Sanders 01 - Silent Run (41 page)

"I know you're tired. We all are. It's been a hell of a year. You did good at Keeneland. If you hadn't slipped coming out of the gate, you would have had first. We're going to work on that this week, because you can't afford another stumble. We are so close to making all our dreams come true." He scratched Rogue's nose and saw the horse's ears perk up to listen to his quiet words. "We're going to show this town. Hell, we're going to show the whole damn world that we don't take shit from anyone. We won't be left behind, not ever again," he whispered, knowing he was talking about more than a race.

Rogue whinnied, as if to reassure his owner that he understood. Zach smiled to himself. They'd been on the same wavelength since he'd picked Rogue up at a yearling sale. Unproven bloodlines in the dam, not to mention Rogue's off-beat appearance and high spirits, had brought Rogue's price into Zach's range. And Zach had known as soon as he laid eyes on the rangy, long-legged colt that this was the horse he wanted.

This horse, which everyone else had overlooked, was already drawing attention with its unexpected successes. The racing world, especially that of the Kentucky horse breeders, didn't want to accept that a horse like Rogue or a trainer like Zach could do so well. But their arguments were losing ground with each victory.

In a few weeks, Rogue would quiet even the harshest critics with a win in the Derby, and Zach would get the recognition, the respect, he deserved. No more doors slammed in his face, no more scornful looks from the folks in town. No more being on the outside. He was going to the inner circle -- the winner's circle. And no one was going to stop him.

Rogue nudged Zach in the chest. "We'll be home in a few minutes, boy," he said, giving him one last pat. "As soon as I get this city girl on her way."

"That city girl looks like she's about to faint," Sam said from the van's doorway. "You better get on out here."

Zach stepped out of the trailer and pulled the door shut behind him. He looked at the woman sitting on the ground, her head resting in her hands. She was a tiny thing; she'd barely come up to his chin. Not that she'd let him intimidate her. She'd given as good as she got. Maybe he shouldn't have yelled at her, but dammit, she'd almost destroyed the dream of a lifetime. When he'd seen her car come around that corner... The thought of it sent his pulse racing again.

And all because she wasn't paying attention. Zach tried to harden his heart against the sight of the slender figure slumped on the ground.
 
But he could still remember the shock in her big blue eyes when she'd discovered she was bleeding. He cleared his throat, struggling to rein in his wayward thoughts.

He'd always been a sucker for beautiful blondes, and this one was as soft and sexy as they came in a silky purple blouse that hugged her breasts, form-fitting black slacks, and ridiculously impractical high-heeled black sandals. She was all woman and all wrong, he reminded himself. He'd been down this road before -- and he wouldn't go down it again.

"Maybe we ought to take her to the hospital," Sam said, rubbing his jaw with one hand.

"I don't think she needs a doctor -- maybe a driving instructor."

"She's a sweet thing, isn't she? Reminds me of someone -- but I can't think who."

"That sweet thing almost killed Rogue."

"But she didn't. It's all about inches, my boy. You can win by an inch, lose by an inch, and survive by an inch. Figured you'd know that by now." Sam sent him a knowing smile. "You can't leave her here. Wouldn't be the right thing to do."

"Since when do I worry about doing the right thing?"

"Since now. She won't be driving that car any time soon, that's for sure. I don't expect she'll get off this road in anything but a tow truck."

"Oh, hell, like I need this right now." He ran his hand through his hair and stared at the latest problem to erupt in his life. He was so close to getting everything he wanted, he could almost taste it. Thirty-four years of struggling, of climbing out of the darkness of his childhood, to finally have something, to be somebody, and he wouldn't let anyone get in the way.

"No harm's done," Sam reminded him. "How about I get Rogue on home, and you stay with the woman? Unless you're afraid of a little thing like her."

"Yeah, right."

"I already called for help. Tow truck should be here in a few minutes. Now, be nice to her, you hear?"

Be nice? Zach still felt like wringing the woman's pretty neck. He walked over to where she was sitting and squatted down next to her. "You okay?" he asked gruffly.

