Pride (The Eventing Series Book 2) Read online

  Already, though, the terror was starting to fade from the memory. That’s how we all stayed in Florida year after year, while these insane things happened to us and the rest of the nation watched in horror and said things like, “only in Florida,” and “how do people live there?” Easy, we just had selective memories. The only thing we knew we couldn’t stand was snow.

  “Remember three weeks ago when it was dry and we weren’t dying of heat stroke from the insane humidity?” I reminisced, leaning into the refrigerator for an extra dose of chilled air. A rumble of thunder shook the plates in the cabinets. “And it wasn’t raining every day? Wasn’t that fun?”

  Pete shrugged, throwing himself down on a chair by the kitchen table so he could worry at his broken half-chap zipper more comfortably. “I’m almost out of Keratex from dealing with soft soles on half the horses in the barn, if that’s what you mean by fun.”

  I eyed his fingers as they fumbled with the recalcitrant zipper. “You should get new half-chaps. Those are toast.”

  “When I sell Mercury,” he grunted, tugging at the zipper.

  “If you sell Mercury. I’m not sure that chick is serious.”

  “Bite your tongue, because I need her to be serious. He’s perfect for her, anyway. He’ll kill in the Green Hunters this winter, and I don’t want to do it. I can’t afford to do it. I’ll give Amanda a half-share if I have to. We’d both make some money that way.”

  “What does she care if she makes money? I don’t know how anyone affords HITS if they’re not loaded like Amanda. She’d lose money showing him and she’d still be just as happy when he sells.” I pulled a pair of Diet Cokes out of the fridge and set one in front of Pete. He was still trying to get out of his leggings. “You want a straw so you can drink that while you’re playing with that half-chap?”

  “I think—I—got it!” He wrenched the zipper open at last and kicked the half-chap across the kitchen. The wet leather folded against the wall beside the fridge, where it was closely followed by its mate, and then a pair of dirty jodhpur boots. “Never buying the cheap ones again, I swear. The zippers go within six months.”

  “You get what you pay for,” I observed, able to be high and mighty since my parents had bought me a very nice pair of Irish half-chaps for my birthday back in the spring. “If Amanda’s girl buys him, get some like mine. Worth every penny.”

  “I need every penny,” Pete said morosely.

  I settled down at the table and cracked open my Diet Coke. He didn’t have to tell me about needing pennies. “When is this going to stop being a struggle?” I asked. It was a question for the universe, for the eventing gods, for no one at all, but Pete answered me anyway.

  “When we marry rich,” he said, and when I gave him a dirty look, he just grinned and shook his head.

  There was a knock at the door and then Becky poked her head in, ghost-like in a silver rain poncho. She held out a large express mail envelope. “Mail for you, Pete.”

  I started over to the entryway to get it, but Pete beat me to the punch, practically running to snatch the envelope from Becky. She shrugged and went back out into the rain. I wondered for a moment what was so important that she went to get the mail during a thunderstorm, then dismissed the question in favor of the more immediate one: what was so secret that Pete was disappearing into his office with the mystery envelope?

  I sat down on the couch with Marcus to wait, pulling at his silky ears, eyes trained on the office door.

  The rain let up and the sun came out again, and still I waited.

  Pete came out at last, looking just as tired and care-worn as he had beforehand. Or was he? Were his shoulders a bit straighter, was his chin a bit higher? “What was in the envelope, Pete?” I asked.

  Pete went into the kitchen without replying. When he came back with a beer and put it in my hand, I knew the envelope didn’t mean anything good.

  I was right and I was wrong. The news was good, it just wasn’t for me.

  “There’s going to be a sponsorship offer,” Pete explained, rolling his bottle around in his hands. “So far, there’s a contract for me.”

  “For you?”

  We were a package deal, he’d said.

  “So far. Yours is coming.”

  A likely story. “Who is it with?”

  Pete took a breath, tried to bite back his excitement. “Rockwell Brothers.”

