Fool's Gold Page 5

  He turned on the tap and began hosing down The Moose. She pinned her ears and danced sideways, hooves clattering on the floor of the wash rack.

  “Oh for pity’s sake,” he grumbled, stepping out of her way and adjusting the temperature so the water was warmer. “You’d think you’d like a cold bath when it’s this hot.”

  The mare tossed her head as though she was disagreeing with him, which made him laugh, even as he had to cover his face with his arm to block the shower of dirty water. As soon as the lukewarm water hit her side, the mare snorted and stood still. “You’re such a diva,” he told her, quickly rinsing her off. “Not every place has hot water, you know.”

  He had just replaced the hose and was using the sweat scraper to flick the water from her body when Tom showed up with Becky trailing behind him. She’d brought The Moose’s sweat sheet with her, which was nice of her. He was going to have to walk the mare for some time to get her to cool out in this overly warm weather.

  “What did I tell you about hosing her off with your boots on?” Tom came to a halt at The Moose’s head, his fists resting on his hips, one eyebrow raised.

  “That water will rot the leather and I should change out of my boots first.” Jake wasn’t bothered by the tone of censure. “It’s no big deal. I can always get another pair of boots.”

  Tom made a little snort of disapproval. Jake smiled behind the safety of The Moose’s neck. Tom believed in making do or doing without. It wasn’t that Jake was extravagant with his father’s money or that he didn’t believe in taking care of his gear; he’d just forgotten once again to change his boots. Still, it was fun getting a rise out of Tom.

  He followed the lines of the mare’s body with the rubber-backed scraper, turning his wrist at the end of each stroke to whisk away the sweaty water.

  “Let Becky finish her.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t mind. I like taking care of her.” Tom believed his pupils should be well-versed in horsemanship from the ground up; it was unusual for him to suggest someone else take over the cleanup and cooldown after a workout. Jake wondered what was up. “Did you see her take that triple combination? She’s really coming along nicely.” He gave the mare a pat on her slick neck.

  “We need to talk, Hot Shot,” Tom spoke abruptly. “Let Becky take the horse.”

  Jake’s heart turned into a small lump of lead and sank into his stomach. We need to talk. As long as he could remember, nothing good ever came from that phrase.

  He glanced at Becky as he came out from the wash stall, but the young woman wouldn’t meet his gaze. Shit. He followed Tom up the aisle toward the office. Tom moved with the ease of a man who’d spent his life around horses. He was still lean and fit at sixty. Like a chestnut that had started to roan in his later years, Tom’s hair had more gray than reddish brown these days. Still, Tom hadn’t changed much since the day Jake first showed up at the barn to watch his mother ride. The horses had fascinated him from the beginning. Tom had taken one look at him and had put him up on one of his father’s show jumpers.

  It had been love at first sight.

  He wondered if his dad would have intervened if he’d had any inkling that his son was going to throw his life away on horses. Probably. By the time his father had realized Jake was serious about making a career out of riding, it was too late. Jake already had a name as a solid competitor and wasn’t about to leave it all for a desk job. The fact he was good enough to be an Olympic contender was probably the only reason his dad had given in. Even so, his father seemed to have believed this was all a phase Jake would outgrow one day. He seemed to think you’d outgrow a lot of things. Jake smiled grimly in remembrance.

  Please let nothing be wrong with Tom. Even as he thought it, Jake knew it was a silly and childish thing to hope for—a prayer sent out to land unheard in the great void. He knew in his gut something was wrong, had known it for a while now, which was why he’d pushed Tom to go to the doctor last week.

  Tom entered the office, glanced briefly around the small space, and hitched one hip up on the corner of his desk. “Come on in and shut the door.” He waved Jake into the room.

  Jake hesitated, unwilling to enter, as if by refusing, he could hold at bay whatever was about to happen next. There was no way out of this though. With a sigh, Jake stepped inside the office and shut the door.

  “I have non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Stage one. Low-risk factors. Good prognosis. But I start chemotherapy next week.”

