed.
I wondered how he’d learned to departmentalize the various facets of his personality. It must be a gift. Would I ever learn every side of the man? Much less know the appropriate response to each of his moods. Please God I never hear him address me as he had his mother… his mother? It must be his stepmother. I naturally dressed in green, a sheath that unfortunately showed the splotchy burns, but I couldn’t stand anything over the ones that had opened during the morning.
Rafe came out of the dressing room, his heavy hair still shining wetly, but neatly combed and parted. He had on another of his elegant pairs of pants and an electric-blue Italian knit pullover which enhanced his tan as well as his eyes. He looked disgustingly vigorous considering his exertions.
He tucked my arm under his. It had come to my notice that Rafe always kept in touch with me. And he wasn’t being possessive, exactly. Hadn’t one of the therapy groups stressed the point that tactile communications were as important as verbal ones? I’d rather thought we’d established communication on several levels rather satisfactorily. The habit, however, was nice, a sort of “Hey, here I am!”
Succulent aromas dominated the hot-water/soap/clean-clothes odors in the room, and I felt downright starved. We were halfway down the stairs when the second gong rang.
Mrs. Garrison served us a tasty casserole of vegetables and sausages, hearty food for hard-working people, with a salad and a lemon meringue pie that stood six inches from the pan. Peanut butter and jelly, fare thee well! We talked of horses and MacNeil, of how to school Maisie, and we decided I’d ride her next, as horses” respond differently to each rider. I told Rafe I’d like him to exercise Phi Bete. I didn’t want to make her a one-rider horse.
We took off for the shopping tour in the Austin-Healey. The stores were grouped around the railway-station plaza in Locust Valley, which was not much of a town-actually a village, in the way western settlements never are. The architecture was consistent, just missing the cutesy, and the merchandise appropriately priced for the clientele-high. So were the antique stores and the specialty shops. Unused to being able to buy something that wasn’t absolutely essential, it took Rafe’s good-natured prodding, and sometimes high-handed manner, to get me to make up my mind. And then he’d add the gaudy sandals I’d hesitated over or the medallioned belt I’d fingered. The Austin-Healey’s back was jammed with packages by the time we’d finished. I had not only the underclothes I’d really needed, but five nightgowns and three wild muu-muus (for “schlepping around in”-Rafe had grinned lewdly), enough sandals and shoes for a different pair every day, four bathing suits (no caps, because Rafe didn’t care if my hair got into his pool’s filters). I didn’t remember seeing a pool, but I also didn’t cavil. Wonderful what unlimited funds will do to a gal’s notions of shopping. There were five shirtwaist dresses, Villager and Norwich-Rafe said they suited the country image of me.