Finish line, p.1
Finish Line,
p.1
FINISH LINE
by
Nya Rawlyns
It doesn’t take much to break a heart…
For Susan Topher it is much too easy: lose your horse to colic, find your fiancé in flagrante dilecto, and then your best friend marries a hunk for happily ever after. Ian, a riding student, shows Susan that the boy-man can ride a winning dressage test, sweeping Susan off her feet and out of her mind. But when opportunity knocks one must make the ultimate sacrifice. Promises are made but time and distance result in a switch in affections, leaving Susan alone and bereft. Her friends insist a vacation is just the thing to cure a broken heart.
It doesn’t take much to turn your world upside down …
…just a bad decision to take the hole on the rail and cause a near fatal crash. Manuel Velasquez, champion jockey, retires to Wyoming to train his sister’s string of reining horses. Manny has sworn off women but his sister hopes that one of the ranch guests Manny escorts on a pack trip into the Wind River Range might catch his eye.
Susan towers over Manny and over his heart, but she won’t give him the time of day. Distaff Cupids conspire but so far Manny has been left at the starting gate. A chance encounter, a glacial pool, warm sun and a lupine meadow form the backdrop for Susan to unlock her heart and Manny to win the race.
Annie and Grey Ghost and Shit-face are the steeds who play a pivotal role.
FINISH LINE
Copyright ©2012 Nya Rawlyns
First electronic edition published by Pfoxmoor Publishing, PfoxChase Imprint
Published in the United States of America with international distribution.
Cover Design by Sessha Batto
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To my beta readers, you know who you are. You rock.
Chapter One: A Heart to Mend
“Suz, honey, wake up. Our weekend guests came early.”
Marge Topher sighed to herself. This interminable grief had to stop sometime. All her daughter did was sleep, and eat, and sleep some more. She’d gone from stately to near pudgy in the space of a month. Marge threw the drapes open, flooding the tidy room with weak light. November had hit with stunning force, leaving the slopes coated with fresh powder and ski lodge owners with a hard-on for the hordes of ardent tourists just now flooding the area for their first taste of adrenalin.
Susan grumbled unintelligibly, but slid out from the cocoon of her warm flannel sheets and down quilt to pad noiselessly to her private half-bath just off the annex that formed the family quarters. Marge listened to the gurgles of water pipes struggling to keep up with the demands of their ancient heating system, followed by the yelp from her daughter as frigid water hit her sensitive teeth.
“Mom, what the hell? There’s no hot water again.”
“Uh-huh. Blame it on that nice man downstairs. The long walks, drains-the-hot-water-tank chatty Cathy. Geez Louise, if he wasn’t such a good repeat customer, I’d lose his reservation next time out.”
Marge took a final swat along the quilt, easing it into place, before folding the crocheted throw at the foot of the bed.
“So, who’s here now? The Martins?”
Susan yanked on a pair of silk long underwear and cami, topping it with a navy-blue, wool Norwegian sweater and insulated pants. She glanced out the window at the thermometer attached at an angle off the wood frame.
“Jesus, it’s colder 'n a witch’s tits out there today. This is November, right?”
“Yeah, and it’s the high for today. Got a front moving in later with more snow, maybe another foot.”
Marge grinned. Snow was good for business. Their Bed & Breakfast was already three-quarters full, and the phone was jangling off the hook.
“It’s the Langleys. And they only need the small suite this time. They left the kids home for a change. Thank God. Our insurance company threatened to cancel us what with the damage those brats did last season.”
“Okay. I’ll get the wood in and then take a pass at the path out back so Mr. Lonely Heart can take his frigging issues into the woods.”
Marge feared that if the poor man asked her daughter one more time to accompany him on a stroll through their woods, she’d be inclined to push his slight frame over the ridge into the stream below.
“Be nice, hon. You, more than anyone, should have a little compassion. His girlfriend dumped him. He’s just lonely.” Marge’s mom-voice echoed in the small room, “And it wouldn’t kill you to keep him company.”
“Oh, thanks a whole hell of a lot, Mom. Remind me, why dontcha?” Susan stomped out of her room and down the hall, taking the old wood steps two at a time.
Marge muttered, “And I could learn to keep my big mouth shut,” as she headed down the hallway to tend to her guests.
At the base of the stairs, Susan paused at the coat rack to grab her warmest down jacket. As she shrugged into the coat, she grumbled “Huh, just lonely, yeah right, Mom.” Giving a vague thought to being charitable, she dismissed that idea as she recalled how Dearest Bill was dumped two years ago. He still mourned the flighty tart who’d taken off when he’d lost his job. The strange man was all about sighs and ridiculous long walks. He’d gotten another job, a better one, and made himself a bit of cash. Now he spent it trolling for talent in the great White Mountains of upstate New Hampshire. Unfortunately, he had set his cap for her.
Thanks a bunch, Mom. I might be desperate, but I’m not that desperate. I’ve got a perfectly good misery going about my own wretched existence.
She’d lost her horse to colic, lost her lab job, and then she found her fiancé banging the bitch next door. How’s that for a trifecta of grief? Lay those odds on the table and you can double down.
