Deal Me In. Cynthia Thomason
Brady figured his dad might cancel the party if Angela wasn’t up to hosting.
Marshall furrowed his brow. “Of course. Folks expect it. Besides, a man can’t stop living just because…” He never finished his thought and instead went to the buffet, filled a bowl with peaches and poured heavy cream over the top. “Are any of your friends from the poker game coming?”
Brady had invited Blake, Cole, Jake and Luke, the four regulars on Texas Hold ’Em nights. “Yes, they’re coming. Along with their girlfriends and wives.” Marshall knew Blake’s wife, Annie. She was a reporter for the River Bluff newspaper and expecting their first child. And Brady figured his dad would remember Rachel Diamonte, a former River Bluff prom queen, who’d recently come back to town. She and Jake had a history to mend, but since he’d hired her to renovate the bar they’d worked out their differences and were planning a future together. But he’d never met Tessa, the new love of Cole Lawry’s life.
“So Jake’s coming to the party?” Marshall said.
“Yep. Mom’s just going to have to accept that.”
“It’ll be all right. Your mother likes Luke, at least. There’s no better people than that whole Chisum clan.”
They ate in silence until Marshall scooped the last of the fruit from his bowl. He sat back. “Did you time those three-year-olds on the half mile this morning?”
“Sure did. Jodie’s Girl cut five seconds off her previous time. I breezed the two stallions with her, but they didn’t improve. In my opinion, though, Jodie’s ready for a claiming race.”
Marshall nodded. “She’s a good strong filly. How’s Amber Mac today?”
“Seems okay. I’m going to feed him when I’m done here.”
“Not too much. He’s not showing hog fat, but we’ve got to trim him down anyway.”
“I know, Dad. We talked about this. I won’t overfeed him.” Brady sopped up a pool of gravy with a biscuit. “At breakfast I went over the vet reports on him again. His vaccinations are up-to-date and his vitamin regimen seems appropriate for his age and weight.” He pushed his plate back and stood. He shouldn’t have to prove himself to his father every time they talked, yet he constantly felt the need to. “I’ve got to go, Dad. See you later.”
Marshall picked up his paper and resumed reading.
Brady returned to the mudroom for his boots and hat. He left by the back entrance and headed across the two hundred yards of lush green lawn that separated the stables from the house. He regretted not taking the golf cart…his knee was acting up. But he believed in the old-fashioned theory that pain can be walked off. Dodger, the family’s Jack Russell terrier yapped at his heels. “Where did you come from? I didn’t see you begging for scraps at lunch.”
The dog alternated between scuttling on his belly and nipping at the hem of Brady’s jeans. “Calm down. And stop that barking. We’re almost at the stables. You’re supposed to be a horse’s companion, not his biggest aggravation.”
They reached the stalls and Brady told Dodger to stay put, out of sight of Amber Mac. Predictably, the terrier didn’t pay any mind. Instead, he scratched at the bottom half of Mac’s door and resumed yipping. Amber Mac reared, hitting his rump against the back of the stall.
At the sound of laughter behind him, Brady whirled around. Dobbs picked up Dodger, set him in the yard, put his hand up in front of the animal’s face and said, “Stay!” Dodger didn’t move and Brady experienced renewed admiration for the trainer. And a bit of jealousy.
Dobbs walked over to him. “That’s what comes from a dog not knowing his place in the scheme of things around here,” he said. “In the daylight, that crazy pup is out here at the stables, then come evening, Angela gives him a bath in perfumed shampoo so he can sleep on a velvet pillow at the foot of her bed.” Dodger hadn’t moved, but was panting with excitement, probably anticipating his next opportunity to sneak back to the stalls. “You don’t know where you belong, do you, boy?” Dobbs said. He clucked his tongue a few times at Amber Mac and coaxed the animal to the door. “He’s acting skittish. I think it’s more than Dodger bothering him.”
“He’s probably hungry.” With a slow, deliberate motion, Brady lifted his hand to stroke the thoroughbred’s nose. “Time for lunch, fella.”
Mac jerked his head out of reach.
“Okay, so we’re not best friends yet.”
Dobbs handed Brady a feed bucket. “He’s only getting a pound of oats,” Dobbs said. “He’s been on grass and doesn’t need any more than that.”
Brady poured the oat pellets into the feed bucket. The horse immediately began to eat.
“Let’s leave him be,” Dobbs said, motioning for Brady to follow him. “Don’t get discouraged. This is only his first full day at Cross Fox. He needs a good week or two to adjust to his new environment, even if these are the luxury accommodations.”
Brady stopped halfway to the house and looked back. Dobbs turned to see what had caught his eye. The stables, built of brick and pine, stretched in a U-shaped arc with a stone statue of a thoroughbred in the center. Dutch doors opened onto each twelve-by-twelve stall. In the summer, when temperatures soared above ninety degrees, fans circulated continuously, keeping the horses cool and flies at bay.
Two full-time grooms cleaned brushes and kept the horses’ coats glossy. A pair of stable hands washed feed buckets and mucked stalls twice a day. An industrial washing machine was constantly running, keeping blankets, bandages and wraps sanitary. The Cross Fox gardener manicured the lawn around the stable until it resembled a putting green and kept oak planters in front of each stall. This month they were still filled with the brilliant red poinsettias of the holiday season. Marshall spared no expense.
Amber Mac’s accommodations were the best of the best. His stall opened onto a private paddock so he could come and go at will, allowing him the exercise needed to trim to an acceptable weight.
Brady crossed his arms and watched as Mac, finished with his meal, trotted into the paddock and stood with his head over the fence. “He’s got it pretty good.”
Dobbs started to comment but the sound of a car’s laboring engine interrupted him. “You expecting company?”
“Not me.” Brady peered down the half-mile drive. A rolling speck of white approached in a cloud of dust. “Who do we know who drives a tiny foreign thing like that?” he asked Dobbs.
“Nobody I can think of.”
But suddenly Brady knew. Strands of dark brown hair whipped from the driver’s window. George Strait blared from the radio. “Uh, Dobbs?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember seeing that car in Cliff’s parking lot?”
The car stopped two-thirds of the way around the circular drive, just past the entrance to the house. “Damn, Brady,” he said. “That sure looks like our Molly.”
“Shit, no, it can’t be.” Brady pushed his hat back from his forehead. “Sweet mercy, Dobbs, it’s her. And she’s got somebody else in the car.”
Molly shut off the engine. Dust settled over the car, turning the faded exterior a gritty beige. She raked her fingers through her mussed hair, gathered it into a bunch and deftly wound some sort of band around it. She stepped out of the car and leaned an elbow on the top. “You told me not to wait too long,” she said. “I guess this should be quick enough for you.”
He tried to think of something to say, but his head was filled with the chug of her car as it came up the drive and the snorts of amusement coming from Dobbs. Not to mention the appearance of a woman who looked entirely different from the demure waitress in a red dress. This Molly filled out a pair of jeans about as well as anyone could. Her long-sleeved blouse opened at her neck revealing a turquoise charm dipping from a silver chain