Biding Her Time

Most mornings for the past month, Quest’s difficulties had been the first thing on Audrey’s mind. She awoke worrying about Brent Preston, Quest’s breeder, and about Carter Phillips, their veterinarian. More than anyone, the two men were coming under suspicion from the Jockey Association. Only Thoroughbreds produced by live cover rather than artificial insemination were accepted for the association’s registration, and both Brent and Carter had witnessed the breeding of Leopold’s Legacy’s dam, Courtin’ Cristy, with Apollo’s Ice at Angelina’s Stud Farm.

Audrey knew the Prestons well and trusted them implicitly. They had been beyond reproach as employers to both her father, who had served as their head farrier for eleven years, and her since she took his place last year. Shoeing Thoroughbreds was the only work she had ever known. Her father had been her hero and best friend, and she’d trailed him like a puppy through the stables while he worked. Treating her like one of the team instead of a youthful nuisance, the Prestons had made it easy for her to follow in her dad’s footsteps.

Feeling impotent in the face of their current troubles, she had readily agreed to help by pulling names up from Quest’s database so the Prestons could contact the owners of their stabled horses. The family wanted to personally break the news that the Jockey Association had recalled Leopold’s Legacy’s Thoroughbred status, which meant the regional racing commissions refused to let him race in North America. Several owners already had withdrawn horses stabled at Quest after the first whiff of scandal, and the Prestons were hoping to stanch further losses by reaching their clients before industry gossip did.

Printing phone lists didn’t feel very proactive, but it was better than sitting on one’s hands, and if it helped Brent and Carter even a little bit, then it was worth it.

Rolling over in bed the morning after she’d danced the night away, Audrey realized this was the first time in weeks that she’d awoken to find her thoughts consumed by her own circumstances as much as by the Prestons’.

Bending an arm above her head, she gazed at the ceiling, recently painted a crisp white, and tried to guess the time without looking at the clock. It was a workday, and she almost always rose before five on a workday, but the brightness and warmth in the room suggested she’d overslept.

Of course, the warmth could be attributed to the big body in bed next to her. A faint disgust had her shaking her head. She’d been exhausted when her head hit the pillow, but she was reasonably certain she’d climbed into bed alone.

“How did you get in here?” she asked without looking over, wrinkling her nose at the answer—a rude snort in her ear.

“Seamus,” she scolded, rolling toward a hundred-and-sixty pounds of lean muscle, wiry steel-gray hair and huge feet. Four of them. “You’re supposed to be sleeping at the big house. Thomas and Jenna bought you that beautiful bed. Don’t be an ingrate.”

The mammoth Irish wolfhound responded by swiping a sleepy tongue over Audrey’s face then yawning. Hugely.

“Morning breath, Seamus.”

Audrey sat up. Her bedroom window, which she’d left open, was once again missing its screen, pried off by the one male on the property that had fallen hopelessly, madly in love with her.

Leaving Seamus where he was—not a morning man, he’d be snoring before her feet hit the floor—Audrey hauled herself out of bed and slogged toward the living area of her small home, one of the employee cottages on the Prestons’ estate.

She’d have liked to have started her day straight off with a mug of painfully strong coffee, but she’d ignored a blinking light on her phone machine the night before. Prioritizing, she padded down her short hallway and pressed “play” on the machine that sat on the maple-topped bar dividing her kitchen and living room.

“Audrey,” the first message began, “Carter here. Melanie spotted a problem with Something to Talk About’s gait a couple of days ago. I haven’t found a cause, but I noticed he’s due for a shoeing, so can you give me a call when you get around to him? Thanks.” Beep.

Making a mental note, Audrey went to the fridge and withdrew a pound bag of ground coffee beans. She grabbed a filter and a measuring spoon so she could start her eight-cup-a-day habit as the next message played. She was so freakishly tired from yesterday, she thought she might up the ante to ten cups.

“Hi, Audrey.” Halting with the measuring spoon in the coffee bag, Audrey turned her head toward the machine. The voice alone made her feel cold all over. “It’s Dr. McFarland. I don’t have the results of your blood tests yet, obviously, but when you left my office today, I got the sense you might not follow up with the surgeon I recommended. So I’m calling because…”

Dr. McFarland paused, and Audrey found herself hoping that the internist had mistakenly hung up or been cut off. No such luck.

