Pride (The Eventing Series Book 2) Read online

  The blood was pumping in my forehead and my vision was swimming and I actually had to hold the golf cart to steady myself as I swayed on my feet. “Are… you… fucking… kidding me?” It burst out of me before I could stop it, a tidal wave of hurt and anger and frustration. “What did I say to you? I said this wasn’t a good jump for your horse! I said he’d never go near it! You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said to you! All you’ve done is bitch at me and complain at me and make shit up—all this ‘oh I have to be in Naples’ and ‘oh rich people are counting on me’ and ‘oh I wandered around your farm for an hour looking for you.’ What, are you an idiot? You couldn’t find me on a farm with two barns? Maybe the fact that I wasn’t in the first barn was a pretty good tip-off that I was in the second barn? Maybe the person in the fucking first barn who said I was in the second barn was a pretty good tip-off I was in the second barn? This is not my fault. You being stupid is not my fault. You being a terrible human being is not my fault. So just… just stop,” I finished wanly, having run out of steam, having run out of anger, having run out of the passion which had clouded my vision momentarily, left only with sick, painful, nauseating regret.

  Oh, what have I done. Oh my Godly God, what have I done.

  I CALLED CARL Rockwell as soon as my hands had stopped shaking. No time to reconsider, no time to try to butter up Pete, no time to get out of this. I’d tried to fix things, and I’d failed—I’d failed hard. Even I was amazed at the degree to which I’d messed up with Tony, and I was well aware of my shortcomings in the charm department.

  If I couldn’t live off my sweet temper, I’d have to live off my sweet dressage skills—and some money in the kitty from a big tack company.

  I leaned against the barn door and dialed with bloodless fingers.

  “Ah, Jules.” Carl’s voice was plummy and rich on the other end of the phone. “You’ve had time to consider our offer. What do you think?”

  What did I think? I was thinking that I’d just been lured into a gilded cage, and all I needed to do was sign on the dotted line. Then the cage door would swing shut, and I’d be trapped in a life I’d sworn I’d left behind, living on someone else’s schedule and by someone else’s whims. All I had ever wanted was my freedom. Now I had to choose—the financial backing to keep climbing, or the freedom I had been struggling to hang onto for so long.

  But when choosing obscurity or fame, what choice would I ever have?

  I looked down the aisle at my content horses, pulling at hay, nosing at their box fans. Every one of them could have happily lived like this forever, dozing through their day and grazing through their night, their athletic prowess and their superb minds an eternal secret. This was a human’s world, though, and we craved fame, applause, sincere appreciation. I couldn’t live like them, ambling through life without showing the world what I could do.

  “I’ll go,” I said resolutely. “I accept.”

  My voice was loud; Dynamo lifted his head and looked at me, dark eyes inquisitive. I saw his nostrils ripple with a silent hello. Mickey went on picking at the hay in front of his stall. That was okay—he was only a child. We had years ahead of us to forge the kind of bond I shared with Dynamo. We’d stick close, and make magic happen. “I’ll bring the gray and the chestnut.”

  “Excellent!” Carl’s voice was neutral, neither thrilled nor disappointed I’d taken him up on his summer of dressage. I wondered again if they really wanted me. It didn’t matter—they had me now. “I’ll inform the office and get in touch with Grace. You’ll receive an agreement in a few days—make sure you sign it and get it back to us.” He paused, then continued in a warmer tone: “Ms Thornton, it’s a pleasure to welcome you aboard Team Rockwell. I hope it’s a long partnership.”

  I thanked him, hoping he couldn’t hear the tremble in my voice, as I slid down the doorframe and settled into the hot dust, my knees giving out through some combination of horror and relief.

  “Oh, I’ll also send along the fitting sheet for your new dressage saddle,” he added. “Get those measurements back ASAP. These things take time, and we want you fitted for winter.”

