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  End of story.

  To Jake’s private amusement, Kryptonite proved to be a gentleman the following morning, despite what Jake suspected were attempts by Rich to make the chestnut gelding explode. They’d ridden the course Jake had previously set up for The Moose. Kryptonite had been willing and obedient for a change, and Jake couldn’t help smiling when he rode up to Rich at the end of the session. Rich harrumphed and told Jake to tack up The Moose for dressage.

  “Don’t worry about us, we’ll clear the arena.” Rich leaned casually on his cane as he waved Jake off. The current set of Angels, who’d gathered to watch Jake ride, came unbidden into the arena to remove the jumps.

  Inside the barn, Jake found Becky saddling The Moose. The mare pinned her ears as he approached with Kryptonite; he made sure they stayed out of reach of her threatening teeth. He frowned as he watched Becky tighten the girth.

  “You know I usually use the Pessoa.”

  Becky grimaced in a not-quite-smile. “Rich told me to put the Isabell on her. Here, I’ll take Kryptonite and you can finish tacking up.” She lifted the cross tie and stepped under it into the aisle. She took the reins from Jake to lead the gelding away.

  Jake looked with disfavor at the saddle on his horse. Rich was obviously determined to stamp his mark from the ground up. Saddles weren’t just designed for a specific discipline, such as jumping or dressage. Different saddlemakers brought their own preferences to their creations. Besides, after years of riding in the Pessoa, it fit his body like a glove. Switching saddles was a petty and pointless thing to do. Fine. Let this round go to Rich. He’d save his energy for the bigger battles ahead.

  He undid The Moose’s halter and buckled it around her neck to keep her in place so he could slide the bridle over her head. After she took the bit, he buckled the noseband and throatlatch and pulled her forelock out from under the headband. She mouthed the metal as he checked the fitting. The Moose curled around to watch him as he checked the girth, and he bent to place his nose near her nostril, inhaling the sweet clover-smell of her breath. They exchanged breaths for a moment, one being communing with another. He never failed to be moved by how much she trusted him.

  For a split second, his brain flashed back to the scene of the accident. Rescue units had freed him from the wreckage, and he’d stumbled back to the carnage that was the rig on its side, where The Moose was trapped. He saw himself reaching for her neck with a bloodstained hand and patting her gently, reassuring her that he would free her, even as her eye rolled wildly and he could see her building panic. She’d held it together long enough for him to inject her with a tranquilizer.

  As the only horse to survive that horrible night, her comfort and willingness to do what he asked of her was paramount. He’d made a promise to her that he would never ask more from her than she could do.

  There was a patch of white hair on her withers where she’d been cut and her coat hadn’t come back in brown. It was a daily reminder of everything he’d lost and almost lost that day. He touched it, as he always did, checking to make sure the saddle wouldn’t rub where her coat was thinner.

  She dropped her head, checking for treats, even though she knew he wouldn’t give her any while she had the bit in. He cupped one ear, leaning in so he could whisper to her.

  “You and me against the world, Mooseling. It’s just you and me.”

  His fingers curled briefly in The Moose’s coarse, black mane before he removed the halter and led her out to the arena.

  Rich was digging holes in the sand with the end of his cane but abruptly stopped when Jake led The Moose into the working area. “Well, let’s not waste any time, shall we?”

  The training session was surreal. Rich called out corrections much as Tom would have done, with almost the same tone and inflection. He was just as ruthless too, pushing Jake to get the right movement out of The Moose. While naturally gifted, she was also about as easy to maneuver as the Titanic. Riding her was hard work—for both of them. The Isabell made it virtually impossible for his leg to be in the wrong position, but he frequently miscued the mare due to the unfamiliar feel of the saddle. Rich’s directions became more caustic, as if he suspected Jake of riding badly on purpose.

  “She’s leaning on the left rein. Get her off it. Make her softer.” Rich’s words were sharp as he stood in the center of the arena, pivoting on his cane as he watched them move around the ring. “Inside leg and hand, more bend, more bend!”