“Audrey, I’ve known you a long time, and I understand how difficult it would be if you were sick again, but I—”

Lunging for the phone machine, Audrey pressed “skip.”

Heart beating as if she’d already injected caffeine into a major artery, she set her jaw and breathed deeply through her nose.

No, you don’t understand.

“I’m not sick again.” Breathe in, two-three-four… I am not sick. Breathe out, two-three…

The next message had already begun, and Audrey made herself concentrate on Jenna Preston’s upbeat voice, hoping it would calm the buzzing in her brain.

“… calling to invite you to lunch tomorrow. I hope you can make it. You don’t have to call back, honey. Just come on up to the house at noon. See you tomorrow unless I bump into you before. Bye.”

When the phone machine clicked off, Audrey closed her eyes and stood very still.

A year ago, her dad had died unexpectedly of a heart attack at the age of sixty-four. Henry Griffin had been her only relative, her roommate, her rock. Since his passing, Jenna’s kindness had swelled into a motherly concern that made Audrey feel guilty, because she knew in her heart that it was time for her to leave Quest. The call from Dr. McFarland confirmed the instinct.

She and her dad had moved here from Texas when Audrey was twelve. Certainly it had occurred to her in recent years that a twenty-something ought to experience more of the world than a piece of Kentucky, but until her father’s passing, she had never seriously entertained the idea of leaving. She figured that was why she took so many dang classes—so she could be an armchair adventurer. But now that he was gone, was it enough? She had a little money; she could travel, see places she’d only read about. She was twenty-four, and she’d never been in an airplane.

Opening her eyes and abandoning the coffee, she crossed slowly to the living room, to a recliner that sat just inside the front door. Neatly positioned beside the chair, rested a pair of burgundy-green-and-navy plaid men’s slippers made soft and pliable from lots of wear.

As if the slippers belonged to her, Audrey slid her feet inside. Her stress melted into the faux sheepskin lining. She’d given Henry the loafers as a joke Christmas gift one year—slippers that matched his favorite plaid chair. He’d worn them every night after work, claiming, “My big ol’ feet never looked better.” Memories rose from the shoes’ very soles… The way her dad laughed like a cartoon chipmunk: “Chee-chee-chee-chee.” The Sunday morning going-to-church scent of Aqua Velva aftershave. The soft expression in his eyes when she sometimes caught him watching her.

“God must think I’m an okay sort, Audrey Lea, because He gave me an angel to love.”

Audrey shook her head. She was no angel. Angels didn’t get so scared piss-less that they wanted to crawl under their beds and stay there.

She’d always known her future was a big question mark. She’d never had the luxury of taking it for granted, as other people her age were privileged to do.

What she did have was an appreciation for the fragility of life. She needed to carpe diem while there was still a diem to carpe.

Seamus’s toenails clicked slowly down the hallway as the big lug made his way sleepily toward the living room.

“Decided you couldn’t live without me, huh?”

Meeting him halfway, Audrey leaned over for a sloppy kiss and a wirehaired hug. The problem with saying hello to a new life was the necessity of bidding goodbye to the old one first.

“I love you, you big goof, but it’s time for you to find a girl your own age. Preferably your own species.” When she straightened, he whined. “Come on, I’ll make breakfast and show you some of the travel brochures I’ve been collecting.”

As they walked to the kitchen, Audrey considered the past year of breakfasts shared only with her four-footed friend. Then she remembered the brief moment of excitement and anticipation in the bar last night.

“To tell you the truth, Seamus, I wouldn’t mind waking up next to someone my own species, too. It wouldn’t be anything serious, so don’t get your whiskers in a knot. But I’m thinking I could combine travel with a little romance. I hear Frenchmen are a lot of fun. And they know how to let go when the time comes.”

“Shove over, you big, beautiful nag.”

Leaning her shoulder heavily into a shining gray filly named Biding Her Time, Audrey waited for the horse to shift her weight. Biding leaned the opposite way, forcing Audrey to drop the filly’s hoof and stand up—or be squashed by several hundred pounds of Thoroughbred.

