Chapter 8

Chapter 8

T he trip back to Starlight Breeding farm was uneventful, and Becca had to force herself to face the realization that she had no future with Brig Chambers. If ever she had, it was gone. She had thrown it away. Becca knew that Brig cared for her, in his own way, but she also knew that he didn’t trust her and probably never would. The best thing to do was to forget about him and concentrate on paying back the debt to him as quickly as possible. She frowned to herself as she unpacked her suitcase. Forgetting about Brig and what they had shared together was more easily said than done. In the last six years she had never once forgotten the tender way in which he would look into her eyes, or his gentle caress.

“Cut it out,” she mumbled to herself. The last thing she should do was brood over a future that wasn’t meant to be. With forced determination, she pulled on her favorite pair of faded jeans and started toward the paddock. The first order of business was Gypsy Wind.

Becca clenched her teeth together as she thought about training Gypsy Wind to be the best Thoroughbred filly ever raced. She may have already made a monumental mistake by not racing the filly as a two-year-old, and if she were honest with herself it had something to do with Brig and the fact that, at the time, he didn’t know about Gypsy Wind. At least the secret was now in the open, and Becca vowed silently to herself that she would find a way to make Gypsy Wind a winner with or without Brig’s approval.

She found Ian O’Riley in the tack room. His short fingers were running along the smooth leather reins of a bridle last worn by Sentimental Lady. He turned his attention toward the door when Becca entered.

“I heard you were back,” he said with a smile.

“Just got in a couple of hours ago.”

Ian’s smile faded. “And how did it go . . . with Brig, I mean?”

Becca tossed her blond braid over her shoulder and shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I guess.” She took a seat on a scarred wooden chair near the trophy case. The award closest to her was now covered with dust, but Becca recognized it as belonging to Sentimental Lady for her record-breaking win of The New York Racing Association’s Acorn Stakes. Absently, Becca rubbed the dust off the trophy.

“What does he think of Gypsy Wind?”

“Not much,” Becca admitted. “Oh, Ian, he thinks I was foolish to breed her. He accused me of trying to absolve myself of her death.”

“He thinks that’s why you did it?”

Becca nodded mutely.

“And he’s got you believing it, too.”

Becca shook her head and put the trophy back in the case. “No, of course not, but he did make me question my motives. He even suggested that I didn’t race her as a two-year-old because I was afraid of his reaction.”

“Nonsense!” Ian’s wise blue eyes sparked dangerously. “He knows better than that—or at least he should! Sentimental Lady’s legs weren’t strong enough, and I’m not about to make the same mistake with Gypsy Wind. That’s the trouble with this country! In Europe many Thoroughbreds never set foot on a racetrack until they’re three. And when they do, they run on firm but yielding turf.

“Gypsy Wind’s legs won’t be fully ossified until she’s three, and I’m not about to ask her to sprint over a hard, fast track. It’s a good way to ruin a damned fine filly!”

Becca smiled at the wiry man’s vehemence. “I agree with you.”

Ian’s gray eyebrows raised. “I know . . . and I’m proud of you for it. It would have been easier to run her this year and make a little extra money. I know you could use it.”

“Not if it hurts Gypsy Wind.”

Ian’s grizzled face widened into a comfortable grin. He winked at Becca fondly. “We’ll show them all, you know. Come early next year, when Gypsy Wind begins to race, we’ll have ourselves a champion.”

“We already do,” Becca pointed out.

“Have you given any thought to moving her to Sequoia Park?”

The smile left Becca’s face and she blanched. “I was hoping that we could keep her somewhere else.”

Ian put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It holds bad memories for me, too, Becca. But it’s the closest to the farm and has the best facilities around. I thought we would start her in a few short races locally before we headed down the state and eventually back East.”

“You’re right, of course. When would you want to move her?”

“Soon—say, right after the holidays.”

Becca felt her uncertainty mount, but denied her fears. “You’re the trainer. Whatever you say goes.”

Ian paused and shifted the wooden match that was forever in his mouth, a habit he’d acquired since he’d given up cigarettes. “I appreciate that, gal. Not many owners would have stood up for a trainer the way that you did.”

