If Wishes Were Horses

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She was the last woman in the world for him. She was so different from Sandi. He turned so that he could see the vibrant portrait above the fireplace. The woman whose eyes met his was darkly sleek, almost fiercely beautiful. Even in a big blow on Puget Sound in their sailboat, she’d always managed to stay neat. Until that final afternoon. He sighed and closed his eyes against that terrible image.

Every woman he’d ever dated since Sandi’s death had possessed that same elegance.

So why should Liz Matthews with her crooked nose and her grubby jeans attract him? She was so damned sure of herself, so career oriented. She crashed into his life like a freight train.

He set the empty beer bottle down on the coffee table as the realization hit him. Damn. All those qualities were exactly like Sandi. She’d spend all weekend designing one of her fancy Puget Sound houses and forget to eat or sleep. She dragged him to art galleries and theater and ballet and the opera—and taught him to love all of it. She’d exploded his miserable life like a rotten melon.

Four years out of Yale he’d been bored with making money, fed up with the ruthless negotiation and cliffhanger days when ten minutes might make the difference between a million lost and a million won. He’d needed something—or someone—new in his life.

He remembered the night he first saw her. He’d been alone, as usual, propping up the wall of the office reception room while a cocktail party raged around him, waiting until he could go home without seeming too rude.

She wore a loose red silk dress and the highest heels he’d ever seen outside of a topless bar. She stood out like a peony among all those navy and gray suits. Her long black hair was pulled back tight in a heavy bun on the back of her head. She caught him gaping at her, worked her way through the crowd until she was close enough to lay her hand on his arm. She said, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

He stammered, “I do now.”

He took her to bed two hours later, and six weeks later they were married. She was two years older than he, but that made no difference. They had six years of happiness. He bought her a forty-six-foot sailing sloop. Her career as an architect took off. He regained his pleasure in the money game. They seemed to live in a golden glow where everything they attempted turned out perfectly.

It had ended in four hours on a rainy Friday afternoon. She’d gone into premature labor, had an emergency C-section and burst a blood vessel in her brain that killed her twenty minutes later and left him with a two-pound baby daughter that he never intended to see.

He’d felt only rage. Rage at himself for giving in to her and getting her pregnant, rage at the child who had killed her, at Sandi for leaving him with this tiny little thing on his hands, at the doctors, the hospital, heaven itself.

He sailed their sloop out into the Sound so that he could open the sea cocks, sink the boat and join his wife.

He’d never doubted that it was Sandi who stopped him as he reached for the first plug. He turned the boat around, sailed back to the dock and drove at once to the hospital. He stood outside the neonatal intensive care unit looking at his blue-black stick figure of a daughter as she fought for her life. She was the ugliest small animal he’d ever seen.

As he stood staring in at his child, Sandi gave him her final gift. She filled his heart with love for this child for whom she had died. He sat down with his back against the wall and howled so loudly that two interns tried to sedate him.

He’d had his one great love. He couldn’t expect another. In the years since, he’d only sought to find a friend, a colleague, an ally to share his life and help raise Pat. Most marriages had considerably less going for them than friendship and collaboration.

Liz Matthews wasn’t his ally or colleague, and she didn’t act as though she’d ever consider him a friend. Yet she stirred his blood. He felt a tremor of disloyalty to Sandi, then he seemed to hear Sandi’s laughter. She never let him get away with nonsense like that.

Suddenly he had to get out of the apartment, drive. somewhere, anywhere. He told Mrs. Hannaford he’d be back in an hour or so and escaped from the apartment as though he were being chased by the devil himself.

“TRAVELLER’S MY PONY,” Pat screamed and started up the ladder to the hayloft.

“Get down from there,” Liz said. “I don’t feel up to climbing today.”

“I won’t.”

Liz sighed and began to follow, groaning at every step.

Halfway up the ladder, Pat stopped and glared over her shoulder at Liz. “You really hurt?”

“I am stiff and sore, thank you.”

