Cutter (Gail McCarthy Mystery series) (6 page)

"She did. She also used to sleep with him, if you can believe the rumors. It was pretty well accepted, though; she was Will's girlfriend of the year."

"Girlfriend of the year?"

"Sure. He tends to come up with a new one every spring, or he did." Bret flashed his grin at me again. "He's married, of course. Has been for thirty years. But it doesn't seem to get in his way any."

"I wonder why his wife puts up with it."

"I wouldn't know. But it sort of goes with the territory. Most trainers are that way; there's exceptions, of course."

I nodded sagely. In my experience, Bret was right. Horse training, though usually ill paid, was in some senses a glamorous profession. Trainers were often surrounded by crowds of admiring young women, horse lovers all, each of whom would be honored to be the trainer's current fling. Not a role I'd relish, myself.

"You know all these people, don't you?" I asked Bret, an idea dawning in my head.

"Sort of. I used to haul Jay's horses to the shows. I pretty much know who all the big guns are or were. My gossip's a little out of date, though; it must be two years since I quit."

"I know what you can do for me," I said slowly, with a meaningful look at the empty beer bottles and the sleeping bag unrolled on my couch, "in lieu of rent. Go to a cutting with me tomorrow."

Bret looked wary, but not terribly resistant. "Where?" he asked cautiously.

"In Los Borregos. Don't worry, I'll drive," I added, knowing that he was calculating the price of gas. "I'm not sure that truck of yours would make it over Pacheco Pass. I just want you to go along and tell me about the people and the cutting. Casey's showing a horse-a horse I rode this afternoon." I explained about Casey and Shiloh.

When I was done, Bret shrugged one shoulder. "Okay I'll go point out the sights."

I smiled. "You just bought yourself a week of free rent, buddy. After that, we'll see. And you still need to buy your own beer," I amended quickly, seeing the thought pass through his mind before he opened his mouth.

He grinned and got up. "I better get to buying, then. Can't sit here all evening without beer. I'll be back," he added, as he walked toward the front door.

That was debatable. Bret was more than likely to wind up at some bar or succession of bars and be back around 3:00 A.M., if he didn't find a girl to go home with.

"Don't hurry," I called after him as the door closed. "I'm going out."

And soon, I realized; it was time to get moving if I didn't want to be late. I was meeting Lonny at the Bohemian Cafe at six-thirty and it was already five-forty-five.

Choosing one of my few dresses in honor of the warm fall weather, I pulled on a lightweight, pale blue denim affair, sleeveless and scoop-necked, worn over bare legs and woven leather sandals. The dress was younger in style than I was, or felt, but it flattered my figure and my coloring and seemed appropriate to the lovely soft Indian-summer evening, so unusual for the coast. Besides, I thought, pulling my hair high with a couple of combs, judging by the anticipatory flutters I was feeling, my heart was closer to twenty-one than thirty-one.

Arriving at the Bohemian Cafe five minutes early, I was pleased and amused to see that Lonny was even earlier; his Bronco was in the parking lot.

The Bohemian Cafe is not what it sounds like. The name suggests something intimate, continental and sophisticated; in fact, the large, high-ceilinged room with big old fashioned French-paned windows-actually the dining room of a hotel that dates from stage-stop days-looks simple and countrified. The historic bar reminds me of a movie set for the saloon scene in a Western, and all the furnishings are casually eclectic. Worn Oriental rugs cover the wooden floor in patches, Van Gogh mixes with Charles Russell on the walls, and Victorian lamps argue with saddles hung from the ceiling. It's great.

Lonny was sitting at the bar when I walked in and stood up when he saw me. He wore what I had come to recognize as standard dress clothes for him-pressed jeans, an Oxford-cloth shirt, and clean cowboy boots. As a young man, Lonny's face would no doubt have been called homely; his big nose hooked toward his bony jaw and his rough, craggy features had a suggestion of Abraham Lincoln. At forty-six (we'd gotten to the stage of telling each other our ages), he was growing to look distinguished (I thought), and distinguished or homely, his face was illuminated by a pair of greenish eyes filled with life, humor and intelligence-eyes that seemed to brim over at times with an openhearted zest for living.

Now was one of those times, and I smiled up at him, warmed and charmed as I often was by his enthusiasm. I'm tall for a woman, but Lonny's six-foot-two made me tilt my head back to look him in the eyes. "Hi," I told him.

"Hi." He grinned appreciatively at me. "You look like summer personified. Care for a drink?"

"Sure." I seated myself on a bar stool and looked around with pleasure. The bar at the Bohemian Cafe looked exactly the way a bar was supposed to look---ceiling covered in dollar bills, walls paneled in dark brown wood with trophy heads and the kind of "amusing" signs that bars seem to collect over every square inch of space, bottles ranged in mirrored rows behind the old rosewood bar with its brass rail, and the sort of quiet, restful ambience that more modern bars never seem to have. Late evening sunlight slanted in through a west-facing window and dust motes floated like golden specks in the air. Two other people chatted softly at a table in the corner.