It was Becca’s turn to be comforting. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve been over this a hundred times before. You and I both know that you had nothing to do with what happened to Sentimental Lady. I never doubted it for a minute.”

“She was my responsibility.”

“And you did everything you could do to protect her.”

His wizened blue eyes seemed suddenly old. “It wasn’t enough, was it?”

“It’s over, Ian. Forget it.”

“Can you?”

Becca smiled sadly. “Of course not. But I do try not to brood about it.” She stared pointedly at the bridle Ian held in his gnarled hands. “Is there something else that’s bothering you?” It wasn’t like Ian to be melancholy or to second-guess himself.

Ian shook his gray head.

“How did the workout go this morning?” Becca asked, changing the subject and hoping to lighten the mood of the conversation.

Ian managed a bemused smile. “Gypsy Wind really outdid herself. She wanted to run the entire distance.”

“Just like Lady,” Becca observed.

“Yeah.” Ian replaced the bridle on a rusty hook near a yellowed picture of Sentimental Lady. He stared wistfully at the black and white photograph of the proud filly. “They’re a lot alike,” he mumbled to himself as he turned toward the door. “Got to run now, the missus doesn’t like me late for supper.”

“Ian—”

His hand paused over the door handle and he rotated his body so that he could once again face Becca.

“After the race at Sequoia . . .”

Ian pulled his broad-billed cap over his head and nodded to encourage Becca to continue.

Becca’s voice was less bold than it had been and her cheeks appeared pinker. “After all the hubbub had died down about the horse, did you ever take a call from Brig . . . a call for me that you never told me about?”

Ian’s lips pursed into a frown. “He told you about that, did he?” Ian asked, pulling himself up to his full fifty-four inches. “I figured he would, should have expected it.” Ian rubbed the silver stubble on his chin. “Yeah, Missy, he called, more than once if I remember correctly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ian leaned against the door and had trouble meeting Becca’s searching gaze. “We thought about it,” he admitted.

“We?”

“Yeah, Martha, Dean, and I. We considered it, talked a lot about it. More than you might guess. But Dean, well, he insisted that we shouldn’t bother you about the fact that Brig kept calling—said that after all you’d been through, you didn’t need to talk to him and start the trouble all over again.” Ian shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Someone should have asked me.”

Ian nodded his agreement. “That’s what Martha and I thought, but Dean disagreed. He was absolutely certain that anything Brig might say to you would only . . . well, open old wounds.”

Becca lifted her chin. “I was old enough to care for myself.”

The old man flushed with embarrassment. “I know, Missy. I know that now, but at the time we were all a little shaken up. Martha and I, we never felt comfortable about it.”

“Is that why Martha quit so suddenly?”

Ian’s faded eyes darkened. “I don’t rightly know.” He considered her question. “Maybe it helped her with her decision to move in with her daughter. Leastwise, it didn’t hurt.”

“Did Dean speak with Brig?” Cold suspicion prompted her question.

Ian thought for a moment and then shrugged his bowed shoulders. “I can’t say for certain—it’s been a long time. No, wait. He must have, ’cause right after he told me he’d taken care of Brig, we didn’t get any more calls.”

“How many calls were there?” Becca’s heart was thudding expectantly. Brig hadn’t lied.

“Can’t recall. Four—maybe five. Dean was afraid you might take one yourself.”

“So he told me not to answer the phone, in order that he could ‘protect’ me from nosy reporters,” she finished for him.

“Is that what he told you?”

Becca nodded, her thoughts swimming. Why would Dean lie to her? “So Dean was the one who made the final decision.”

“Yeah. Martha and I, we agreed with him.”

“Why?”

“He was only looking after you . . .” His statement was nearly an apology.

“I know,” Becca sighed, trying to set the old man’s mind at ease. “It’s all right.”

Ian gave her an affectionate smile before leaving the tack room and shutting the door behind him. Becca bit at her lower lip and stared sightlessly into the trophy case. Why would Dean hide the fact that Brig had called?