  I felt my mouth drop open. “Holy shit, Pete. Holy shit.”

  “I know, I know, right? It’s crazy!” For a moment he let all his joy show, and I knew how he was feeling right now. It was the same way I’d be feeling if I was just taken on by the biggest equestrian company in the United States—complete and utter jubilance. Cloud nine. All that jazz.

  I hadn’t been taken on, though. Not yet. I took a long, bitter pull of my beer. “Congratulations,” I offered, hoping I sounded happy for him—because I was was, I really was happy…

  …I was just feeling a little left out.

  “They’re going to make you an offer, too. Mr. Rockwell assured me of that.”

  “Wait, there’s an actual Mr. Rockwell?”

  “Well, of course there is. Who do you think the company was named for?”

  “I just figured it sounded fancy,” I muttered. “Are you two like, bros now?”

  “I wouldn’t say bros. I don’t think Mr. Rockwell has any bros. He’s just your standard industrial millionaire.”

  I started to point out that we didn’t know any industrial millionaires so I didn’t really have a frame of reference, but the phone rang, the actual house phone which was only used for rare business calls that couldn’t be trusted to our spotty cell service, and Pete jumped up, leaving my hand cold where he’d been holding it, and snatched the phone from its cradle on the sideboard.

  “Hello, Mr. Rockwell!” he announced. “Yes, I just received the package—yes, of course—”

  Now he would bring me into the fold. Now he was going to speak up for Team Jules. I must have faith in Pete, I told myself. I tried to smile brilliantly, so that when Pete turned around with the good news, he’d see me there, rooting for him.

  Pete walked into the kitchen without turning back, closing the door behind him. It swung a little on its hinges and then obediently stayed shut. I glared at it. The hell with you, too, door. My smile had been wasted.

  Marcus clambered up onto the couch beside me, taking Pete’s place with a sigh of long-suffering canine relief. He loved Pete, because everyone loved Pete, but a beagle does not enjoy losing their position in the spotlight, and he was disappointed that he was no longer a single woman’s dog. He showed this by replacing Pete at every single opportunity, creeping onto his pillow in the night if Pete got up for a drink of water, slipping his nose under my elbow the moment Pete vacated the couch, stretching out his hot-doggy little beagle body from end to end to take up as much space as possible, hopeful he would deter Pete from wanting to sit down on the couch again. It often worked, because no one, least of all a big softie like Pete, would ever want to cause discomfort to a clearly exhausted beagle like Marcus, who spent his day on the tiring task of watching me from a comfortable, shady spot, preferably indoors.

  I rubbed his warm ears and Marcus sighed a sigh of utter contentment. You don’t need him, Marcus told me with his melting brown eyes. I am all you’ll ever need. Let’s run away together.

  “You’re terrible and I love you,” I told Marcus. “Do you think the Rockwell brand needs a beagle mascot?”

  It wasn’t a bad idea. I ought to float it to them. The Rockwell Group had long ago moved beyond Rockwell Brothers Saddlery (Fine Tack Since 1805) and Rockwell Equestrian Wear (Outfitting Champions Since 1978) and Rockwell Country Lifestyle (Design For Town and Country). Surely a beagle fit well into this lifestyle branding. It couldn’t all be corgis, although they’d definitely cornered the market for the past few years. Everyone wanted a corgi.

  “Corgis don’t have your adorable tail,” I told Marcus, pulling on his long, whi
ppy tail. He snatched it away and gave me an aggrieved look, reminding me I knew his tail was off-limits.

  “But you could be a brand ambassador too, with this gorgeous tail. Look at the white tip on it!” I tickled the white end of his black tail. Marcus huffed and wiggled to the other side of the couch, tucking his tail under him for good measure. He put his chin on the armrest and gave me a side-eyed look of disappointment.

  “I want to be a brand ambassador, anyway. You’re making a big mistake, Marcus.”

  Marcus closed his eyes.