Pat said nothing for a moment, then she started down. “Get out of the way.”

Liz stepped off the ladder and stood waiting in the aisle with her hands on her hips. “Come into the lounge so we can discuss this properly.”

Pat slouched ahead of her, dropped onto the leather couch, crossed her arms over her chest and pouted.

“Did we or did we not have an agreement about tantrums?”

“You gave that stuck-up Janey my Traveller. How could you?” Pat wailed.

Liz blew out her breath and sank gingerly into one of the chairs. “Janey is an experienced rider. I’m too big to work Iggy, and Vic doesn’t ride. Every step Janey takes on that pony teaches him.”

“But I want to ride him now.”

“Forget it.”

Pat set her jaw and glowered. Liz did not react.

After a moment Pat sighed and said, “Okay. But only if I can stay late for an extra lesson every day this week.”

“God, you drive a hard bargain. Anything for a peaceful life.” Liz pulled herself to her feet. “So go get Wishbone tacked up and get yourself into that arena.” She walked out.

Pat uttered a deeply put-upon sigh and heaved herself off the sofa just as Vic stuck her head in the door.

“You’re in my class today,” Vic said. “I warn you, I don’t put up with bad manners. One fit and you’re out.”

“Everybody’s always trying to throw me out.”

“No, we’re trying to keep you in. You just make it darned difficult for us.” She put her arm across Pat’s shoulders. “Listen, you’ve got the makings of a good rider.”

Pat shook off the arm. “How come you don’t ride? You’re scared, right?”

Vic caught her breath. “Boy, you go for the jugular, don’t you? Okay,” Vic continued. “I used to think I stopped riding because I was scared for myself. That’s not it. I’m terrified that somebody else will do something stupid and will get hurt because I’m not good enough to get out of the way. I can’t take that chance again.”

“That’s silly.”

“You asked. I told you. Now get Wishbone ready. We’re ten minutes late.”

PAT’S LESSON WENT smoothly enough. She did everything Vic asked of her including trying to post at the trot. Toward the end she seemed to click into the rhythm. She did have the makings of a rider.

Janey, meanwhile, handled Traveller beautifully. At the rate she was taking him, he’d be jumping small fences in a week.

At four o’clock Liz found herself hanging around inside the barn waiting for Mike Whitten to pick up Pat. When the silver Volvo pulled into the parking lot ten minutes later she felt her heart lurch. It sank as a plump lady climbed out of the driver’s side.

“Hey, I’m Melba Hannaford come for Pat.” She presented a note from Mike.

“Oh? Where’s Mr. Whitten?”

“Had to go out of town for a couple of days.”

Pat saw Mrs. Hannaford, and after a moment’s hesitation, took her on the same tour of the barn she’d dragged her father on.

She wasn’t so lucky at dragging out her visit, however. “No. I’ve got to stop by the store and get dinner in the oven,” Mrs. Hannaford said. “You’ll be back tomorrow.”

Pat stormed off to the car, climbed in and slammed the door. Through the windshield, Liz, Vic and Mrs. Hannaford could see her staring bullets at them.

“I hope he’ll be back in time for the barbecue and sleepover Friday night,” Vic said.

“Sleepover?”

“The parents are all coming for dinner, then the kids will stay over in sleeping bags on the lounge floor.”

“Oh, dear, I don’t think Mr. Whitten would allow that. Pat has never slept over at anybody’s house.”

“Time she started, then,” Vic said.

Mrs. Hannaford smiled. “You’re right. I’ll talk to him. Oh, can he bring a date?”

“Sure,” Liz said. Her voice sounded like a croak. “Now, I’ve got to go work out my jumper before my next lesson shows up. Nice to have met you.”

Of course Mike Whitten would bring a date. He must have dozens of women—beautiful, fashionable, clean women. Why did it bother her so badly? She turned to find Vic at her elbow and asked, “What’s this about a barbecue? We can’t afford it.”

“We can’t afford not to. Albert and I have everything arranged.”

“I should have guessed.”