Swallowing back the betrayal that was rising in her throat, she tried to give her brother the benefit of the doubt. Surely he had only wanted to protect her, in his own misguided manner. But that had been six years ago. With the passage of time, Becca would have expected him to tell her about the calls. Why not tell her after the shock of the race had worn off? Was he afraid she would relapse into her depression? For a fraction of a second Becca wondered if there were other things that Dean had hidden from her. Was he responsible for the money missing from petty cash? And what about the roofing contractor he had suggested, the bum who had run off with her down payment for a new roof on the stables.

“Stop it,” she chided herself. She was becoming paranoid. Though she didn’t understand her brother at times, she couldn’t forget that he had been the one who had helped her put her life back together when it had been shattered into a thousand pieces six years ago at Sequoia Park.

Still troubled about the fact that Dean had purposely lied to her, Becca left the tack room and tossed aside the fears that were beginning to take hold of her. She made her way upstairs to the office and tried to concentrate on the books. Though she had been gone for little over three days, she knew that the bookkeeping would be far behind, as it was near the end of the month. It was time to start organizing the journal entries for month-end posting. She opened the checkbook and realized that several checks were missing. What was happening? No entries had been made for the missing checks. A new fear began to take hold of her. Was someone at the farm stealing from her? But the checks were worthless without a proper signature: Rebecca’s or Dean’s.

“Dear God, no,” she whispered as the weight of her discovery hit her with the force of a tidal wave. She sat down at the desk, her legs suddenly too weak to support her.

The sound of a pickup roaring down the drive met her ears. She recognized it as belonging to Dean. She waited. It wasn’t long before his boots clamored up the stairs and he burst into the room, smelling like a brewery and slightly unsteady on his feet. His boyish grin was slightly lopsided.

Becca thought he looked nervous, but mentally told herself that she was just imagining his anxiety.

“Hi, sis. How was the flight?” he asked casually as he popped the tab on a cold can of beer, took a long swallow, and dropped onto the ripped couch.

“Tiresome, but on schedule,” she replied, watching him with new eyes. He settled into the couch, propped the heels of his boots against the corner of the desk, and let his Stetson fall forward. Balancing the can precariously on his stomach between his outstretched fingers, he looked as if he might fall asleep.

His voice was slightly muffled. “And good ole Brig, how was he?”

Becca hesitated only slightly, carefully gauging her brother’s reaction. His eyes were shadowed by the hat, but there appeared to be more than idle interest in his gaze. Becca supposed that was to be expected, considering the situation. “Brig was fine.”

Her noncommittal response didn’t satisfy Dean. “And I suppose you told him about the horse,” he said sarcastically.

“You know I did.”

His boots hit the floor with a thud, and beer slopped onto his shirt before he could grab the can. He stood to his full height and looked down upon her with his ruddy face contorted in rage. “Goddamn it, Becca! I knew it! You didn’t listen to one word of advice I gave you, did you? I don’t know what the hell’s gotten into you lately!”

“Precisely what I was thinking about you,” she snapped back.

“I’m only trying to look out for your best interests,” he proclaimed.

“Are you?”

“You know I am.” He took another swallow from the beer but it didn’t begin to cool the anger in his steely-blue eyes. He shook his head as if to dislodge a bothersome thought. “I knew it,” he said, swearing under his breath. “Damn it! I knew that if I let you go to Denver you’d come back here with your mind all turned around.”

“If you let me?” she echoed. “I can make my own decisions, Dean, and there’s nothing wrong with my mind!”

“Except that you can’t think straight whenever you’re near Brig Chambers!”

“You and I agreed that Brig had to know about the horse—there was no other way around it.”

“We didn’t agree to anything. You went running off to Denver with any flimsy excuse to look up Brig again.”

“And you decided to tie one on, after taking a few checks from the checkbook.”

For a moment Dean was stopped short. Then, with a growl, he dug into his pockets and threw two crumpled checks onto the desk. “I was a little short—”

“Where’s the other check?”

“I cashed it. Okay? So sue me!”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is, sis? And what happened while you were in Denver? Unless I miss my guess, you started to fall in love all over again with that miserable son-of-a-bitch, and then he threw you out on your ear.”

