Chase The Clouds. Lindsay McKenna

Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       About the Author

       Also by Lindsay McKenna

      One

      “Mrs. Daguerre, I can assure you I’m not used to having people fall short of their obligations to me. Especially ones where a legal contract is signed and services are promised.”

      Danielle stiffened in her chair and stared across the small office that was located within the main stabling barn. She was tall for a horse trainer, almost five foot nine, but she felt diminutive against the man who stood in the doorway blocking the afternoon April sun that slanted across his broad shoulders. Easing out of the black leather desk chair, she folded her arms against her small breasts, feeling positively threatened by his detached coolness. His eyes, the shade of pewter gray, assessed her with mild interest.

      “Mr. Reese,” she began, taking a firm tone that she would normally use with misbehaving horses, “my ex-husband signed that document over a year ago to ride your three-day-event thoroughbred, I didn’t.”

      He gave her a thin, cutting smile, one corner of his generous mouth pulling upward. Removing the Stetson from his rich, dark hair, he let the hat dangle in his right hand. “Right now I don’t care who signed it. I’m sorry that your marriage was broken up, but an agreement is an agreement.”

      “Your stallion, Altair, has a nasty name on the show circuit,” she reminded him stubbornly. As much as she hated to use her ex-husband’s name, she went on, “Jean’s notes tell me that he’s shy of water jumps, headstrong and impulsive and won’t listen to his rider.”

      His cool, twisted smile remained as he studied her across the distance. “Yes, I’m afraid he’s a bit like me in some respects—hard to handle.”

      Dany’s nostrils flared with a show of contempt. Pointing at the fact sheets compiled on the jumper, she said, “You can’t take a range horse and make him a Grand Prix jumper, Mr. Reese. It just can’t be done. Your stallion has been mishandled too long, and I don’t have the time or inclination to try and retrain him for you, contract or no contract.”

      His gray eyes glittered with an unnamed emotion. “Altair was out of the finest thoroughbred stock money can buy, Mrs. Daguerre. The fact that his dam was stolen and then abandoned in the middle of the Nevada desert with Altair at her side has no bearing on his abilities. It’s true he was raised in the wild with a herd of mustangs. He was caught as a four-year-old by wranglers who busted him for use as a cow horse.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I saw him by accident when I was looking over a herd of charlois, and bought him immediately.”

      Dany tried to quell her frustration. “It’s a very touching story, Mr. Reese but—”

      “You haven’t heard all of it,” he ground out softly.

      Something in the tone of his voice warned her to remain motionless. “All right,” she capitulated, “tell me the rest of it. But it won’t change my mind.”

      “The more facts you have, the better you’ll be able to weigh your decision,” he parried.

      “I’m waiting.…”

      “The wrangler who owned him tried to beat the spirit out of Altair. Consequently, he’s pretty scarred up from it, both physically and emotionally. I knew he was thoroughbred by his conformation. When the owner showed me the mare, her tattoo number was stamped on the inside of her upper lip. All I had to do was call the registry and confirm Altair’s breeding. He can’t be registered, but in Grand Prix, papers don’t mean a thing. Ability does.”

      “I suppose it doesn’t mean a thing that he’s a range horse?”

      Sam Reese gave her an odd smile. “You can come from the wrong side of the tracks and still make it. I’m sure you’re familiar with Nautilus, the palomino gelding they found at some riding stable?”

      Dany nodded. “Yes, a rags-to-riches story of a Heinz-variety gelding who made it big in the Olympics as a jumper. That’s a one-in-a-million shot.”

      “Altair’s unique.”

      “He’s trouble with a capital ‘T,’ Mr. Reese.” She pulled up the file, frowning. “Jean didn’t make these notes for nothing. He has excellent ability to size up a Grand Prix candidate for the jumping circuit.”

      “Then why did he agree to show Altair if he thought the stallion was such a loss?”

      It was Dany’s turn to give him a withering smile. “Because Jean thought he could ride anything and make it win.”

      “He has—so far. But,” he hesitated, tilting his head, watching her with a more gentle expression. “I’ve been following his career the last four years, and it seems to me he had one hell of a trainer behind the scenes working the kinks out of these animals before they ever showed.” He pointed at her. “You’re the real reason why he’s skyrocketed to fame and has winner after winner on his hands.”

      She couldn’t stand still a moment longer, unable to bear remembering the last four miserable years of her life. “Please—”

      He reached out, capturing her arm and turning her toward him. Dany was wildly aware of his masculine aura and she pulled her arm away. “I made a mistake by hiring three different male trainers to coach Altair. He needs a woman’s touch.”

      She took a step away. “Doesn’t every male,” she noted with sarcasm. “I have no wish to get mangled by that sorrel stallion. I’ve heard rumors that Altair has injured all his trainers to some degree.”

      “And in every instance it was their fault,” he growled. “He’s an intelligent horse who won’t be beaten or cajoled into doing something. He has to be reasoned with psychologically and respected.”

      “I have no wish to end up with a broken neck or fractured skull because of that red devil!”

      “You’re reacting to rumors, that’s all.”

      Danielle’s eyes widened, their blueness becoming clouded with cobalt flecks. How could this—this “cowboy” from California suddenly walk in unannounced and demand that she fulfill this agreement made so long ago? The only business that she wanted to conduct today was to turn over control of the Virginia training and stable business to her new partner. Had it only been nine months since the divorce from Jean Baptiste Daguerre? Her heart wrenched in anger and pain over the shock of his sudden departure. Jean was the brilliant, flamboyant part of their duo, and she was only the trainer who stayed behind the scenes doing the groundwork and strenuous training of thoroughbreds for their blue-blooded owners of the East Coast. Jean had ridden nearly every one of the horses she had lovingly trained to the very heights of equine stardom. He would show them in stadium jumping, dressage and the dangerous, spectacular three-day cross-country eventing. The more dangerous, the more closely timed the event, the better his electric performance on the horse. Choking down a lump forming in her throat, she was unable to meet Sam Reese’s inquiring gaze. It was too bad Jean’s performance in their marriage had gotten such poor marks. She sighed. It was just as much her fault; she spent too much time training the young horses and too little time with Jean.

      “My attorneys have made inquiries as to Mr. Daguerre’s whereabouts, and they’ve informed me he has left for a series of commitments in France. I have a Grand Prix hopeful standing in my barn, Mrs. Daguerre, and when your ex-husband saw Altair last year, he said he’d campaign him.”