  A custom dressage saddle! It wasn’t the cross-country saddle I’d wanted, but hey…

  Once we’d said our goodbyes, I allowed myself a grin. Sure, the news wasn’t great. I’d just tied myself into a season of drudgery, and I had no idea how it would work with the farm and my other horses. But either way, I was getting a custom Rockwell Brothers dressage saddle, and that was nothing to sneeze at. Maybe next year I could talk them into that cross-country saddle. I was seeing a very shiny, very expensive silver lining to my personal storm-cloud—so hey, things could be worse, right?

  Pete was making a mess in the kitchen when I came inside, closing the front door on an electric-blue dusk.

  “You stayed out late tonight,” he observed. “I made pork chops. I tried to bread them, but…”

  We peered into the frying pan, which held two mottled chops which looked more like half-molted little animals than delicious Southern comfort food. But hey, food was food, and my stomach was growling already. I shrugged off the mess. “We can scoop the breading up and pile it on the pork. Same difference.”

  Pete brightened. “That’s my girl!” He turned from the chops to me. “What happened with Amanda’s client?”

  “What did Amanda tell you?”

  Pete got very busy with things on the stove again.

  I’d figured.

  “I called Rockwell,” I said flatly. “It’s done. We have an arrangement.”

  Pete put the spatula down again, turned, and put his arms around me. He was hot from the stove; I was hot from the summer night; together we were two sweaty people, but I was miserable enough and desperate enough for comfort that I didn’t let it bother me. I rested my chin against his shoulder, soaking in the safe feeling he gave me. He would be leaving, and I would be leaving, and I would lose this… at least for a little while.

  After a little while of just standing close together, listening to the fat pop in the pan, Pete spoke in my ear. “Jules, this is the right thing to do.”

  “I know. But it feels wrong in a lot of ways.”

  He stepped back and looked at me carefully. “I know this is scary, but it’s just the summer. It’s not forever. You’re not going backwards… you’re just sticking a bookmark in here and picking up another book for a few minutes.”

  “For a few months.” I sat down at the kitchen table, feeling limp with misery. Something about walking in on Pete while he was cooking me supper had struck a chord of new anxiety, something even worse than giving up my freedom to be a working student. This had become home, even without our pictures on the wall. This was home, and Pete was a part of home. Did I have to lose another home so soon? I was going to miss this so much, I felt the beginnings of a sob lump up in my throat. “I won’t see you all summer, and I won’t even be here to keep the barns running.”

  “We have people to keep the barn running.” I noticed the lack of a plural in his words. “Our careers need this step.”

  “What about us?”

  “Us? We’re fine. We’ll be so busy, it’ll all just fly by before we know it. And we’ll be stronger at the end of it, because we’ll be more secure. We’ll be further along. This fall, everything is going to be better.”

  He kept saying we until I was practically choking on the lump in my throat. Who knew I’d become so invested in that word? Who knew that Jules the loner had deep down only wanted to be part of a team?

  Probably everyone. I sniffled and said nothing.

  Pete studied my pale face for a moment, then he turned for the fridge. “You need a beer.”

  Beer! That was exactly what I needed. Several of those, please. I accepted the cold bottle and waited until several sips made their way into my empty stomach and were busy working their magic before I spoke again. Pete spooned the fried-pork-chop-slop onto plates and added some mashed potatoes from a pot on the back of the stove. Comfort food
for real, I thought. Just what the doctor ordered. I smiled despite myself.

  “You’re smiling. Things can’t be that bad.”

  I stuck out my tongue at him. “I’m drunk already. Is this better?”

  He shook his head. “Silly. Relax already, will you? We can do this.”

  We carried our plates out to the living room and settled down on the couch. I piled butter onto my mashed potatoes and watched it melt into a golden pool of greasy goodness. Everything was better with butter. My entire mood was better just looking at it.

  Then Pete messed it up again, being supportive when all I wanted to think about was mashed potatoes. “You made the right choice, you know.”

