Winning Ways

  Winning Ways

  ©2004 Toni Leland

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN 1-887932-14-3

  Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2004092285

  Kindle Edition

  Printed in U.S.A.

  This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to places, events, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Romancing the Horse

  http://www.tonileland.com

  Parallel Press is an imprint of the Equine Graphics Publishing Group

  Acknowledgments

  Without the support and help of many people, this book would never have seen ink. Deepest appreciation to my critique partner, Janet, for her thoughtful and inspiring comments; horse-lover and fellow writer, Rebecca, for setting me on course; Bob, plotting partner and devil's advocate; John G. Lengel at U.S. Equestrian, Equine Drugs & Medications Program. Love and thanks to Mitzi and Katie, my first readers; Art & Holly for unlimited moral support. Special gratitude to Beth, Priscilla, and Charla–horsewomen who reviewed the story from "inside the ring."

  Cover

  Arabian Filly, photograph by Diane Horton

  Woodbury, Connecticut ©1990

  Used with permission

  Winning Ways

  Terrified whinnies echoed through the cavernous rafters of the huge show barn. Liz Barnett leapt to her feet and listened intently, trying to determine the location of the cries that could be nothing other than a horse in pain. She hurried toward the sound and, a moment later, cautiously lifted the latch on the heavy wooden stall door. She moved slowly toward a panic-stricken young horse in the corner.

  Offering her hand, she kept her tone soft. "Easy...Whoa."

  The wild-eyed filly nickered nervously, then resumed struggling to free her foreleg trapped between the thick bars of an old-fashioned iron hayrack mounted high on the wall.

  Liz frowned at the ancient contraption.

  "I can't believe anyone still uses these damned things."

  Placing her right hand on the horse's slender back, she inched her left hand toward the head. Thank God, she's wearing a halter. Seeming to sense that help had arrived, the filly stopped thrashing for a moment. Liz lightly stroked the sleek neck and considered the situation. The horse wouldn't be able to free herself without rotating her hoof sideways into an unnatural position. Looking closer, Liz saw blood pulsing through a deep gash in the tender flesh across the top of the foot.

  I can't let go of the halter. How'm I going to do this with one hand? She quickly reached through the bars, grasped the small foot, and then twisted it sideways just as the horse pulled back. The trim hoof slipped through the narrow opening.

  The adrenaline crashing through Liz's body began to subside, making her legs weak and shaky. Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling, she concentrated on the filly's gushing wound. She needed to stop the bleeding - quickly.

  She spotted a tack room across the aisle, and darted into it, thinking about what she might use as a tourniquet. A shirt and tie hung on a hook in the corner. She snatched the tie, grabbed a towel from a stack by the door, then sprinted back across the aisle.

  The little mare trembled visibly, and Liz knew time would be critical. A glaze began to move over the filly's dark eyes, as her blood flowed into the straw bedding.

  Liz stroked the smooth neck, murmuring, "It's okay, baby...it's okay."

  Kneeling beside the injured leg, she wrapped the tie twice around the fetlock joint, then secured it tightly just above the cut. The bleeding dwindled, and then stopped. Liz examined the deep laceration. This'll need stitching. I'd better go find the show vet.

  "What the hell are you doing in here?"

  Liz gasped, nearly toppling into the straw at the unexpected nearness of the angry voice. She scrambled to her feet, and whirled around. A dark, scowling man towered over her.

  "Answer me!"

  He stepped forward, and Liz automatically moved back, her breath coming in short puffs as she attempted to gain control of her thoughts and explain her presence. A second later, indignation bubbled up and she returned his hostile frown.

  "Your horse's leg was wedged in that old hayrack, and - "

  The man stepped past, brushing her off like a bothersome fly. Her skin prickled with anger and she glared at his back.

  You arrogant jerk! A nasty comment formed on her lips, then she took a deep breath. No. This isn't the way. Her professional persona took over.

  "The wound is deep, but I don't think the artery was damaged." She drew herself up to her full five feet. "And, by the way, you don't need to come barging in here acting as though I'm doing something wrong."