  Dismissed by my dog, I looked back at the television with unseeing eyes, wondering what was happening in the kitchen right now. Maybe Mr. Rockwell was busy explaining that he didn’t want us both. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  We’d spoken with a rep from another company a few months ago, one who hadn’t gotten back with us. The rep had explained her bosses really liked the idea of a built-in team, a couple competing both together and against one another. It made for fantastic press, she said. Human interest stories, that could be marketed beyond the usual equestrian magazines, taking their brand into households they hadn’t reached yet. Karen and David O’Connor had gone to the Olympics together, for heaven’s sake, and then they’d been all over the news, even on interview shows talking about being married and eventing like that combination was some sort of Olympian accomplishment in and of itself. That was the type of thing these big fancy brands were interested in. The upscale-living extension of the equestrian world, the houses “where Hermès might not mean a saddle, but a scarf,” the rep had explained earnestly.

  I had looked attentive and pretended I had always known Hermès made scarves.

  So Pete and I had agreed, selling ourselves as a team was the thing to do. Was it kind of weird to present ourselves primarily as a romantically involved couple in order to get money? Lacey thought so. Becky thought so. If Manny thought so, he didn’t say anything, but Manny never said anything but “yeah boss,” except in very extenuating circumstances, when he might be compelled to say “no boss.”

  I didn’t ask anyone else. I needed a fat check and a new cross-country saddle, not some sort of discourse on the ramifications of combining love and business. Pete was equally agreeable.

  The company eventually passed on us, but whatever—it was a proven formula. The married-couple eventing phenomenon existed, and we would milk it for our own gain. Someone would want us.

  Of course, Pete and I weren’t actually married, but I couldn’t see any reason why that should matter. We were a team, that was enough.

  Yet right at this moment, sitting alone in the living room looking at a closed kitchen door, our relationship didn’t feel much like the model of teamwork. I glanced over at Marcus again. He’d been watching me through half-closed eyes. Now his mouth fell open in a toothy beagle grin, tongue lolling. At last you realize, I’m the only one for you.

  “It’s weird, right Marcus?” I asked. “It’s not just me?”

  He yawned, his round jowls peeling back like a lazy old lion’s. Marcus was unconcerned with my ambitions. He had been following me around for years, watching me carry on about bad luck, and he had learned to ignore me. To illustrate this point, he laid his snout atop his toes once more and instantly went back to sleep. In some ways, I reflected, Marcus really was more like a sitcom version of a husband than a dog.

  “Thanks Marcus, your support is appreciated.”

  I sighed and looked around the room. No allies to be found here. This house had belonged to Pete’s grandfather, and the cross-country photos decorating the walls were all black-and-white images of the venerable horseman and his long-gone mounts, leaping over the ditch-and-walls and massive logs of yesteryear. I wondered why I hadn’t hung up any of my eventing photos from this past spring season. I’d had a pretty good year so far, and Pete’s year had been sensational.

  We’d started out so close. Regina and Dynamo had been neck-in-neck in the standings in the beginning of the year, glaring at each other from across the middle aisle when we shipped them together in the head-to-head trailer. The tall bay mare and the stocky chestnut gelding had a rivalry which extended beyond anything I’d ever aspired to with Pete.

  Then Regina stepped up to Advanced, while I still felt Dynamo was struggling with the largest Intermediate fences. There wasn’t a huge difference between the two levels, and yet we were left behind as Pete began to embark on the career of his dreams.

  So it felt strange that for all this year’s success, the house we lived in remained solidly in the realm of the past. Neither of us had bothered putting down any roots here. Maybe it was just our insane work schedules. Or maybe there was a more sinister reason. What if we hadn’t decorated the place because of some deep-down instinct? What if neither of us had ever really expected to stay here?

  That was just crazy talk. I got up from the couch, trying to shake away this unwanted idea, and walked over to the tiled foyer. I peered out the narrow window next to the front door. I could see the jumping arena glittering in the watery sunlight, the tidy lines of the training barn behind it, the live oaks arching their protective branches over its eaves, even a nodding horse head as someone leaned over their stall grill to admire their view.