“This is a family barn, Liz. Time we started treating it that way again. Show Whitten what a marvelous atmosphere it is for kids.”

“He’ll never let her eat barbecue in the open. He probably prefers pheasant under glass—suitably disinfected, of course.” Liz stomped off with Trusty’s halter in her hand.

Vic raised her eyebrows at Albert, who was straightening the wash rack and surreptitiously watching Liz. He nodded and grinned. “Uh-huh. Thought so.”

CHAPTER SIX

FRIDAY THE CAMPERS brought sleeping bags and paraphernalia for the sleepover. All except Pat. Mrs. Hannaford explained to Vic. “Mr. Whitten gets in from San Francisco at noon. I’ve talked to him on the telephone about the sleepover and the party, but he hasn’t made his decision yet.” She patted Vic’s arm. “I think I can persuade him to let Pat stay. I’m off to buy Pat a new sleeping bag. He can bring it with him tonight.”

Because all the kids were staying late, there was no extra lesson for Pat in the afternoon. She really didn’t need one. She had worked hard all week, and was progressing as well as everyone else.

Much to Liz’s amazement, Pat and Janey were becoming a team. They giggled together, ate together, played with the kittens together. Pat had become accustomed to Wishbone, but Liz caught her looking at Traveller wistfully, particularly now that Janey had progressed to trotting the pony over poles on the ground and cantering low jumps.

Liz knew Pat was still scared, although she hid it well. She did fine at the trot, but so far she’d categorically refused to try to push Wishbone into a canter. Each day she told Liz she’d try, and each day she reneged.

Now the barn was spiffed up, the horses were. groomed and fed, the barbecued ribs and shoulders were turning over a slow hickory fire in the parking lot, the tables and chairs were set out and ready.

Parents and clients began to arrive at six, and within minutes, pandemonium reigned as proud youngsters introduced their parents to the horses.

Liz, who usually loved parties and liked meeting new people, found herself strangely absentminded. Mike Whitten was late. She was curious about his date. Probably some long-stemmed beauty with painted toenails and expensively streaked hair.

At seven the silver Volvo pulled into the parking lot. Liz held her breath. Mike climbed out and walked around to open the passenger-side door. Liz blinked. He was wearing tight black jeans, a black linen shirt open at the neck and polished loafers without socks. He really did have a great body. She gulped, saw the woman emerging from the car and began to laugh.

Melba Hannaford climbed out and pulled a new sleeping bag and duffel from the back seat. She loaded Mike down with his daughter’s gear, turned, saw Liz, smiled and waved. Mike saw her at the same moment. He frowned.

“This is against my better judgment.” he said without preamble.

“Good grief, why?” Liz asked.

“Pat sleeps in filtered ionized air. She’s not used to sleeping on the floor surrounded by dust and pets.”

“Maybe it’s time she started.” Liz took the duffel off Mike’s arm. “Come on, Melba, meet the crowd.” She led them into the party.

Mike hated parties. He was lousy at making small talk with strangers. He glowered. That generally kept people at a distance.

Not tonight. A tall, graying man with a cherubic face and pink cheeks strode up to him with hand outstretched. “Hey, Mike. You may not remember me. I’m Kevin Womack. Your locker is two down from me at the club.”

Womack clapped a hand on Mike’s shoulder and began to introduce him around. Everyone was speaking at once and seemed to be having a great time. Mike searched the crowd for Pat, who had vanished.

“She’s in the hayloft with Janey,” Vic said from behind his left shoulder. Mike began to make his way through the crowd. He wanted to see his daughter.

As he turned the corner, he heard one Edenvale father say to a rotund, middle-aged man, “That’s Michael Whitten. Increased the endowment three hundred percent. I’m glad he’s on our side. I hear he’s a bad enemy.” Mike smiled grimly. At least his reputation . was intact.

“Pat?” he called up to the hayloft. He was answered by a pair of squeals. A moment later two heads, Pat’s and a dark girl’s, appeared over the edge of the hayloft.