  The man didn't respond to her challenge. He tenderly smoothed his hand over the animal's neck, murmuring reassurances to her. An instant later, he looked down.

  "Damn! You used my best tie."

  Liz blinked. He's worried about the tie?

  He dropped to one knee. The filly stood quietly, her muscles quivering beneath her satiny coat, her breathing shallow, as he probed her injury. A minute later, he shook his head and stood up, turning to pin Liz with the darkest eyes she'd ever seen.

  Her heart stumbled in its path at his exotic appearance. Skin the color of olivewood kissed by the Mediterranean sun. Gleaming blue-black hair sculpted against his skull, accentuating strong cheekbones and a wide forehead. An elegant moustache shadowed an aristocratic mouth. She took a deep breath, now aware of a new, stirring odor in the close quarters - the scent of a male ready to do battle for his territory.

  His jaw relaxed, and he spoke gruffly. "Okay, thanks for your help. I need to get a vet."

  A flash of heat warmed Liz's neck. "I am a vet." She looked him directly in the eye, her tone patronizing. "Now...would you like me to go find the show vet while you stay here with the horse?"

  The hard lines on his face softened a little, the corners of his moustache twitched with the beginnings of a smile. His eyes dropped to her chest, and Liz's heart thumped behind her ribs, a surprising and infuriating reaction.

  The moustache curled enticingly around a charming smile.

  "Nah, she'll be fine. I'll keep an eye on her for awhile, then get her stitched up."

  Liz said nothing, but turned and walked quickly away from the man who was making her pulse jump with something other than irritation.

  The sounds and smells faded into the background as Liz strode down the aisle, consumed with shadowy feelings and confusion. Her skin tingled and she couldn't seem to breath normally. Who needed a battle with a cowboy in the middle of caring for an injured horse?

  Absolutely nothing has gone right since I moved here. What's wrong with me? Liz dropped down onto a bale of hay in her tack stall and stared at the dusty toes of her paddock boots. Why do I have such a negative effect on these damned Californians? She replayed the stall scene again, and warmth crawled across her chest.

  Heaving a sigh, she rose, and started down the aisle toward a brilliant square of sunshine framing the world outside the now-busy barn. Early spring sun warmed the top of her head, and glancing up at the vast, cloudless sky, Liz felt some of her tension fade. In retrospect, she definitely wouldn't appreciate finding a stranger messing with her horse. On the other hand, he could have been a little more gracious about her help, especially after he saw the wound.

  I could have stood up for myself a little better. Why didn't I tell him right away that I'm a vet? Maybe I could have diffused the situation. She pursed her lips. Lately, her track record with surly cowboys hadn't given her much confidence. But then, she hadn't
met any that looked like this one.

  The handsome horseman's face flashed through her mind, provoking a distressing flutter in the pit of her stomach. Exhaling sharply, she shook off the sensation, and opened the show-office door.

  An icy blast of air-conditioning peeled away the sun's delicious warmth from her bare arms, and an involuntary shudder shook her shoulders as she closed the door behind her.

  "May I help you?"

  "I want to settle my account for Legacy Arabians. I'm leaving early in the morning."

  The woman behind the counter smiled brightly.

  "Okey-doak. Just give me a minute."

  While the show secretary pawed through the files, Liz reflected on the past four days. She'd spent a lot of money on the show, money she wasn't earning fast enough. But I think I've done pretty well for the new kid on the block.

  The woman rattled a sheaf of papers. "Here, got 'em. Looks like three hundred dollars even." She leaned her elbows on the counter. "You new? I've never seen your name on any of our exhibitor lists."

  "Yes, I moved here from Kentucky about six months ago. Takes some time to get organized."

  Liz handed her a check, and the secretary lifted her chin and peered at it through her bifocals.

  "A horse doctor, huh? How do you have time to show horses and be a busy vet at the same time?"

  Yeah, right! Liz attempted to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

  "It's a struggle, believe me."