  “I never had a choice.” I put my plate back on the coffee table and snatched up my beer. I didn’t want butter, I wanted bubbles. “It’s this or they won’t take me. And I have no other offers—nothing that will pay the bills. Shiny Pony wants to give me free shampoo—great. Since I use Ivory soap now, that will save me a total of ten dollars a year. Some Etsy company wants to give me free stock pins and earrings. I mean, are they for real? My brand ambassador offers would be exciting if I were a Pony Clubber. But for trying to run a business and attract clients? Rockwell is the game-changer, and thank God for you, or they never would have looked at me.” I paused long enough to take a long pull of beer, to wash away those bitter words, and as I swallowed a new thought came into my head.

  “They’re my only option,” I realized slowly, “but they’re also my best option. Even if I had other sponsors on the table, no one could ever match them for size and exposure. They’re a dream come true. I’m out of my league, and I’ll never admit that again so just shut up. But it’s true. If they think they can mold me into the rider they want… how can I say no to that?”

  Pete raised both eyebrows. “You think you’re out of your league?”

  I shrugged. What was I thinking, admitting something so personal? I was losing my grip. “Maybe. I told you I’ll never admit that again, right? But I don’t know. Everyone wants to ride for somebody like Rockwell. I always thought I had the talent, but now, if you’re asking me if I have the right horses and the right record for this kind of company… I don’t know.”

  “Do you still think you have the talent?”

  I bristled. “Of course I do, Peter Morrison! I have enough talent to ride the pants off anyone else on their roster, including you!”

  He laughed at my glare and planted a daring kiss on my forehead. “Thank God,” he chuckled, going back to his plate. “For a minute there you sounded so resigned, I thought the real Jules had been kidnapped. Eat up. We can figure out the horse stuff later.”

  I TOLD THE girls the next morning.

  Their reactions were typical of their very different personalities. Lacey nearly burst into tears, managed to swallow most of them, then wrapped me up in a sweaty hug and wished me good luck with a watery smile.

  Becky barely smothered a smirk and said she thought it was an excellent plan and she was glad I had swallowed my pride enough to accept a working student position.

  I let the deeper insult go with only a handshake and a half-smile, because Becky and I had been getting along surprisingly well this past year. She’d made the first overture in thawing our frosty relationship when she’d paid me a fairly extravagant compliment (for her), telling me that, based in part on how hard Pete and I worked just to keep afloat most of the time, she was giving up the idea of becoming a professional trainer. I had been shocked, and touched, that she was willing to admit I worked hard. I put aside the potentially concerning information that my hard-won life looked so unappealing to other horse-lovers, they actually changed their major.

  Now, having settled on the notion of being a barn manager and devoting her life to making horses happy, if not making them superstars, Becky actually seemed thankful for the crash-course in barn management I’d given her back at Green Winter Farm, instead of hanging on to her disappointment in me. I was aware her resentment hadn’t been unfair. I hadn’t been the celebrity-on-the-make I’d thought I was two years ago. I’d oversold myself to her, and when she had grown understandably resentful of my demands on her time, I’d just gotten nasty with her.

  Those scars were slowly healing.

  Maybe we’d both been naïve then. Maybe we were older and more sober after the past year and a half, after the fight at the event, after the hurricane, after Mickey’s mental breakdown that had nearly ruined our future—until Pete had gotten through to the horse in a very unorthodox way—and all the rest of the drama. Maybe we were growing up. Whatever the change had been, we were now able to hold actual conversations without wanting to rip each other’s throats out, and that was real progress.

  Still, Becky was capable of some serious barbs in her speech, and they usually hit their mark on my thin skin.

  “You think I need the dressage, do you?” I joked now, keeping my voice light. I could and I would be capable of accepting criticism about my riding. I was an adult. I had this.

  Becky looked up from her coffee, eyes dancing with delight at provoking me. Old habits died hard. “Everyone’s dressage can always be improved. And Rockwell was right—your jumping is bold, just unrefined. You never win the dressage and you need the extra control on cross-country, so that’s the piece you need to fix. Makes sense to me.” She went back to her coffee, the matter closed. Cool, logical Becky. My opposite in every way imaginable.