  Of course we meant to stay here always! Briar Hill was perfect in every respect—well, besides the poor placement of the annex barn, and the steep driveway that I was fairly certain would be the death of my truck’s transmission. The farm was nearly Pete’s in earnest, too. If he could keep himself on top of the world and get that team placement, he could stay forever—and I could stay for as long as he’d let me.

  We just hadn’t had time to decorate, I assured myself, looking again at the black-and-white photos. It wasn’t that we thought we might have to give this place up.

  The kitchen door opened, and Pete came back into the room, phone in one hand.

  His face was ecstatic, and my heart leapt into my chest. “What did they say?” I breathed, hands at my throat, forgetting to pretend it didn’t matter, because of course it mattered, it was the most important thing in the world.

  Pete beamed at me from across the room. “I’m going to England,” he said excitedly. “I’m going to England!” He threw up his arms and shouted. “Woohoooo!”

  Marcus clambered up from the floor and started howling along with Pete’s shouts, and the two of them began howling together like a pair of idiots while I stood on the cold tile of the entryway and considered the singular nature of his words.

  It was not what I had been expecting, to say the least.

  After a while, Pete noticed that I was not howling with Marcus or woohooing with him. Reality swept over his face, washing away all the hot excitement. “Jules? I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I’m sorry—” He came over and swept me into his arms, and I leaned woodenly against him, feeling his heart thump with a happy anticipation he could not help. Nor should he have had to, but I couldn’t share his joy.

  I was too busy panicking.

  “What am I going to do?” I asked, my voice muffled against his shoulder. “While you’re in England?”

  “Mr. Rockwell said they’ll be calling you too,” Pete said reassuringly. “I don’t know what he has planned for you. But I know he has something cooking. Don’t worry. You’re not getting overlooked, Jules. That much, I’m sure of. And I’m only going for the summer. It’s not forever.”

  “When?”

  “A few weeks.”

  Pete in England—I’d be up to my eyeballs handling both his horses and mine. That was fine, though. What was another dozen horses? The real problem was that Pete was going, and I was not. We’d been a team. Up until about five minutes ago, we came as a package, or not at all. He’d said so over and over again.

  “Let’s have another beer,” Pete suggested, and untangled himself, heading back into the kitchen.

  I sank down into the sofa cushions, folding Marcus into my lap for comfort. What did he need to tell me that required a second beer on a s
ummer afternoon? Nothing good, I was sure. I felt alone in the room, even when he reentered it. The world was spinning too fast and it was taking Pete with it, someplace I couldn’t follow, where I wasn’t wanted, where I wasn’t good enough.

  Yet.

  I narrowed my eyes and began contemplating the awards I would win and the medals I would wear someday, since I was every bit as good as Pete, just with horses a little bit younger, a little bit behind his Regina.

  “You’re mad at me?”

  I blinked and came back to the present. Pete had a funny look on his face, half surprised, half resigned, as if he might have known he couldn’t expect anything better from me.

  I hated disappointing him. “I’m not mad,” I said, and found it was the truth. “I’m just… well… I’m envious. And I’m scared,” I added. It took effort for me to admit that. At least give me credit for that much.

  “If you think this means anything is changing with the farm, or our plans, then Jules you have to believe me—” Pete’s expression got very intense and he put his hand on my arm, his fingers curling hotly against my cold skin. “I’m fully invested in us—in our partnership here, in making the farm the center of attention, not…” He paused.

  “Not you,” I supplied.

  “Not me,” he agreed, regretfully. “I’ve been very adamant that you’re part of the deal.”

  A heaping order of Pete with a side of Jules. The broccoli to his filet. No one wanted the broccoli. It just came with the good stuff, whether you asked for it or not. I felt my throat tightening. I was choking, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t swallow, I couldn’t ask Pete just how much he’d had to plead in order to get his girlfriend in on the deal. I picked up my glass and stood up, desperate to get away from his happy-ever-after.