Donning her sheepskin-lined boots, Susan banged the back door open and barged onto the back porch, slick from ice and snow, and went flying.
“Youzer. Damn.” Susan grappled with the newel post, attempting to get purchase. Tentative hands gripped her elbows and hauled her unceremoniously to her feet.
“Thanks.” Susan turned her head to see who her rescuer might be and came up nose-to-nose with Lonely Heart Bill, at five-foot-nine exactly her height, reed thin and gangly.
Oh great, my hero. That’s the last thing I need today.
“Are you alright, Susan? You need to be more careful. You could get hurt.”
Hurt? Yeah, I know all about hurt, buddy.
Her Mom’s words hung like a lace curtain in her mind. Be nice. It wouldn’t kill you. Yeah, it would but…
“I’m good. Say, Bill, can you help me bring in some wood?”
The expression on his face put paid to her resignation. That look of fleeting hope and anxiety, and finally, disbelief, drew on her deep well of Guilt—her mother’s special dish, served up cold, and best sampled when in the depths of despair.
“S-s-sure. I can do that.”
Puppy Dog Bill pulled on fleece-lined gloves and followed Susan to the woodpile stacked against a metal pole building at the far edge of the lot.
An overhang kept the worst of the snow off the pile so Susan only needed to brush off a thin crust. Early in the season, the snow tended toward the ice end of the spectrum down in the valley. Up on the slopes around Mount Washington, it came down as a decent powder that added to the base deposited by the snow machines. The incessant buzz and hum could be heard all night long, laying a background din to the crackling of the pines as they swayed in the breeze.
Bill loaded up three logs and stumbled his way through the drifts toward the back porch. Susan tucked six hunks of wood under her chin and trudged in his footsteps, going more by feel than sight, with her head tilted back to balance the load. Bill set his pile next to the porch and turned back to help her.
She evaluated her eager assistant. Though slight of build, he actually wasn’t too bad looking. Early thirties, tousled light brown hair, narrow nose and thin lips with sad brown eyes, and a please-love-me demeanor. Although a chick magnet by no one’s standards, she had to admit he had a winning smile. The small gap between his front teeth and a lopsided lift to his lips gave him an elfin quality. She preferred her men with a little meat on their bones, meat of the athletic variety, something Thin-Man-Bill would never be.
Grunting as she ascended the first low step, she tilted back to keep herself balanced as a log threatened to skitter off to the side.
Eyes like saucers, the man gasped, “Oh, my God. That’s too much. Here, let me help.”
“I’m okay, Bill. I muscle fourteen-hundred-pound horses around a cross-country course so this is nothing. Really.”
He reached for the stack, now poised to spill completely into his unprepared grasp. Susan deftly allowed two logs to disengage into the man’s waiting arms. The huge smile of job-well-done lit his face like a beacon. He set them carefully on the stack by the railing and helped unload the rest, taking excessive care to position each in precise layers.
Susan mouthed OCD much to his back, though she appreciated the effort. Not ma
Just at the moment she leaned forward to reach around his slim form, Bill spun around, colliding solidly with her torso, leaving her with no other option than to grab his hips to steady herself. She ‘oofed’ and tried to push away but the slick quilt of her down jacket and the nubby sailcloth of his barn coat seemed destined to lock together in a bizarre electrical circuit. She could feel the charge even through her gloves.
Somehow in all the confusion, he’d managed to cup his hands over her shoulders, but as she thrust away, using his hips as leverage, he allowed his palms to travel down the length of her jacket. Red-faced, he paused briefly as his palms grazed the soft mounds of her breasts.
She knew she could have let go, should have moved away, but the interplay of curiosity and pathetic hope passing in waves across his narrow face was more entertainment than she’d had in a long time. The stray wonder what he’s thinking was answered when she glanced down at his corduroy pants. The bulge, now prominent and curtained by the open sides of his coat, had her reassessing Bill-the-Stud for his unanticipated assets.
Finally disengaging from the objects-de-fascination, Bill stepped back, licking his lips and rubbing his hands frantically up and down his thighs. Watching him move his palms closer and closer to the bulge had a train wreck quality that caught her undivided attention. Would he or wouldn’t he? It was worth the wait to find out.
Bill shook himself, shaggy dog style, then hastily buttoned his coat, his fingers fumbling with the two toggles at the bottom. The debate on whether or not to risk touching what had to be a really sensitive area versus leaving his expression of interest front and center warred across his now ruddy features.
Susan tasted blood as she bit her lower lip in an effort not to laugh, his discomfort touching her in ways that surprised. Her mother would be proud of her as she was never exactly the sensitive type when it came to other’s feelings. The mini-drama finally played out, leaving Bill to step back and collect his thoughts, if not his dignity. She was about to suggest they go in for lunch when he suddenly picked up the conversation as if there had been no interruption.
“Horses? You ride horses? Wow. That’s amazing. I never met anyone who knew how to ride.”
It came out as a squeak but she could forgive him for that—in fact he seemed genuinely interested, something few guys, even shit-head Alan, her ex-fiancé, cared much about. The ones she knew who did ride were invariably gay. Musing, maybe there’s something to work with here, she gave him a wide smile and decided to go for it.