Becca rose from the desk. She had to fight to keep her voice from shaking as badly as her hands. “That’s not what happened.” Her green eyes deepened with her anger.

“Close enough.” Dean took a final swallow of beer and drained the can before he crushed it in his fist. “So what did he tell you to do—sell the horse?” Dean’s knowing blue gaze bored into Becca’s angry emerald eyes.

“We considered several alternatives.”

“I’ll just bet you did,” Dean agreed with a disbelieving smirk.

Becca swallowed back the hot retort that hovered on the end of her tongue. Trading verbal knife wounds with her brother would get her nowhere. “I’ve decided to keep the horse. I told Brig that we’d pay him back within the year.”

“Are you out of your mind? Fifty grand plus interest?” Dean was astounded. “That’ll be impossible! Even if Gypsy Wind wins right off the bat, it takes a bundle just to cover her costs. You’re going to have to stable her at a track, hire an entire crew, enter her in the events—it will cost us a small fortune.”

“She’s worth it, Dean.”

“How in the world do you think you can pay off Chambers?”

“She’ll win.”

“Oh God, Becca. Why gamble? Take my advice and sell her!”

“To whom?”

“Anyone! Surely someone’s interested. You should have listened to me and sold her at Keeneland when she was a yearling. It’s going to be a lot tougher now that she’s racing age and hasn’t even bothered to start!”

“And you know why,” Becca charged.

“Because you didn’t have the guts to let Brig Chambers know about the horse, that’s why. I don’t know how you’ve managed to keep so quiet about her, or why you’d want to. The more you build her up to the press, compare her to Sentimental Lady, the more she’s worth!”

Becca’s thin patience frayed. “I didn’t run her as a two-year-old to avoid injuring her. As for hype about a horse, it’s highly overrated. Any owner worth his salt judges an animal by the horse itself—not some press release.”

“I don’t understand why you’re all bent out of shape about it,” Dean announced as he threw the twisted empty can into a nearby trash basket.

“And I don’t understand why you insist on trying to run my life!”

Dean’s flushed face tensed. “Because you need me—or have you forgotten?” He paused for a moment and his face relaxed. “At least, you used to need me. Has that changed?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I . . . I just don’t like fighting with you. It seems that lately we’re at opposite ends of any argument.” Despite the tension in the room, she managed a smile. “But you’re right about one thing,” she conceded. “I did need you and you were there for me. I appreciate that, Dean, and I owe you for it.”

“But,” he coaxed, reading the puzzled expression on her face and knowing intuitively that she wasn’t finished.

“But I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me about Brig and why you hid the fact that he called me several times.”

Dean seemed to pale beneath his California tan. “So he told you about that, did he?”

“And Ian explained what happened.”

A startled look darkened his pale eyes but swiftly disappeared. His thin lips pressed into a disgusted line. “Then you realize that I was just trying to protect you.”

“From what?”

“From Chambers! Becca, look. You’ve never been able to face the fact that he used you.” Becca started to interrupt, but Dean held her words at bay by raising his outstretched fingers. “It’s true, damn it. That man can hurt you like nobody else. I don’t know what it is about him that turns a rational woman like you into a simpering fool, but he certainly has the touch. He used you in the past; and if you give him another chance, he’ll do it again. I don’t think he can stop himself, it’s inbred in his nature.”

“You’re being unfair.”

“And you’re hiding your head in the sand.”

Becca ran her fingers through her hair, unfastening the thong that held it tied and letting it fall into loose curls to surround her face. She thought back to the warm moments of love with Brig and the happiness they had shared in the snow-capped Rockies; the passion, the tenderness, the yearning, the pain. Was it only for one short weekend in her life? Was she destined to forever love a man who couldn’t return that love? Could Dean be right? Had Brig used her? “No,” she whispered shakily, trying to convince herself as much as her brother. “I can’t believe that Brig ever used me, or that he ever intentionally hurt me.”

“Come off it, Becca!”

“That’s the way I see it.”