  Jake wrestled with the mare. Holding steady tension on the outside rein to give her something to bend against, he added more pressure to the inside rein, while applying pressure with his inside leg. With these directional aids, she should have curled her body slightly toward the inside of the circle. Instead, she resisted and pulled against him, thrusting her head and neck down.

  “Shorten your reins. She’s pulled them through your hands.” Rich barked like a drill sergeant, and even though Jake knew he was right, it pissed him off just the same.

  “Maybe you can do better,” Jake ground out before his brain caught up with his mouth.

  “I thought you’d never ask. May I?” Rich motioned him into the center of the arena.

  Jake pulled up The Moose. He could see there was quite the audience on the sidelines. All Angels were still there, and Becky had joined them. Tom was watching too, leaning on the rail. Looking down at Rich, Jake noted for the first time Rich was wearing short paddock boots instead of the athletic shoes he’d worn the day before, and skintight breeches instead of khakis. Almost as though he was hoping for a chance to ride.

  “You sure this is such a hot idea?” Jake asked as he dismounted.

  Rich flashed him a burning look and approached the mare. He handed Jake his cane. Gathering the reins in his left hand, Rich placed it on the pommel and took hold of the cantle with his other hand. He shifted all his weight onto his weak side and folded his left leg, presenting his knee to Jake. “I’ll need a leg up.” His voice was gritty, as though he’d breathed in too much arena dust. Jake said nothing. The arena had been watered that morning.

  Wordlessly, he cupped his hands around Rich’s knee.

  “On the count of three.” Rich bounced slightly with each word in the countdown. “One, two, three!”

  Even with Jake’s assistance, Rich had a bit of a scramble to get his right leg over the mare. She stood quietly, her ears swiveling as she assessed the situation. Rich collected the reins and adjusted his feet in the stirrups. Wordlessly, Jake handed him the dressage whip when Rich held out his hand. With a quick grin, Rich closed his thighs, and the mare moved back to the edge of the ring.

  Jake joined Tom at the rail. As he approached, he saw a bandage on the inside of Tom’s right arm.

  “Routine blood work,” Tom said by way of answering Jake’s unspoken question. After a short pause, he cleared his throat. “I haven’t told your father about the cancer or the change in trainers. Let’s just leave it at that for now, okay?”

  Jake opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. What could he say? Surely his father wouldn’t replace Tom because of the cancer? Maybe not, but he never liked Rich. Finding out Rich was trainer pro tem was sure to start a long, drawn-out argument with his father, one Jake didn’t want to have right now. Jake dropped the subject, and they focused on watching Rich ride.

  Normally, Rich taking Jake off the horse to demonstrate a move would be considered the height of rudeness, but Jake had opened the door when he’d issued his challenge. He felt a smug satisfaction when The Moose resisted Rich as well, leaning hard on the left rein and refusing to fully bend to the inside.

  “Told you she wasn’t ready,” Jake said to Tom, resting his elbows on the rail and crossing his booted feet at the ankles. “You’re going to have to tell him that. He won’t listen to me.”

  Tom spoke without taking his eyes off Rich. “He’s your trainer now. You have a beef with him, you take it up with him.”

  Jake turned his head sharply to stare at Tom. “Y
ou can’t be serious. Your word is final around here. Rich is your assistant, if anything.”

  Tom shook his head. “I’m not always going to be here, Hot Shot. And besides, there can only be one set of hands on the reins. The sooner you realize that, the better.” Jake started to protest, but Tom nudged him. “Pay attention.”

  In the arena, Rich had taken a firm hold of the right rein and was turning The Moose on a small circle, putting her nose on his knee until she gave in to the bend and then sending her forward again. Rich had trouble making her bend to the inside while tracking right—that was Rich’s weak side, and he had to use the dressage whip to tap her flank in order to reinforce the aids. Every time she lost the bend, he would put her on the small circle again. As they worked, she realized the futility of refusing to give in. Eventually, she began to bend sweetly around his inside leg. The Moose’s ears relaxed and they started bouncing with every stride. Rich rode her into the center of the circle and halted her, a wide grin on his face as he patted the side of her neck.