  The bottom dropped out of the world. Jake felt as though he was on a precipice, looking down at how far he was about to fall. “Next week?”

  Tom nodded. “I know this is short notice, but I wanted to be sure before I said anything.”

  Jake blew out his breath between his lips, seeking some sort of solid ground. “Okay, okay. What day do you go in for chemo? What’s involved exactly? I’m going with you.”

  Tom gave him a funny look. “My niece Carolyn is coming up to stay with me. Don’t you worry about me. I’ve got everything under control. What we need to talk about is the prep for Rolex at the end of next month.”

  “Rolex? The hell with Rolex—Tom, this is you we’re talking about here. I’m not going off to Rolex, or Jersey Fresh, or even Rio without you. You’re more important than qualifying for the Games.”

  Tom crossed his arms over his chest and raised that disapproving eyebrow again. “I thought you might feel that way. I don’t want you to pass on what might be your best shot at the Olympics.”

  “That’s not necessarily the case. You know as well as I do there’re people who’ve been in this sport for decades. Look at the O’Conners. Sure, I missed the last two Olympics.” Jake briefly recalled how his life had imploded on him eight years ago, taking nearly everything and everyone he’d cared about. He’d failed to qualify for the 2012 Team by a whisker, and Tom was right. Time was running out for him to compete at his “first” Games. But Tom was more important than the Olympics. Besides, some of the world’s top competitors never rode at the Games. “There’s no certainty I’d make the team this year, anyway. It’s cool.”

  He’d have to place in the top four at the Rolex event in Kentucky at the end of April to even have a shot at making the reserve list for the team. The field was rapidly being narrowed down from the fifty hopefuls to the four members who would be selected for the U.S. Olympic Eventing Team. For the most part, it was pretty clear who would be going. Still, it was a dangerous and unforgiving sport. There was no such thing as a sure thing when it came to eventing. He’d been intermittently successful the previous two years, scoring decently in the World Championship and taking fifth at Blenheim International CCI3 last fall. He and Kryptonite had also placed first and second in some smaller three-star events in the U.S. These were all promising successes that made him a contender for the team now. It was Kryptonite’s unpredictable temper that made qualifying questionable.

  He had to do well at Rolex. Some competitors had over a dozen horses in training and would enter as many as they could ride in a single event. Even with his father’s backing, the cost of training and shipping horses all over the world was astronomic. Jake had to be satisfied with two top-level horses in training at any given time. Molly, his second-string horse, wasn’t quite in the same league as Kryptonite, but at least she was consistently near the top of the field in any competition. Kryptonite could win a horse trial one weekend and be disqualified the next.

  If Jake did well at Rolex at the end of April, he’d have to travel to the major international events that served as selection trials, such as Bramhan in the U.K. or Aachen in Germany, though the trial date for Aachen was cutting it a bit close for the team selection. The official announcement of the team would be made in June, and everyone on the team had to be at the Mandatory Outing back in Virginia at Great Meadow in July. After the MO, the team and horses would ship out for Brazil at the end of July, to allow for acclimation and training at the National Equestrian Center in Deodoro.

  It was a brutal sch
edule, but it was meant to prove the experience and seasoning of a team ready to compete against the world’s best.

  Even though a slot on the U.S. team was determined by competitive rankings, a lot could go wrong at each step along the way—as Jake knew personally. A rider could be forced out for any number of reasons at the very last second. At the upper levels, a horse and rider could get pulled at any time due to injury or failing to pass a vet check. Hell, several of the big names in eventing lost horses in a barn fire in 2011 before the last Games. Anything could happen when it came to horses. While the makeup of the team was more or less presumed well in advance of the official announcement, there was room for moving up on the reserve list. This year, Jake had a real shot at being an alternate or better.

  But being there for Tom was more important.

  “I’m going to be fine. I just can’t go to the competitions with you, or see that you’re at your best when it counts the most right now. I won’t be able to leave the country for one thing, and they tell me the chemo’s going to make me as weak as a kitten.” Tom gave him a tired smile. “Don’t know as I could get any worse than I feel now, but there you are. You need to take this chance, Hot Shot. You don’t know that it’ll come around again. You’re what, twenty-seven?”