Dean’s eyes were earnest, his jaw determined. “And you live with your head in the clouds when it comes to horses and men. You dream of horses that run wild and free and you try to turn men into heroes who bare their souls for the love of a woman—at least, you do in the case of Brig Chambers.”

“Now you’re trying to stereotype me,” she accused.

“Think about it, sis.” Dean gave her a knowing smile before striding toward the door.

Becca couldn’t let him go until he answered one last nagging question that had been with her ever since she had spoken with Ian in the tack room. “Dean, why did Martha leave the ranch when she did?”

Dean’s hand paused over the doorknob. He whirled around to face his sister, his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that she left rather suddenly, don’t you think? And it’s odd that I haven’t heard from her since. Not even a card at Christmas. It’s always bothered me.”

Dean’s face froze into a well-practiced smile. “Didn’t she say that she left because her daughter needed her?”

“That’s what you told me.”

“But you don’t think that’s the reason?” Dean asked, coolly avoiding her penetrating gaze. How close to the truth was she? He was unnerved, but he tried his best not to let it show. Becca was becoming suspicious—all because of Brig Chambers!

“I just wondered if it had anything to do with Brig’s phone calls,” Becca replied. The tension in the room made it seem stuffy.

“I doubt it, Becca. Martha’s kid was sick.”

“The eighteen-year-old girl?”

“Right. Uh, Martha went to live with her and that’s the end of the story. Maybe she’s just too busy to write.”

“I don’t even know where they moved, do you?”

“No.” Dean’s voice was brittle. “Look, I’ve got to run—see you later.” Dean pushed open the door and hurried down the stairs. He seemed to be relieved to get out of the office and away from Becca.

An uneasy feeling of suspicion weighed heavily on Becca’s mind. She worked long into the evening, but couldn’t shake the annoying doubts that plagued her. Why did she have the feeling that Dean wasn’t telling her everything? What could he possibly be hiding? Was it, as he so emphatically asserted, that he was interested only in protecting her? Or was there more . . .

* * *

Brig sat at his desk and eyed the latest stack of correspondence from the estate attorneys with disgust. It seemed that every day they came up with more questions for him and his staff. The accident that had taken his father’s life had happened more than a month ago, and yet Brig had the disquieting feeling that the Last Will and Testament of Jason Chambers was as far from being settled as it had ever been. He tossed the papers aside and rose from the desk.

Behind him, through the large plate-glass window the city of Denver spread until it reached the rugged backdrop of the bold Colorado Rockies. Brig hazarded a glance out the window and into the dusk, but neither the bustling city nor the cathedral peaks held any interest for him. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to take his mind off Rebecca Peters and that last weekend they had spent together.

The smoked-glass door to the office opened and Mona, Brig’s secretary, entered. “I’m going down to the cafeteria—can I get you anything?” Brig shook his head and managed a tired smile. “How about a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t think so.”

Mona raised her perfect eyebrows. “It could be a long night. Emery called. He seems to think that the wildcat strike in Wyoming won’t be settled for at least a week.”

“Arbitration isn’t working?”

“Apparently not.”

“Great,” Brig muttered. “Just what we need.” Mona closed the door softly behind her and leaned against it. She ran nervous fingers over her neatly styled silver hair. She was only thirty-five; the color of her hair was by choice. “Is something bothering you?” she asked, genuinely concerned.

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re overworked.”

Brig laughed despite himself. Mona had a way of cutting to the core of a problem. “I can’t disagree with that.”

“Then why don’t you take some time off?” she suggested. “Or at least take a working vacation and spend some time in your father’s cabin.” She watched him carefully; he seemed to tense.

“I can’t do that. It’s impossible.”

“I could route all the important calls to you.”

“Out of the question,” he snapped.

Mona pursed her lips, stung by his hot retort. It wasn’t like him. But then, he wasn’t himself lately. Not since that weekend he spent alone. Maybe the strain of his father’s death affected him more deeply than he admitted. “It was just a suggestion.”

“I know it was, Mona,” he admitted, and his shoulders slumped. “I didn’t mean to shout at you.”