  Jake hurried over to help him dismount. The Moose stood at seventeen hands and it was a long way down. Rich hung awkwardly from the saddle as he lowered himself; clearly his leg couldn’t take the jump down. Jake reached the horse just as Rich slithered off her side, and he ended up catching Rich as he stumbled backward.

  For the briefest of moments, Rich seemed to melt into his arms, but then he straightened and pushed out of Jake’s support. He took a hobbling step, briefly grimacing with pain before smiling again.

  “I got floppy ears,” Rich said, using the term they’d coined to describe the state in which the horse was focused and listening intently to the rider’s aids, but relaxed as well. “I can still ride circles around you.”

  “Bullshit”—Jake let his smile take the sting out of his words—“you just wanted an excuse to ride my magnificent horse.”

  Rich laughed then, a deep, glorious burst of sound that Jake had never even realized he’d missed. “Right you are. So, your turn now.” Rich held out the reins.

  Jake couldn’t help but grin back.

  By the time Rich drove back to his place late that afternoon, he’d gotten over his momentary weakness earlier in the day. What had he been thinking, leaning into Jake like that? He hadn’t been thinking at all, that was the problem. He’d been merely reacting. Just like his body remembered how to sit on a horse, it also remembered how it felt to mold itself to Jake’s. It had been a moment of muscle memory, nothing more. Jake had merely provided support when he’d lost his balance.

  It was funny to think of it now, but Jake wasn’t the hugging type when they first met. In fact, Jake had bristled like an alley cat the first time Rich had casually touched him. At the time, he’d thought Jake homophobic. Rich hadn’t exactly been broadcasting his sexuality, but he hadn’t been hiding it either. He’d had a hard time not taking it personally when Jake had shied away from him as though he’d been a leper. Gradually, he realized Jake’s physical aloofness wasn’t aimed just at him. Jake kept everyone at arm’s distance. Even Tom.

  Once, after seeing Donald Stanford take his leave of his son and return to the city after a weekend at the farm, Rich said something to Jake about it as they watched Stanford’s black Lexus drive off smoothly, with nary a sound on the asphalted driveway.

  “Wow. That was like watching two Vulcans hug.”

  “Vulcans don’t hug.” Jake kept watching the car.

  “That’s what I mean.” Rich had been rewarded when Jake finally turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised. He’d done that a lot in the early days, given Rich a quizzical stare as though he couldn’t quite make him out.

  “We’re not a hugging family. Not unless there’s a funeral.” Jake’s eyes darkened as he spoke. He was obviously remembering something personal. It hadn’t taken a genius to realize Jake had been very affected by his mother’s death when he was a kid, or that he had some unnamed beef with his father.

  “In my house,” Rich said lightly, “no one touched you unless they were hitting you. I learned to duck until I was big enough to punch back. I’m not going to let that stop me from showing affection to the people I care about, though.”

  Jake had been completely shocked. A mother with a series of shiftless, abusive boyfriends had been completely outside his realm of experience, unless he was watching a Lifetime movie. From then on, Rich made it his mission to deliberately touch Jake—little pushes and punches on the shoulder, slaps on the back. He remembered with utter clarity the moment he knew for certain Jake wasn’t homophobic. He’d gone to give Jake a congratulatory hug-and-back-slap combo after he learned Jake and Puddle Jumper had won at Rolex, only to have Jake stiffen up as usual. He’d been about to let go when suddenly Jake relaxed into him.

  Rich held on to him a moment too long, he’d known that. But Jake hadn’t been trying to get away either. It had been the first indication Rich had that perhaps Jake wasn’t as straight as he’d thought he was. After that, Jake had been much more relaxed about the touching. Like cracks on the surface of a frozen pond, once the thaw set in, it had almost seemed to Rich that Jake sought out his touch—even encouraged it.

  Lost in his thoughts, Rich almost missed the slight movement alongside the driveway, and he slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the small animal. With an effortless spring, the gray fox leapt into the brush and disappeared once more. Rich sat gripping the wheel, breathing hard through his nose.