She lifted her head. Her eyes were watery, but she wasn't crying, and he saw a gleam of bravado in those baby blues. "I'm fine, thank you. I thought you'd be gone by now."

"I thought someone better stay with you in case you pass out or something."

"What about your precious horse?"

"Sam will take him home. The tow truck is on its way."

"I guess that's good," she said, staring at her car in bemusement.
 
"Do you think they'll be able to get it out?"

"Yeah, but I wouldn't plan on driving it."

She frowned, then scrambled to her feet.
 
She strode over to her car and yanked open the door to the backseat.
 
"Oh, thank goodness."

Zach got up and walked over to the car, expecting to see her reaching for her makeup case, but the large cedar chest in the backseat was obviously not filled with cosmetics. "What's that?"

She patted the top of the chest with a loving hand. "This is my past and maybe -- just maybe my future."

"What does that mean?"

"It's a long story."

He didn't like her evasive answer.
 
"Where are you headed?"

"Paradise Valley."

His gut tightened. "Why?"

She seemed taken aback by his question. "Why not?"

"It's not exactly a hub of nightlife."

"I'm not looking for nightlife. I'm looking for a place called Golden's Grill. Do you know it?"

Zach felt a chill run through his body. He didn't like the look in her eyes. She certainly hadn't come from wherever she'd come from to go to Golden's Grill.

"I know Golden's," he said reluctantly.

Her mouth blossomed into a sparkling, hopeful smile that stole his breath away. "Then it really exists. I hoped it would still be there."

"Why do you want to go to Golden's?"

"I'm looking for someone."

"Who?"

She didn't answer right away, and his uneasiness deepened.
 
She was here to cause trouble. He could feel it in his bones.

"My father," she said finally.

"Who is your father?"

"I don't know."

"If you don't know, then how are you going to find him?"

She hesitated. "Maybe you could help me."

"Me? No way." He uttered a short harsh laugh.
 
"I don't look for fathers, mine or anyone else's. In my experience, the best family is no family." He stared down the empty highway. "Where the hell is that tow truck?"

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Excerpt @ Copyright 2011 Barbara Freethy

All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

Michael Ashton beat the fire engines to his house by thirty seconds. Smoke poured from the kitchen window of the old Victorian as he jumped out of his car and ran up the walkway. His daughter's favorite teddy bear lay abandoned on the top step. Cups from a tea party were scattered across the welcome-home mat as if the participants had left in a big hurry, as if they had smelled smoke and run inside to see what was wrong.

His heart raced as he reached for the doorknob. Locked! He fumbled with his keys, swearing, sweating each second of delay. His children were inside. He had to get to them. The keys slipped out of his grasp and fell to the ground. He stepped backward, crushing a tiny pink teacup.

To hell with the keys. Panicked, he slammed his body against the door, forcing it open.

All he could think of were Lily and Rose, his six-year-old identical twin daughters. If anything happened to them, he would never forgive himself. They were all he had left.

"Please, God, let them be all right," he whispered as he entered the house. Smoke drifted through the hall and dining room, darkening the white walls, covering the hardwood floors with dust. "Lily! Rose!" he shouted as he moved toward the thickest area of smoke. "Where are you?"

The girls burst through the kitchen door, two whirling, smoky figures in blue jeans. Michael swept them into his arms, pressing their heads against his chest for one thankful second. "You're all right. You're all right," he muttered. "Let's get out of here." He ran toward the front door. Two firemen passed him on the steps.

"Anyone else inside?" one of them asked.

"Mrs. Polking, our nanny." Michael didn't stop moving until he reached the sidewalk. Then he set the girls down on the pavement and tried to catch his breath. Lily and Rose stared back at him.

They didn't appear to be hurt. Nor did they seem overly concerned about the fire. In fact, on closer inspection there was a light of excitement in Lily's dark eyes, and Rose looked guilty, so guilty that her gaze seemed fixed on the untied laces of her tennis shoes. At that, his panic began to fade.

He squatted in front of them so he could look directly into their eyes. Their long brown hair was a mess. Lily's pigtails were almost completely out. Rose still had one rubber band clinging desperately to a couple of strands of hair, while the rest swung free past her shoulders. There were no bumps or bruises on their small faces, no scratches to mar their tender skin, no sign of blood. "Are you hurt?" He ran his hand down Rose's arms, then did the same to Lily.