“Still, I do think you should consider taking some time off.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible—before you really chop somebody’s head off.”

“Do you think you can handle this office without me?”

She winked slyly at him. “What do you think?”

“I know you can.”

“I’ll remember that the next time I ask for a raise. Now, have you reconsidered my offer—how about some coffee?”

Brig’s face broke into an affable grin. “If you insist.”

“Well, while I’m still batting a thousand, I really do think you should take a couple of days off. Believe me, this place won’t fall apart without you.”

“I suppose not,” Brig conceded as the pert secretary slipped out of his office and headed for the cafeteria.

Mona had a point. Brig knew he was tense and that his temper was shorter than usual. Maybe it was because he found it nearly impossible to concentrate on his position. The glass-topped desk was littered with work that didn’t interest him. Even the wildcat strike in Wyoming seemed grossly unimportant. Chambers Oil was one of the largest oil companies in the United States, with drilling rights throughout the continental U.S. and Alaska. That didn’t begin to include the offshore drilling. Who the hell cared about oil in Wyoming? As far as he was concerned, Chambers Oil could write off the entire venture as a tax loss.

Brig rotated his shoulders and tried to smooth away the tension in his neck and back. Who was he kidding? It wasn’t his father’s estate that kept him awake at nights. Nor was it the strike in Wyoming, or any of the other nagging problems that came with the responsibility of running Chambers Oil. The problem was Rebecca Peters. It always had been, and he didn’t doubt for a moment that it always would be.

Though he went through the day-to-day routine of managing his father’s company, he couldn’t forget the pained look in Rebecca’s misty green eyes when he had accused her once again of knowing who drugged Sentimental Lady. Her violent reaction to his charge and her vicious attack against him, claiming that it was he rather than she who had been involved in the crime, was ludicrous. But it still planted a seed of doubt in his mind.

Brig tucked his hands into his back pockets and looked down the twenty-eight floors to the streets of Denver. Was it possible that Becca didn’t know her horse had been drugged? Had he been wrong, blinded by evidence that was inaccurate? Even the racing board could level no blame for the crime. Ian O’Riley’s reputation as a trainer might have been blemished for carelessness, but the man wasn’t found guilty of the act of stimulating the horse artificially.

As he stared, unseeing, out the window he thought about Becca and her initial reaction to the race. She had been afraid and in a turmoil of anguished emotions. He could still hear her pained cries.

“It’s all my fault,” Becca had screamed, “all mine.” Brig had dragged her away from the terror-stricken filly, holding the woman he loved in a binding grip that kept her arms immobilized. Becca had lost a shoe on the track. He hadn’t bothered to pick it up.

Could he have misread her self-proclaimed guilt? Could her cries have erupted from the hysteria taking hold of her? Or was it an honest acceptance of blame, only to be denounced when she had finally calmed down and perceived the extent of the crime? He had always known that she would never intentionally hurt her horse; cruelty wasn’t a part of Rebecca’s nature. But he hadn’t doubted that she was covering up for the culprit. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Rubbing his temples as if he could erase the painful memory, he sat down at the desk. There was a soft knock on the door and Mona entered with a steaming cup of coffee.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” she chirped as she handed it to her boss.

“What did I do to deserve you?” Brig asked gratefully.

She winked slyly. “Inherited an oil fortune.”

Brig took a sip from the steaming mug and smiled fondly at his father’s secretary. He had inherited Mona along with the rest of the wealthy trappings of Chambers Oil. “You were right, Mona, I needed this.” He held up his cup.

“Was there any doubt?” she quipped before her eyes became somber with genuine concern. She liked Brig Chambers, always had, and she could see that something was eating at him. “I’m right about the fact that you need a vacation, too,” she observed.

“I’m not denying it.”

“Then promise me that you’ll take one.”

Brig cracked a smile. “All right, you win. I promise, just as soon as I can get the estate attorneys and tax auditors off my back and we somehow settle the strike in Wyoming.”

“Good.” Mona returned Brig’s grin. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” she stated as she walked out of the office.

If ads affect your reading experience, click here to remove ads on this page.