  “Twenty-eight,” Jake corrected.

  “Twenty-eight, then. You’ll be past your prime before you know it. You know as well as I do this is your best shot at reaching the Olympic level. Once you do, you’ll be a contender for future Games, but if you miss this chance, well, you can continue to be a world-class competitor, but you won’t be an Olympian. I want you to do it for me, okay?”

  For a couple of seconds, Jake stared at Tom’s solemn expression. He narrowed his eyes. “Did you just play the ‘Win one for the Gipper’ card on me?”

  A smile slowly stole across Tom’s face. “Thought it was worth a shot. Didn’t think you’d fall for it. Anyway, I’m not going to let you throw away your chance this time, not when we’ve come this close and worked this damned hard. That’s why I’ve arranged for another trainer to take over temporarily.”

  “Out of the question,” Jake snapped. “You know what Kryptonite’s like. Send in another trainer right now and he’ll blow a gasket if he’s not handled right. He’s a freaking powder keg on a good day. With the wrong training, it’ll be a bloody disaster. I don’t need a trainer. He’s as prepped as he’ll ever be. I close my eyes and hear your voice when I ride anyway. We’ll be fine.”

  “You need someone on the ground and you know it. Someone to do the paperwork and run interference. Someone in charge at the vet checks, and at customs, and to oversee the shipping. You need to concentrate on you and your ride. Nothing else.”

  “I won’t ride with anyone else,” Jake said stubbornly. “You’ve been my trainer since I was a kid. No one else knows your methods.”

  “Well, now that’s where you’re wrong,” Tom drawled. “See, I just happen to know someone who does know my methods, because he’s ridden and trained with me too.”

  Jake stared blankly for a moment until he made the connection. “No. No way. I won’t. No fucking way,” Jake sputtered.

  “Already done,” Tom said in that laconic manner of his. It had never pissed Jake off like it did just now.

  The door of the office opened abruptly, and the man in question thrust his head around the jamb.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Come on, I want you to see something.” Rich stood in the doorway frowning a little, as though picking up a conversation from this morning. Not like someone Jake had only seen from a distance for years, schooling one of his clients from the side of the warmup arena or taking a cart out on the cross-country course. Not like someone who’d ordered Jake out of his life and refused to speak to him for nearly a decade.

  Richard Evans. At the sight of him, Jake’s words dried up in his mouth. Involuntarily, his glance shifted to the cane in Rich’s right hand, on which he leaned heavily. When he lifted his gaze, Rich was glaring at him, daring Jake to make something of it. Jake said nothing. A look of hurt flashed over Rich’s features, there and gone, like a lightning bug on a summer’s evening. He turned abruptly and stumped down the corridor without waiting to see if Jake and Tom were following him.

  Maybe his father had been right about Rich all along.

  Jake cast a sidelong glance at Tom as they followed.

  “Sorry, but I’m not going to burst into flames no matter how hard you glare at me.” The corner of Tom’s mouth twitched.

  Jake jerked his attention to the man walking down the aisle ahead of them. It was odd seeing Rich in “civilian clothes.” There’d been a time when the uniform of the day for both of them had been breeches and tall boots. Today, Rich was wearing a kelly-green polo shirt. Jake had told him once that the color looked good on him, that it brought out the green in his eyes. He wondered if Rich remembered that, if he’d thought about Jake when getting dressed today. It was a ridiculous notion, and Jake pushed it aside.

  Instead of tan, formfitting breeches, Rich wore khakis now. Jake couldn’t help but note the way he walked, the way his right leg rotated with each step, and how Rich leaned on his cane as he moved. Jake remembered a time when watching Rich’s ass in unguarded moments had been one of his favorite guilty pleasures. That the tight peach of an ass was still there, though slightly lopsided, no doubt due to muscle atrophy. It almost hurt him physically to see Rich like that—crooked.

  Like his smile.

