The Fake Husband. Lynnette Kent
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at him.
“Thanks.” Rhys decided to push her a little. “You didn’t answer my question, you know.”
“What question?”
“Why didn’t you get in touch when you left?”
“I—” For a moment, she looked cornered. “You know why. He’s mucking out stalls while we’re talking.”
The old anger grabbed him. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”
“What was the point? You were going back to your wife. I needed to clear out fast.” Her deep breath shook. “And now I’m going back to my own life. Thanks for the business. William Innes is a good farrier, next time you need somebody.” She cranked the engine, put the truck in gear and drove away—once again—without saying goodbye.
Rhys held up his receipt. “Oh, no, my dear. I’ve got a farrier already, by the name of Ms. Jacqueline Lennon.” He glanced at the paper, then did a double take. The sheet read “Ladysmith Farrier Service, Jacquie Archer, Farrier.”
“Archer? Archer? Just what the hell,” he demanded aloud, staring at the black truck now leaving his property, “does that mean?”
SINCE HIS FALL during a competition in New Zealand last November, one chore Andrew’s dad didn’t do was cleaning stalls. Most mornings, Andrew got that task all to himself, though occasionally Terry helped. Like today.
“So they knew each other before?” he asked the trainer, when he was sure his dad had gone into the house. “She was a student?”
“Yeah.” Terry dumped a forkful of dirty shavings into the bin. “One of the best he’s had. She was Olympic material if I’ve ever seen it.”
“What happened?”
“Not for me to say.” Terry pitched another load and then glared at Andrew. “And I wouldn’t ask, if I were you, boyo, unless you relish getting your nose snapped off and your ears singed.”
The old man cast a glance at the three stalls he’d cleaned to Andrew’s one. “Guess you’ve got work to do.” Hanging up his fork, he stomped out of the barn toward the house.
Andrew gave him—no, both of them—the finger while they weren’t looking, then turned back to finish Imperator’s stall. When didn’t he get yelled at around here? Whatever went wrong came down on him, like crap flowing downhill.
Privileges, now, those he had to steal. Yesterday, Terry and his dad had ridden Abner and Lucretia back to the highway to fetch the truck and trailer, leaving Andrew to keep an eye on the place. He’d kept an eye out, all right—just long enough to be sure they got out of sight. Then he’d saddled Imperator and gone for a ride.
The lady farrier was right—being on the big stallion was the absolute best. One side of Fairfield Farm bordered a horse preserve with miles of trails and acres of open ground for riding. Andrew intended to take Imp there one day soon, but to begin with he’d stayed in the pastures behind the barn, knowing his dad would literally kill him if he let Imp get even slightly injured. The horse was as crazy for freedom as Andrew, and enjoyed every second of their stolen gallop. By the time the truck and trailer pulled in at the gate, Imperator was cool and calm and back in his paddock with no evidence to suggest he’d ever been anywhere else.
Today they wouldn’t get such a break. All Andrew could do today was his job—finish the stalls, empty, clean and refill all the water buckets, and sweep the cobbled hallway of the stable. Finally certain that nobody could yell at him for something he hadn’t done—unlike yesterday, when his dad had blown up over the dirty buckets—he went to sit on the fence of the paddock where Imperator waited.
The stallion came over to investigate Andrew’s down vest and pants and shoes. “No fun today, Imp.” He combed his fingers through the thick mane. “Maybe I can sneak out tonight, after bedtime.”
But the weather had warmed up and the snow was melting—how insane was that, in January? Wet, soft ground with patches of snow and ice would make riding in the dark too dangerous. He put his forehead against the horse’s neck. “Or maybe not.”
All he wanted—in fact, all he’d asked for as a Christmas present—was to ride this horse in practice every day. He put up with his dad’s impossible demands and Terry’s grouchy moods, was willing to take lessons and submit to training like a beginning rider, though he’d been on horseback practically since the day he was born—the birthday he shared with the fantastic horse. Whatever his dad and Terry required, Andrew would agree to, if he could just make Imperator his horse.
A door slammed at the house. Imp startled and hopped away, leaving Andrew no choice but to fall forward, off the fence. He landed on his feet and was straightening up when his dad arrived at the paddock.
The great Olympic rider stopped and stared for a minute, stone-faced. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Were you thinking about riding him again?”
“N-no.” He couldn’t help asking, “Again? What are you talking about?”
“You rode him yesterday while we were gone.”
Not a question. Shit.
“Don’t bother to lie.” His dad leaned his elbows on the top rail of the fence, his gaze following Imperator as he trotted around the paddock. “I did laundry this morning. You had his hair on the legs of your jeans.”
“I was careful. He didn’t get hurt.”
“Believe it or not, I’m thinking more of your safety than his. He’s too much for you.”
“I had him under control the whole time.”
“That’s what he allowed you to think.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“No, you’re just not experienced with top-level horses.”
Andrew managed to resist stomping his foot. “You’re the one with the experience. You’re the one who got dumped.”
His dad’s mouth tightened into a straight line, and his eyes glinted like cold steel. “Exactly. If I can be unseated, what chance has a novice rider got against a horse like Imperator? Stay off of him. Or I’ll ship you back to your grandfather.” Turning on his heel, he stalked to his office in the barn and let the door bang shut behind him.
Now that was a threat worth listening to. Compared to his grandfather, his dad looked like Captain Kangaroo.
Andrew climbed through the fence and straightened up to give Imperator one last pat over the rail.
“Nothing around here ever changes,” he told the horse. “Same shit, different day.”
ANY HOPE JACQUIE HARBORED that she would be given a respite before dealing with the problem of Rhys Lewellyn died the very night after she’d visited his farm. Her phone rang at eight-thirty and Erin answered, using the polite manners her grandmother had taught her. “May I say who’s calling?”
With a gasp, those manners vanished. “Wow, Mr. Lewellyn, it’s so cool to talk to you. My name’s Erin Archer and I’ve been a fan of yours ever since I can remember. I’ve got all sorts of pictures of you and Imperator at the Olympics. That has to be just the most awesome feeling, taking him over fences.”
Erin stopped for a moment, and Jacquie came to get the phone, but her daughter waved her off. “Yes, sir, I’ve been riding since I was little. I’m almost fourteen and I compete at third-level dressage with my Thoroughbred gelding, Mirage. We’re working on training level in cross country and show jumping so I can ride in the Top Flight Horse Trials this spring.” Another gasp. “I would love to take lessons—I was talking to my mom about that when she said she was going to shoe your horses. That is just so amazing. When can I start?”
Caught between horror and despair,