“Sheesh!” Pulling her gloves off her hands, she slapped them to the ground. “You are the most stubborn damn thing.”

Showing more initiative than he ordinarily did during daylight hours, Seamus bounded off a comfortable bed of hay in one of Quest’s many stables and came to Audrey’s defense, growling at the horse.

Biding gave him the evil eye, stamped her hoof and whinnied. Untied, she wouldn’t be above trying to knock the dog down.

“Better leave her alone, Seamus, you know how cranky she gets. Besides, this is my job.”

Audrey had played or worked around horses all her life, and truthfully she liked the crafty and opinionated beasts best. Biding Her Time was one of those. After several races in which she had yet to place, a number of people were prepared to write her off. Not Audrey. She knew, or sensed anyway, that the filly was testing the waters, not merely in races, but in her life. Biding paid attention to everything in the stable, in the paddock, on the track. She investigated her surroundings as if she were waiting for the click that would inspire her to think, I’m home, I’m safe, I’m ready to win.

Pushing back the locks of hair that had fallen loose from her braid and plucking at the T-shirt that glommed ickily to her damp skin, Audrey went forehead to forehead with the filly. “I certainly hope you’re ready to get new shoes, ’cause they’re coming, whether you like it or not.”

Repositioning herself, Audrey picked up the left front hoof, quickly shoving her shoulder under the horse. Biding relented, allowing her foot to be placed between Audrey’s bent knees and the pedicure to begin. It was a game they had played for the past year. They both enjoyed it.

“Atta girl.” Audrey began filing and soon was immersed in the sound of the hoof being grated down, the “Classic Strings” CD on the player perched atop a stool a few feet away, and the huff-huff-huff of Biding’s breathing.

This was the part of the job Audrey liked best—the soothing rhythm, the juxtaposition of quiet solitude and labor that was hard enough to soak her hairline, chest and back with perspiration. She’d have to finish her morning work in time for a shower before lunch. Which was a real waste of personal grooming, if you asked her, because she had two more ponies to shoe that afternoon.

The sad truth was that she’d rather plant herself on a chair outside Biding’s stall, chow down on a turkey-and-Swiss on rye and sneak the horse a few carrots, than join the Prestons at the big house. She knew today would present an ideal opportunity to tell the Prestons they needed to hire a new farrier, and she could feel her stomach churning at the prospect.

Turning toward the backpack she usually lugged with her to the stables, Audrey withdrew a roll of the antacids she’d been wolfing down lately. Peeling back the silver paper, she tilted her head, popped two tablets into her mouth and began to chew, quickly deciding this was going to be at least a three-antacid morning.

“Audrey Griffin, don’t you dare fill up on candy before lunch. We are having a veritable feast, and I expect you to arrive hungry!”

Startled by her employer’s voice, Audrey nearly choked on the tablets.

She whipped around. “Jenna!” Immediately upon seeing the woman’s genteel, humor-filled face, she felt tension wring her intestines like a wet towel. “I didn’t hear you come up. I…I guess I was busy thinking…I have to finish shoeing Biding, and it’s getting pretty close to noon already, so maybe…”

The lame attempt she was about to make to wriggle out of lunch died on her lips when she realized that Jenna had a companion.

“Audrey, dear, I’d like you to meet Shane Preston, our nephew. He’s here from Australia. We decided to take a quick tour of the stables before lunch.”

Audrey blinked, as if that could change the scene in front of her. Raising the back of her wrist to her forehead, she wiped away a sheen of perspiration that now was due to more than physical exertion.

“Shane, this lovely girl is Audrey Griffin. You’ll get to know each other better later, of course.”

His brows spiked over the word “lovely.” Audrey saw it and was torn between wanting to run home to change her clothes and the desire to chuck a horseshoe at his head.

“Good to meet you, Audrey.” Dressed in a pristine suit on a scorching Kentucky day, the man smiled with just a quirk of his lips. His smooth Australian accent underscored the sardonic expression.

So the stranger in the bar, the one who looked as if he belonged on Mt. Rushmore or some other wonder of the world, was a Preston. It figured.