“Yeah, I live in Hunterdon County in Jersey. I had an eventing mare this past summer that I had to put down when she colicked with a twisted gut.”
“What’s a twisted gut?”
Susan thought his not-quite-handsome, kind of boyish face was looking better by the minute. She proceeded to explain, at length—with enthusiasm and in clinical detail—every excruciating symptom. Describing the peritoneal tap and how she’d assisted the vet, she dropped into lecture mode, even going so far as to explain how to administer injections of acepromazine to alleviate the pain. The memory of the final, heart-wrenching decision to put the mare out of her misery was still a sucker punch to her gut. She brushed the tears away with her rough wool glove.
It wasn’t until she’d run out of breath that she paid any attention to her audience. It simply hadn’t registered as Bill went from interested to pale to ralfing off the corner of the porch. With an embarrassed glance in her direction, he made hasty excuses and beat an unsteady retreat into the warmth and safety of the lodge.
Befuddled, she considered his slim form as he staggered through the screen door. Vaguely disappointed, she doubted Weak Stomach Bill would be nosing around her anymore. She could go back to what she was best at—misery, self-loathing, hate, grief, and anger. Had she missed anything? If by some miracle she did, then time would sort that out. Something else would happen to remind her that her life sucked, big time.
Her mother stuck her nose out the door. “What the samhill did you do to that poor man? I had to dig out a bottle of Maalox and fire up some chicken soup. He looks like death warmed over.”
“Huh. Nothing. We were just bringing some wood in. Probably caught a bug or something.”
She cringed at her mother’s canny look of disbelief. Her mom was no fool. She had that you’re going to hell for sure glare down pat. On that count she might be right. Why couldn’t she be nice to the poor guy? Like Mom said, what would it cost her? But she’d already given it all at the office. Damn that rat bastard…
Marge withdrew to tend to her guests, not at all pleased with the snarky ‘tude her daughter had assumed the last few weeks. She understood the part about mourning the mare—the beast had been a salvation and a healthy outlet for her boundless energy. What she failed to fathom was the whole risk-your-life leaping over wood platforms and other insane obstacles at out-of-control speeds with a squirrely horse the size of a Sherman tank. It was the sort of thing only a daredevil like Evel Knievel would tackle for the sheer joy of it.
Jesus, she’d watched her only child take a header down at the Kentucky Horse Park. It happened at one of the monster trakheners. The pair had galloped down-slope, nearly out-of-control, toward the free-standing, redwood-sized log suspended over a deep ditch. The horse had gone into an uncontrolled skid in the sloppy going and, with no momentum, had ended up straddling the log. Susan had hung on like a champ at that point but the gelding’s lunge backwards had unseated her, dumping her sideways onto the rough timber. She’d gotten up, blood pouring out of her mouth, and mounted to finish the course, bitching the whole way because she pulled sixty penalty points for coming off. But she still made the time, and that had entailed running that damn horse flat out, mane and tail on fire. She’d never been so proud of her daughter, or so terrified, in her life.
Where was that bravery, that damn-the-torpedoes attitude now? On a roll, she ran down her list of favorite bitches, starting with the fiancé, Alan. Stupid prick. She’d never liked the SOB, as he clearly wasn’t ever going to be good enough for Suz. She’d been secretly relieved when he’d been caught in flagrante delicto.
What was driving her nuts was how Suz was acting beat down, as if she owned the only broken heart in the state. Marge had hoped that maybe a stint helping out at the lodge would do what time couldn’t. Like her mother before her, she believed that the recipe for dealing with most of life’s ills was ‘keep busy’, let things sort themselves out. That bit of wisdom wasn’t working out so far, so she might have to consider other options for her daughter.
With the early start to ski season, their financials had taken a nice uptick. If it kept up, maybe she could afford to treat Susan to a trip somewhere. Living in vacationland hardly counted for much when all it amounted to was long hours and demanding guests. The B&B was an avocation for her. It wasn’t fair to expect Susan to embrace it the way she had. Not when her love extended to all things equine. She realized the one thing that would do the trick was something she absolutely could not afford—a new eventing horse to replace her girl’s beloved mare. Suz had immediately shopped the area when she’d arrived, but the few horses she’d found were too young, too old, or too expensive.
Baring those options, her only other choice had been a little match-making. Ergo, she’d encouraged Lonely Heart Bill.
Marge and her daughter managed to avoid each other, keeping to their respective chores and their own sad thoughts. Twilight slipped easily into a deep freeze with the boughs hung low under a new burden of sleet that morphed into a heavy wet snow.
Marge finished the kitchen chores and trudged wearily to her room, passing Susan’s closed door. She thought that was odd as Susan rarely kept to herself and seldom shut her out. Curious, Marge tapped lightly on the door, then pressed an ear against the smooth pine to listen for any sound. A small sob, a hiccough of pain, then silence. Concerned, Marge turned the knob and cautiously eased the door open. Susan lay on the bed snuffling in the dark.