Lily shook her head, then Rose. Neither one said a word. Not even now. Not even in the midst of a crisis would they speak to him. Michael sighed, feeling the tear in his heart grow bigger. Since their mother, Angela, had died almost a year ago, the girls had refused to speak to him. No one had been able to tell him why. Thousands of dollars of family therapy had not helped him get to the root of their problem.

The doctors said the children, for whatever reason, didn't trust him. They were supposed to trust him. He was their father, their protector. He would die for them, but he couldn't seem to convince them of that fact.

"This is not my fault," a woman said from behind him.

Michael straightened as their nanny, Eleanor Polking, came down the steps, assisted by one of the firemen. Eleanor was a short, robust woman in her late fifties who carried an extra forty pounds.

"What the hell happened?" he asked.

"The girls set the kitchen on fire. That's what happened," Eleanor said in obvious distress.

She tried to push her hair away from her eyes, but the sweat from her forehead glued it in place. There was a wild light in her eyes. She looked as if she wanted to run as far away from them as possible, if she could just figure out an escape route. Michael had seen that expression before, on the faces of the four nannies who had previously served time in his home.

He glanced at Lily, then at Rose. They wouldn't look him in the eye. Damn.

"We were just making pasta, Mrs. Polking," Lily said defiantly, directing her explanation to the nanny. "Like Mama used to make."

"For our tea party. We didn't mean to cause a fire --" Rose darted a quick look at her father, then turned back to Mrs. Polking. "We didn't know you had to put water in the pot. When the pot got all red and smelled funny, we threw it in the trash."

Michael groaned. "Let me see your hands. Did you burn them?"

Lily and Rose held out their hands. Their pudgy little fingers were covered with streaks of red and green paint, but thankfully there were no burns.

"We used a hot pad, Mrs. Polking," Lily said, "just like you told us."

"Why were the girls alone in the kitchen?" he asked the nanny. "Don't I pay you to watch them?"

"I was in the bathroom, cleaning the paint off my dress." Eleanor turned around, revealing a circle of green paint on her ample bottom. "Do you want to know how this happened?" she demanded, her anger matching his.

Michael sighed. "Not really, no."

"The girls painted the chair in my bedroom green."

He scowled at Lily and Rose. "You've had a busy day, haven't you?"

"Too busy for me," Eleanor declared. "This is the last straw. I'm leaving just as soon as I get my suitcase packed."

"Yay --" Lily's spontaneous cheer ended with Michael's glare. "I mean, that's too bad, Mrs. Polking. Come on, Rose, let's look at the fire engine."

"You can't just leave, Mrs. Polking." He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "You agreed to stay the summer. I know the girls are difficult, but they just need a little extra attention."

"That's not all they need."

He ignored that comment. "I'm in the middle of a bid for a very big job. At least give me a week or two to make other arrangements."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ashton," Eleanor said, not sounding a bit sorry. "The girls have made it clear that they want you."

"I can't work full-time and take care of the girls. I'm only one person."

Mrs. Polking softened just a bit. "I understand. That's why I took the liberty of making you a list of summer school programs. You'll find it on the credenza in the dining room."

"When did you decide to do that?"

"This morning, after the girls glued my shoes to the floor. Perhaps they'll do better in a more structured environment." Eleanor checked her watch. "It's not yet five. If you hurry you may be able to find one for Monday. Good luck," she said, turning away.

Good luck
? Since when had he ever had good luck? His wife was dead. His children wouldn't speak to him. The demands of his job as an architect, combined with the responsibilities of being a single father, made him feel as if he were running around in circles, chasing after his tail like a foolish dog.

He had never imagined that his life would end up like this. As he stared at the house, he was thankful it hadn't burned down. The house had belonged to his in-laws, the De Lucas, for almost a hundred years, since they first emigrated from Italy in the late 1800s. More than a house, it was a symbol of tradition, of family, of responsibility, of loyalty, of everything that a man should be.