  On her way back to the barn, the woman's question needled her. I'm anything but busy, thanks to the rural mentality of the locals. The clash with Mr. Cowboy simply emphasized that her efforts to establish an equine practice in northern California were doomed. What the hell am I going to do? It cost me a fortune to move the horses out here. I don't have a prayer of being able to go back home.

  A familiar voice interrupted her brooding.

  "Liz! Wait up!"

  Colleen O'Hearn jogged up, a smile brightening her pixy face. The petite blonde was the breeding manager at Fairhill Arabians, about a mile down the road from Legacy. The first time they'd met, Liz had been charmed by Colleen's feisty, take-no-stuff attitude, probably because her personality was so different from Liz's. If I had just one-tenth of Colleen's determination to have things the way she wants them, I wouldn't be in this mess.

  Colleen's green eyes twinkled with genuine friendship.

  "Congratulations! Great show!"

  "Thanks. And Fairhill?"

  The tiny woman's western twang rambled over her words. "Can't complain. Hey, I'm goin' to watch a coupla classes. C'mon over when ya get packed up."

  Tossing a wave, she crossed the gravel drive, and disappeared into the arena building. Liz headed for her own stalls.

  She packed everything except what she'd need the next morning, then took a moment to think. Looking at the seven colorful rosette ribbons pinned to the wall, pride and love swept through her chest. Five months of hard work had paid off. Her gaze swept over the elegant heads turned her way. Having outstanding horses doesn't hurt anything either.

  Her focus stopped first on two-year-old Legacy Ashiiqah, a stunning rose-gray Polish-Egyptian mare who'd pranced her way to first place in the Two-Year-Old Mare Halter class, then on to claim the Champion Two-Year-Old Mare trophy. Not bad for her first show season. Liz's attention moved to the next stall, where Legacy Karma peered back at her from between the bars. The pure Polish bay colt had earned second place in the Yearling Stallion class, competing against twenty other horses. Rather extraordinary for just a baby. In the last stall stood Liz's favorite mare, Double B Amy's Pride, one of the original five foundation mares from her father's famous herd. A seasoned show-horse, the white mare had trotted away with the Over-Five championship.

  Liz cocked her head and smiled at the large, dark eyes watching expectantly. "You were wonderful, Amykins."

  These mares are the future of Legacy Arabians, the foundation of a great breeding program. And if Karma matures as perfectly as I think he will, he'll command some pricey stud fees in a year or two. For the moment, Liz forgot that her original plan had been to work her way gradually into showing her animals, fine-tuning them when she had the time. Thoughts about the future sent her spirits on a downward spiral again. Never in her wildest imaginings had she dreamed it would be so difficult to set up her veterinary practice in Gold Rush country, or that she'd have so much free time on her hands, as a result.

  She moved back toward her packing, hearing the echo of old Doc Sams' crusty voice cajoling her over the telephone, describing the abundant opportunities she'd have if she joined his practice. It had seemed almost too good to be true, but her desire to start over in a new and interesting place had hampered her customary good judgment. How could she have foreseen the obstacles? Her shoulders slumped. Since moving to California, she'd woefully acknowledged, many times, the foolhardiness of accepting the position without thoroughly researching the area.

  She examined her situation for what was probably the twentieth time that month. She had excellent credentials. Graduate of Tufts University Veterinary School. A specialty in equine reproduction. Top of her class. That's not it. I'm overlooking something, but what?

  Her mood saddened further at the memory of the exciting two years she'd spent as the resident veterinarian at a large Thoroughbred farm in Kentucky - the job she'd given up when her invalid father had died unexpectedly. Her throat tightened painfully. She knew now that she'd made decisions while the pain of his death was still a shroud over her heart. Made the wrong decision, and now didn't know how to reverse it.

  Determined to shake off the hurtful memories, she packed the ribbons into the trunk, and snapped the latch.

  "Dammit! I'm here now, and I don't intend to let a bunch of opinionated old ranchers decide my future!"