  When he’d gotten over the shock of nearly running over an animal, he smiled. Foxes held a special place in Rich’s heart. The sighting of one, either red or gray, had always felt like an omen. For good or bad, they seemed to herald big changes in his life.

  He’d seen one on this drive the first time he’d come to Foxden. He’d also seen one the night of the accident, skirting the side of the highway and diving back into the woods as they’d passed. And now today.

  It doesn’t mean anything.

  He drove out of the property.

  By the time he reached his house, nearly an hour away, he was so stiff he could barely get out of the car. Great. Tomorrow would be even worse. Determined Jake would never know how sore the brief ride had made him, he mentally planned his routine tonight: hot bath, painkillers, and up early in the morning to do his stretches so he wouldn’t walk like the Tin Man from Oz when he got to the stables. He’d been slacking off on the stretches lately. Most days when he got home, he was so tired all he could manage was a steaming shower and some slapdash dinner before falling into bed, even though he knew regular physical therapy exercises made the difference between him being functional or not. There were days when he could hardly get out of bed, and sleepless nights where no position was comfortable. He had a feeling tonight would be one of the bad nights. The certainty of it filled him with utter weariness.

  The thought of the shambling, zombie-like gait he’d have in his old age taunted him. Like he did with most things he didn’t want to think about, he flipped his future the bird and hoisted himself out of the car. He had to lean heavily on his cane as he made his way up the sidewalk to his front door.

  The little ranch-style house wasn’t much, but it was a far cry from the crappy apartment he’d lived in when he first began riding at Foxden. It also had the added benefit of being close to the stable he currently rented to run his training operation. He needed to stop by his own barn in the morning and make sure everything was running smoothly. Sure, he was keeping up with his barn manager via email, and he trusted Jane completely, but his clients would expect him to put in an appearance every now and then, whether or not he was training an Olympic competitor.

  The key in the lock brought the cats running. Well, one cat at least. The champagne-colored tabby trotted down the hallway as he opened the door and flopped on his side to rub his head on the carpet as Rich tried to enter the house. Rich put his cane down on a pile of letters and junk mail that had gathered at the mail slot in the door, and it slipped a little under his weight. He had to shift suddenl
y to avoid falling, and he almost stepped on the cat. Dropping the cane to catch himself on the doorjamb, he felt the wrench in his lower back.

  The young tabby jumped up out of the way with an injured expression on his face. The older, fluffy white tom sat at the end of the hallway with a baleful expression.

  “Yes, I know,” Rich told the white cat, bending down carefully to pick up the cane and the mail, using both to shoo the tabby back from the door to keep him from scooting out. “You’re too smart to get underfoot. Unlike Pink-the-Stink here.”

  The white cat yawned, showing a mouthful of sharp teeth. Pink plopped down and began to wash himself, but jumped up again when Rich shut the door and made his way down the corridor. He deposited the mail and his keys on the kitchen counter to the chorus of meows demanding dinner and set about feeding the cats. Nothing else could be done until he did. While they ate, Rich made himself a ham sandwich and carried it into the den, where he brought the computer up out of standby. He munched on his sandwich while checking his messages, including one from Tom regarding more paperwork concerning Jake’s bid for the team.

  Rich rubbed his eye and read the email twice. The rules and protocols governing making the Olympic Eventing Team were more convoluted than a peace treaty between warring nations. He thought competing at the Advanced level was bad. It would certainly be a feather in his cap to have Jake as one of his clients—there was no doubt about that. The very fact Rich himself had competed beyond Prelim level had given him respect and credibility when he’d set himself up as a trainer. Having Jake as a client would bring more riders of his caliber. Rich was leasing a barn now, but if he continued to get upscale clients like Jake, he’d need to look for another facility. Something permanent. Something more like Foxden.

  Frowning, he pushed himself up from the desk. Something like Foxden was out of the question. He’d never be able to afford it—not unless he charged his clients through the nose. Why not? You’re worth it. Snorting, he went back into the kitchen to get something more substantial to eat.