Handsome and strong like the Thoroughbreds they raised, the Prestons possessed physical gifts in extra measure. Melanie, a jockey, was a tiny thing, but she sparkled like a diamond and seemed as durable. The Preston men were all life-size Ken dolls—rock solid, absurdly handsome and short on chatter.

Aussie Ken was no exception.

“Nice to meet you, too.” Audrey ducked her sweaty head, hoping he did not recognize her as the girl who had made goo-goo eyes at him last night. And then she realized he was holding out his hand.

She stuck hers out, too, a reflex reaction that she lamented when they touched callus to callus. His palm was much tougher than she had imagined.

Unfortunately, he looked surprised, too. He’d taken her hand gently; she’d automatically used her customary grip, practically squeezing the life out of him.

She meant to let go immediately, but for the briefest of moments, the stable that was the center of her life faded away; the snuffling of horses and mucking of stalls, the scents of hay and manure; horses and humans were replaced by a blanket-like silence.

She realized she was staring, her palm locked with his. Last night’s curiosity about his eyes was satisfied: they were the intense blue of marbles and morning skies.

As her heart beat painfully in her throat, Audrey remembered her comment to Seamus—that she was going to find someone of her own species.

Recalling his beautiful companion from the night before, she told herself the truth: This man is not your species. He looks better, he smells better, and he keeps better company.

When she noted the humor in his gaze, she let go of his hand as if it had burst into flame. Setting her jaw, Audrey gave him a tough, take-no-prisoners glare.

From the age of nine until well into her teens, she’d been sick and skinny and deathly pale beneath her freckles. In her experience, people reacted to sick children by coddling or pitying or pretending not to notice them. Most of the time, she’d felt out of step with her peers, so she’d trailed her dad around the stables and got to know horses better than people. She’d also learned to act a lot tougher than she was, turning into a real snot when she sensed disapproval or condescension.

So now she embraced the dirt and the calluses and the perspiration, her styleless clothing and the lack of makeup, and sent her gaze on a lazy trip down his body and back up again. Sniffing as if he was the one who smelled bad, she drawled, “You sure are dressed pretty for a stroll through a stable. Hope you got the memo about watching where you step.”

Good teeth showed in a calculating smile. “I stand forewarned. And thank you for the compliment.” He inclined his head. “I have a great admiration, too, for people like you who put so much care into their… horses’ grooming.” He’d paused just long enough to make his inference crystal clear.

Clear to Audrey, at any rate. Jenna didn’t seem to notice. Before Audrey could think of a comeback, Jenna said, “Audrey has a natural touch with horses. She’s an excellent farrier.”

Aussie Ken’s brows rose. Either he was surprised or doubtful, or he didn’t know what a farrier was. She chose the last interpretation just for the fun of it.

“That means I shoe the nice ponies.” She offered the explanation kindly, as if she were talking to a toddler.

She managed to curl the edges of his smile. “I’m familiar with the term.”

A calculating light gleamed behind the blue eyes, and Audrey felt her anticipation spike as she wondered whether he’d give her a decent run for her money.

“It’s an interesting occupation for a—” Once more he paused, this time furrowing his brow as if he couldn’t quite find the right word. “—woman.”

Dang!

Round One to Aussie Ken.

“I think we’ll let you get on with your work now, Audrey.” Becoming aware of the crackle between her nephew and her employee, but not at all sure what to make of it, Jenna verbally stepped between them. “You two can get to know each other better at lunch. Twelve o’clock sharp.”

Taking Shane’s arm and giving Audrey a bemused look over her shoulder, Jenna guided her nephew on through the stable.

Short of a natural disaster, it looked as if she was having lunch with the Prestons and their nephew. Audrey expected her stomach to clench, but felt it growl instead. Bantering with him must have burned up a few calories.

Absently patting Biding’s neck, Audrey chewed her lip. Over the years, she had carved out a place for herself among the largely male population of Quest by learning to compete. At pool, at darts, with words—she gave as good as she got. Often better.

She felt a fluttering in her blood that made her feel more alive than she had all year. What harm could come from trading a few quips? Putting the pretty boy in his place? Shane Preston was a challenge, and her life up to this point had pretty much addicted her to a dare.