  For some strange reason, the thought made him feel better. Even though he was still pissed with Tom and even madder with Rich for acting like nothing had ever passed between them, he’d regained his equilibrium. As though his horse had stumbled at a fence, he’d been temporarily thrown off balance, but he was firmly back in the saddle now. He’d hear Rich out and then politely decline his “help.”

  Becky passed them in the aisle with The Moose, whose hooves clopped quietly on the rubber matting. Rich turned his head to track the mare’s passage with a look of keen assessment. When he did so, he caught Jake’s stare and quickly looked away. His fair coloring betrayed him with a flush across his cheekbones. Jake dampened his smile. Rich had never been any good at hiding his emotions.

  Rich had set up the laptop on a table in the center of the trophy room. Jake raised a questioning eyebrow at Tom. Maddeningly, Tom raised an eyebrow back at him. Jake’s gaze slid past the major awards in their museum-like glass cases, the various photos and ribbons mounted on the dark paneling, and zeroed in on the open laptop.

  Rich crossed over to the laptop and tapped a few buttons, bringing up a video on the monitor. He pivoted and leaned on his cane as he faced Jake, his pelvis canting to one side. “You’re prepping the wrong horse.”

  “What?” Jake shot a quick glance at Tom, who shrugged. He turned back to Rich, steaming now. “Look, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, coming in here like this without so much as a ‘Hello, Jake’ and deciding my Olympic career for me. Kryptonite is the best horse I’ve ever ridden.”

  Barring Puddle Jumper, that is.

  “Hello, Jake.” Rich’s smile wasn’t very pleasant. More like a shark baring its teeth. “Feel better now? I didn’t know the niceties meant so much to you. Do you mind if we get back to the business at hand? Kryptonite might be Olympic caliber, but he’s not the right ride for you.”

  Jake was still searching for a way to respond to what he was sure was a dig at him somehow when Rich hit the Play button. The video began running. Jake recognized the footage from one of last year’s competitions.

  “Kryptonite sucks back. He’s resistant to move forward. You have to push him to do everything you ask, despite his talent and ability. If you piss him off, he frequently blows up in your face.” Rich spoke as if he were lecturing to a class of students, which annoyed the crap out of Jake.

  “See here?” Rich pointed at the monitor. On screen, Jake was asking the chestnut gelding for an extended trot, but instead of stepping into t
he huge, crowd-pleasing stride, Kryptonite swished his tail in irritation and kicked out behind. He pinned his ears and clamped his tail down to his haunches before giving in and producing the ground-eating gait. Jake had lost a lot of points there; he remembered the score clearly.

  Rich paused the video and opened another file, bringing up a sequence from one of the show-jumping segments. “Now, watch this one. He’s become a nasty little stopper, hasn’t he?” The video rolled on, showing Jake’s approach to a deceptively simple-looking vertical. Jake remembered that fence. It was bigger than it looked on camera, and the flat, upright face of it was very off-putting to most horses. He wasn’t the only rider who’d had trouble with that jump that day. Kryptonite flattened his stride and sprang forward at Jake’s obvious urging, but at the last second, he slammed on the brakes at the takeoff and slid into the fence, sending poles flying and Jake up onto his neck.

  “If you didn’t have the stick-tight gene, you would’ve come off there.” Rich’s voice held a hint of a smile, even though he never took his eyes off the screen.

  Jake was suddenly glad Rich wasn’t looking at him when he spoke. It had been years since Jake had joked with anyone about the stick-tight gene, his name for what made some riders come off at the drop of a hat and others stay on no matter what.

  Rich hadn’t had the stick-tight gene.

  Nettled, Jake asked, “What about Molly?”

  “Is that what you call Ragtime? The little gray mare? That’s your second-string horse? Seriously, she’s too small for you. She’s game, I’ll give her that, and she tries hard, but she’s not Olympic material. She’d make some teenage girl an awesome Prelim horse, or some older rider still looking to compete at Intermediate. You should sell her.”

  Jake’s lips flattened over his need to bite back his response. Tom had told him the same on more than one occasion, so he could hardly tear a strip off Rich for the same opinion. When he glared at Tom, his face was innocently blank.