39. Ransom
39
RANSOM
I feel fucking stupid.
For all my bluster, I’m actually not much better off than Everett. I might be good in the saddle, but I’ve never played polo.
I get to mount this beautiful filly named “Fancy.” I walk her out to the field and stand side by side with Everett.
“The word on the field,” Everett says, “is that Arris is watching. If a player impresses him, he’ll invite them to the Coronation Ball.”
“Huh. Is that something we want?”
“If we want to get to the bottom of this, yes . From what I’ve gathered, the most important people in town will be there.” He glances at me, and his voice hardens. “Mr. Preacher’s killer will be there.”
Resolve fixes around my veins. “So we’ll be there.”
Everett measures me with his gaze. “You know how to play, don’t you?”
“Hit the ball with the bat. How hard can it be?”
“A mallet. Not a bat.” His voice is tight, like a warning. “ There are two teams. Two goals. Try to hit the ball into yours.”
“What’s my team name?”
“I don’t think they don’t have names.”
“That’s lame.” I tug at the strap of my helmet. “This uniform sucks. Helmet’s too tight.”
Everett’s mouth crosses in a thin, tight line, and I feel like I’ve come to the very long tail end of his patience. “Any other complaints?”
“Yeah. How come I’ve got the pink bat?”
“ Mallet .”
Loren rides up to us, sneer stamped across his face. He yanks his horse’s reins too sharply, and the horse’s head whips back. My stomach twists. “Hey, dumbass,” he says.
“What?” Everett and I snap in unison.
He blinks. Probably surprised two grown men responded to his insult without flinching. He’s got the face of a kid who has just walked in on his parents mid-decision to get divorced. Now, he’s too thrown for whatever great comeback he was amping himself up for, so he just says, “Uh…good luck.”
He kicks his horse’s flank, and it lets out a whine before bolting forward.
Everett gives me a look. “Try not to make an ass of yourself.”
Dick . Give this man a little kindness and he hangs me on it.
“I’d say same to you , but I think it comes naturally for you.”
Everett squeezes his thighs (like I taught him), and we guide our horses toward the center of the clearing, where everyone else is already lined up.
A woman in a tight-fitting outfit and cream pants meets us in the center of the field and explains the rules. We’ve got the red team and the green team, four horses on each. The horses have bands on their ankles to designate the different colors. Everett and Loren are red, I’m green. The field is wide, green, and has two goalposts on either side. The object of the game is to be the team to hit the ball through the opposing team’s goal.
Seems easy enough. I look around at my competition. They’re all stiff-backed and got silver spoons sticking out of their mouths. They may’ve been playing polo ever since they’ve been in diapers, but no one knows how to handle a horse the way I do.
“Ready to knock ’em dead, Fancy?” I ask.
She twitches her ear and huffs, which I translate to Eat the rich, sir.
But then the game kicks off, and I’m eating dust.
The players zip around the arena like wasps, swarming around the ball. Mallets whoosh through the air and click as they connect with the ball, hooves beating against the ground.
I follow the ball and even get a couple of whacks at it, but the mallet is harder to swing than it looks, and I keep kicking up dirt, leaving the ball in my wake.
I’ve got my eyes on Everett. He’s fighting his horse, giving the gal mixed signals with his reins, but every time he swings that mallet, it’s a perfect hit that sends the ball sailing through the goal.
Their team scores. My team glares at me.
Even with the autumn chill, the game is more exerting than it lets on, and between the strain of riding and the sun beating on my fleece, I feel sweat sticking to my sweater. Through pure rage alone, I manage to knock my mallet into the ball with a few hard swings. I’ve finally got some kind of flow on this, and Fancy and I weave down the field as I knock the ball forward. Through the edge of my vision, I can see Loren and Everett flanking me, trying to chase me off the ball. But I’m on it now, like a hound dog, and I kick it closer and closer until I’m within reach of the goal. I swing my mallet back for the killing blow, but?—
Everett hooks my mallet with his. I was holding on too damn tight because the force of his tug not only knocks me off-balance, but it yanks me right off my horse.
Fancy darts ahead, and I hit the dirt. I hear myself swear, and I just manage to roll out of the way before Everett’s horse come pounding past me, hooves inches away from my face.
Son of a bitch!
The ball lies in the grass, a mere couple of inches away from me.
I’m pissed, I’ve got grass between my teeth, and I don’t like being yanked out of my saddle.
Without thinking, I grab the ball and chuck it at Everett.
It hits him square in the back.
Ha! Take that!
But then he tumbles off his saddle, too, and guilt seeps in my chest.
Well, shit.
The horses move like a thundercloud, getting further way. I walk over to where Everett is lying on the ground. His glasses came off, so I pick those up and hand them down to him.
He props himself on his elbows. He’s got a mean grass streak across his shirt and pants. He puts his glasses on his face and then shoots me an icy look .
“That was not very sportsmanlike of you,” he chastises.
“Yeah, neither was your move.” I offer him a hand. He takes it.
“I was following model rules,” he says.
“They’re dick rules.”
I yank Everett to his feet. His tall body sways and, briefly, brushes against mine. The heat of his breath hits my cheek when we nearly collide. This close, I can nearly taste the sweat and dirt on him.
Everett doesn’t release my hand—not right away, anyway.
He drops the British act. In a low murmur, he says, “Imagine how insidious we’d be if we worked together instead of against each other.”
“Yeah. Also. I’m thinking we’d make a good team.”
There’s polite eruption of applause from the stands as Loren’s team scores. The board is now even—four and four. The next goal settles the game.
Those steely blue eyes flash. “Do you want to destroy Loren?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
As if on cue, Fancy trots up beside us and flicks her tail as if to say, What’re you waiting for?
Everett and I make eye contact, and somehow, that’s all we have to say.
I swing myself up back in the saddle and hold out a hand for Everett. He takes my hand and pulls himself up, mounting the horse behind me.
Gotta say—I’m not used to riding double saddle with a guy, but we fit. Everett’s body is flat, all coiled, tight muscles pressed against my back. His arm hooks around my middle. He wraps his hand around the horn of the saddle between my legs and grips .
Head in the game, Ransom .
“Hup!” I kick my heel into Fancy’s flank, and she obliges, taking off.
Loren is hungry for the win. He’s hot on the ball, and his powerful stallion pounds dirt, keeping the other horses a healthy distance.
Fancy isn’t afraid. She’s light and quick, and I weave her up behind him. Loren’s horse grunts, and Loren glances back. He does a double take when he sees the both of us on the horse, and his mustache nearly jumps off his face. He swings for the ball, but this time, Everett hooks him, knocking Loren’s mallet back. In the same swing, Everett hits the ball, and suddenly, it’s ours.
Everett deftly knocks the ball to another team member. He guides the ball into the goal, and—like that—we win the round.
But more importantly, Loren loses.
Apparently, someone’s shaken the skeletons awake because our audience breaks into the liveliest applause they’ve had all day. We even get a couple of hoots and hollers.
“How do you like that?” I call back at Loren.
The sneer on Loren’s face? That’s priceless.
I lift my mallet in the air. “Three cheers to Team Dumbass!”
There’s a puff of breath against the back of my neck, and I swear to God, I think I made Everett Stick-in-the-ass Hollow laugh.
Loren—giant man-child that he is—throws a fit. He rips off his helmet. I can see him shouting at the referee.
But his words get drowned out because then I see it.
A notch on the back of his head. Stitches and a shaven patch of skin .
The kind of mark a hammer might leave, for example, if it hit someone in the back of their head when they went running from the murder scene.