  Meanwhile, my possibly emotionally disturbed best friend was having a self-indulgent sob-fest in the bedroom. All I had to do was follow the wailing. Under a Rolex Kentucky poster, a disconsolate Lacey was curled up in a ball of pillows and plush ponies.

  I sat down on the bed, displacing a bay plush pony to the floor, where it lay head-first next to my boot. I immediately felt remorseful and picked the pony up again, setting it gently in a fold of Lacey’s white comforter and smoothing its mane and tail. I couldn’t help it. The damn thing was a pony. You don’t just let ponies fall on the floor.

  I wasn’t so soft with humans, however. It was part of my charm, or lack thereof. “What are you bawling about?” I asked, not unkindly, if not with the greatest sympathy. “You’re not the one who has to spend the summer in a sand-box and mucking out someone else’s stalls.” Well. I considered. “Okay, not the sand-box part, anyway.”

  Lacey went on boo-hooing into her pillow. “That’s the pr-pr-problem!” Her voice was muffled by feathers and linen. “What will I do? Sit and wait for you?”

  I laughed and patted her on the back. “If you told me you were crying because you’re going to be so busy this year that you’re going to die of exhaustion, I would totally buy it. But sitting around and waiting? Absolutely not on your schedule.”

  Lacey’s heaving sobs paused, and she drew a ragged breath. “What?” she asked cautiously, turning her head sideways to regard me with suspicion. “What do you mean?”

  “Lacey! Please! It’s not like I’m closing shop just because I got a new job, or whatever this is. I’ll be gone three months. You have to hold down the fort while I’m gone. That means taking care of the horses. That means riding. That means everything.”

  She rolled over and blinked at me. “Everything?”

  “Who else is going to do it? You’re promoted, Lacey. You’re officially my barn manager. And you don’t get to say no. I need you.”

  Lacey gasped and launched herself at me. I endured her bear hug, thinking how very differently we reacted to opportunity’s knock. If my old trainer had announced that she was leaving town for three months, I would have assumed I was the only logical choice for barn manager and moved heaven and earth to make sure she was aware of it, too.

  Lacey, on the other hand, just went to pieces the moment the status quo was interrupted. She was sweet, and that was nice, but I thought this level of emotion would be an exhausting, unnerving way to live. I’d keep my cold, calculating ways, thanks very much.

  “There’s one thing,” I said once th
e tumult had quieted and Lacey was all smiles again. “I can’t pay you much. There is a stipend from Rockwell to cover my expenses but of course it isn’t huge—”

  “You’re going to pay me?” Lacey asked incredulously, and I just burst out laughing. Sometimes I really didn’t know how people like Lacey even existed. They were just too good and sweet to be true—or, really, to be allowed out of the house on their own.

  “So where is this place?” Lacey inquired a few minutes later, having calmed down considerably upon the news of her promotion. She had to be old and wise now. She was a manager.

  “Somewhere near Orlando,” I said with a grimace. “Not even in Ocala or West Palm—how legit could this chick be?”

  “Maybe it’s for the better,” Lacey suggested, picking up her phone. “That way no one knows you. You can stay under the radar all summer. What’s the name of the place?”

  That was a good point. Smart cookie, my barn manager. “It’s Seabreeze Equestrian Center.”

  Lacey’s thumbs flashed over her phone screen. “Here’s their website. Did you even look?”

  I shook my head. I hadn’t bothered with the Internet since the whole Eventing Chicks nonsense. There wasn’t anything online I wanted to see right now.

  “Looks nice,” she said, holding up the phone so I could see the photo of a large stable. “Too nice for you.”

  “I can still fire you.”

  “You need me now. You’re stuck.”

  Boy, I was. I flipped through the barn’s website, full of pictures of serious-looking hunter riders and show jumpers, white ponies and… trail horses. Trail horses? That was strange. I saw only a few dressage pictures, but what was posted was pretty impressive. I squinted at the captions. The only dressage pictures were of the trainer, Grace Carter. She looked fiercely intense, from what I could see of her face. An intense dressage trainer—my new boss. Super.