A grin stretched across her lips. Picking up her tools, Audrey gave the gray filly a pat on her rump. “Okay, Biding, let’s get this shoe on the road. It seems I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

Chapter Three

Audrey was showered and dressed in a fresh pair of jeans when she lifted the brass doorknocker that reminded her of a ring through a bull’s nose. She’d plaited her hair in a French braid this time—simple enough as it hung down her back, but a nod to the fact that she was dining somewhere more upscale than the inside of a stall.

Audrey smiled as the Prestons’ housekeeper answered the door and directed her to the patio that lay beyond the elegant white French doors off the dining room.

She had brought Seamus with her, and he followed her as far as the dining room, which was set with a stunning array of white-on-white china, and crystal that gleamed in the sun-kissed room. A polished cherrywood coffee trolley was already set with two glossy silver pots plus a four-tier dessert tree presenting an assortment of miniature cakes and truffles. Everything in the Prestons’ home bespoke of a lifestyle made luxurious by financial success.

What would happen to a family used to the finer things in life, if their current troubles proved powerful enough to crumple what they’d built?

There were people, certainly, who would be glad to watch a successful racing family lose at something. Even within the organization, there were always one or two dissenters intent on resenting the very people who signed their paychecks, but Audrey would never be one of them. She admired the Prestons. They worked hard, and at least one of them—Robbie, the youngest son—played hard, but you’d never see them throwing around their money or their power; they simply weren’t that way.

On top of that, they’d been good to her. Shortly after she and her dad had moved in—a single father and a skinny, morose-looking preteen who had recently lost her mother and most of her trust in the world—then eighteen-year-old Melanie Preston had arrived with a basket of food and books for Audrey that would have made any welcoming committee feel miserly by comparison. Quickly following his sister’s visit, sixteen-year-old Robbie had stopped by to see if any necessary repairs had been noted around the cottage.

When Audrey was sick and stayed home from school for weeks on end, the impromptu visits and special care packages continued and no one had ever made her feel like an extra appendage around the place, even when she surely had been one.

Standing now at the entrance to the dining room, with Seamus sniffing longingly in the direction of the coffee trolley, Audrey hoped that the ambiguity surrounding the breeding of Leopold’s Legacy would soon be resolved, preferably before she left the Prestons.

She ruffled the fur around Seamus’s neck. “Go find your bed, boy, and have a little nap.”

Sadly aware that the dining room was off-limits, the wolfhound turned and trudged off toward the family room where his bed awaited him.

Audrey moved toward the French doors, their glass panes veiled by sheer white curtain panels that allowed in a dreamy, filtered light.

Turning one brass door handle, she let herself out to a wide brick patio dotted with umbrellas that provided big circles of welcoming shade.

Despite a discomfiting hitch of nervousness, Audrey thought she’d managed to walk onto the patio as if she fit in fine with her surroundings.

Jenna and Shane stood by the patio balustrade, listening to Brent Preston, eldest son and head trainer at the stables, while the three of them looked out onto one of the paddocks. Brent’s sister, Melanie, and their father, Thomas, were having an animated discussion next to the hors d’oeuvres. Melanie had a glass of iced tea in one hand and a mini ham-and-cheese biscuit in the other. She waved the biscuit when she saw Audrey.

“Come here. I’m telling Dad about Something to Talk About. Audrey, isn’t he a beaut? Have you noticed his expression right before he gallops? He’s the most naturally ambitious horse I’ve ever seen. And he tunes in so well to people. He’s a total flirt. I bet he’ll win just to show off for me.”

Thomas watched his daughter with a heartwarming blend of affection and consternation. Horses had been in his blood before they’d ever become his livelihood. He’d lived and breathed racing long before his children had been a glimmer in his eye. He was an old-time track man, however, and the idea that a racehorse of any worth would win or lose depending on his affection for a jockey was pushing the boundaries of his belief system. There were still plenty of people, Audrey knew, who did not subscribe to the notion that horses possessed anything approaching emotional intelligence.

She, on the other hand, liked the idea. Working with horses day in and day out gave her a clear impression of which animals had compassion, empathy and a sense of camaraderie, and which wouldn’t let you on their backs if you were stranded in a desert without any shoes of your own.