  2

  Liz stepped through the entrance of the arena building and blinked. After the brilliant midday sunshine, the softer light inside made everything appear dark and dreamy for a few moments. When her eyes adjusted, she scanned the rows of seats ringing the center arena. Few spectators attended this last day of the show, but small pockets of exhibitors peppered the grandstand, unwinding after a long week of classes. Colleen's blonde head was not amongst them, but Liz sat down anyway, grateful for a chance to relax. A youth driving class entered the ring, and she watched with little interest.

  Five minutes later, Colleen scooted into a seat, and took a long swig of soda. "You all packed?"

  "Yeah...I could take off now, but I'd get home late, and still have to unload the horses and feed them. I'll stay here and try for a decent night's sleep."

  "Ain't you goin' to the celebration tonight?"

  "I'm not much for parties."

  "Aw, come on. You could go for just a little while. These shindigs are fun. And besides, you'll meet lots of people from your area. You could hand out business cards." She grinned. "You can't ever have too many customers, huh?"

  Little do you know. Colleen's comment was a keen-edged reminder that Liz needed clients, or she'd soon be in real trouble. Rather than a social event, she'd have to regard the get-together as a business necessity.

  "Okay, but only for a while."

  The music floating through the arena stopped abruptly as the last horse and cart left the ring. The loudspeaker blared the name of an exhibitor, the gate opened, and a tall woman led a beautiful chestnut stallion into the ring.

  Colleen nudged Liz. "Liberty class. This is such a hoot."

  Liz shook her head. "I haven't figured out the purpose of this class, but everyone seems to enjoy it."

  The heavy bass thump of rock music filled the air, and the woman in the ring unhooked the lead rope. The horse whirled on his hind legs, and raced along the length of the arena, tail flagged and mane flying. The handler started after him, barking commands, and urging him on by snapping a long driving whip.

  Liz watched with amusement as the woman positioned herself to catch the horse within the required two minutes. The a
nimal danced away, tossing his head and staying just out of reach until the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the time limit. Another three minutes passed before the woman and two helpers cornered the playful stallion.

  Colleen chuckled. "She can never catch her horses. I don't know why she enters these classes."

  Seconds later, a throbbing melody pulsed through the arena, the theme from Bolero charging the atmosphere with exotic promise.

  Colleen gasped. "Oh, Gawd, there's Kurt! Ain't he the most gorgeous hunk you ever saw?"

  Liz was already focused on the swarthy man in the ring. Mr. Cowboy. Yes, he's most definitely gorgeous. Too bad that's where the attraction ends.

  She tried to keep her tone light. "What's his name?"

  Colleen's eyebrows wiggled lecherously. "Kurt DeVallio. He's Italian or something. Mostly something!"

  Liz glanced back at the arena and huffed. "Mostly jerk, I'd say."

  She felt Colleen's inquiring gaze, but carefully ignored it, concentrating instead on Kurt. He reached out, and unhooked the lead rope from a small bay stallion with long legs and an exquisite head. Liz's sharp eye for pedigree drove her thoughts. That horse has to be straight Egyptian.

  The animal pranced away, his neck arched and tail up. He skimmed over the soft dirt, his finely boned legs moving in what seemed to be slow motion. Enchanted, Liz watched the horse dance in almost flawless rhythm to the music. My God, how did he teach him to do that?

  Colleen spoke as though she'd read Liz's mind.

  "That man has some really spooky, mystical powers over horses. It's almost like he's one of them, instead of one of us."

  Liz wrested her gaze from the stallion and looked back to where Kurt stood motionless in the center of the arena, watching every move of the spectacular creature floating around the perimeter.

  In the uncomfortably close quarters of the stall that morning, the man had seemed bulky and intimidating, but from this distance, Liz admired his tall stature, trim frame, well-developed muscles, and fluid movements. A now-familiar flutter started in the pit of her stomach, and warmth crawled up her neck. Audacious men usually didn't impress her, but this one absolutely had her attention.