I took a sharp, lime-flavored sip of my vodka gimlet and felt relaxation and contentment wash over me in a rush. Smiling gratefully at Lonny, I said, "Don't you love the cocktail hour?"

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled back. "If it's done right, appreciated, yes."

"Having a drink with somebody, a little conversation, at the point where late afternoon turns into evening-I don't know, it doesn't seem to go into words, but there's something about it."

We both took sips of our drinks in appreciative silence. After a second Lonny asked me, "So what's new?"

I told him about Casey Brooks' barn full of colicked horses, his suspicion of poison, and finished up with the information that I was planning to go to a cutting tomorrow in the Central Valley. I didn't mention that I'd invited Bret to go with me; Lonny knew Bret slightly and always seemed to regard Bret and my relationship with puzzled, if accepting, incomprehension, but I felt a need not to arouse any possible jealousies. Since I wasn't yet sure how involved I planned to get with Lonny, I didn't particularly want to deal with any possessiveness he might feel.

In his turn Lonny told me about a practice roping he'd gone to that afternoon-he was starting to teach me the basics of team roping-and we talked about his two horses, Burt and Pistol. I'd been his veterinarian for a little more than a year now, and had gone on several rides with him since we'd been dating, so the conversation, as long as it stayed on horses, flowed easily.

It was only when we'd finished dinner and were considering coffee and dessert, and he asked me if I'd like to have the coffee at his place, that things got sticky.

An invitation to his place-there were definite implications in that. I'd never been in his house before, our dates had involved meeting at restaurants or riding horses. An invitation to "come up for coffee" was surely an invitation to bed.

It wasn't unreasonable on his part. We'd been dating a month and he'd clearly indicated he wanted to be more involved. I didn't fear a one-night stand and a rejection; it was obvious, I admitted to myself, that I was preparing to be involved with him-just look at the way I'd fixed up my bedroom. The problem was more subtle than that.

"All right," I said lightly, meeting his eyes. "For coffee."

Lonny's house proved to be unique. It was hidden from his barn, up a steep hill and behind a screen of oak trees, so not only had I never been in it, I'd never even seen it. I don't know what I'd expected, but the house surprised me. It was a round house, a decagon, Lonny told me, the whole place arranged around a central room, which was also round-the hub, as it were.

The room we walked into was a sort of enclosed porch/ living room, two stories high, with giant windows looking out at the oak trees. Terra cotta tile floors, natural pine walls and ceiling, and a staircase running up the far side to a balcony that overhung the room all took my eye favorably.

I sat at the kitchen table and looked around while Lonny made coffee. An open archway led into the round central room, which was carpeted and cozy with books and a desk. Most of the furniture was covered in Navajo patterned fabrics, which reflected the same quiet, Southwestern color scheme as the rest of the house. It was gentle and relaxing-a house to be comfortable in. I had the feeling Lonny had created it as the restful center to an active life.

He handed me coffee in a sand-colored mug and said, "Would you like to sit in the living room?"

I got up and we settled ourselves, as if we'd planned it, on the couch. The coffee was good, fresh ground and strong, and Lonny's shoulder was just touching mine. His face was quiet, almost withdrawn, and I had no idea what was on his mind.

Lonny put his coffee cup down and took mine and put it down, too. His hands, as he turned my face to his, were gentle and demanding at the same time. His mouth met mine tenderly, but not tentatively, and the kiss grew in intensity until we were devouring each other. I swam in his desire, the strength and the warmth of it, in his hands caressing my back and waist.

It didn't take long. Our bodies lit sparks from each other. Lonny ran his hand down my thigh and groaned. Burying his face in my chest, he said softly, "I want you." It was there in his voice, an intensity of feeling both completely male and still vulnerable. He wasn't trying to hide.

My body cried out for him, but my mind was warning me. Wait a minute. Is this what you want? All my reservations raised their heads.

"Lonny, I just don't know."

"Don't know what?"

"Whether this is what I want." I forced myself to sit up. "I mean, let's face it, there's AIDS and everything else out there and, much though I like you, I just don't know you that well. I hardly know anything about you. I don't even know what you do for a living," I said lamely.

"I'm retired. Semi-retired, anyway." Lonny grinned and kissed me again, and for some long minutes I sank into the powerful physical tenderness. My arms pulled him to me, and I could feel his body coil, the long, strong muscles over his back tensing.

"Is this what you want?" The tone in his voice was fierce and still gentle.

"I don't know. My body does. My mind wants me to be careful."

There was a long moment of quiet. When he spoke, his voice sounded strained. "As far as AIDS and all that goes, I don't actually know. I've never been tested. I've never had a symptom and I've never slept with anyone who turned out to have it-as far as I know. In all fairness, though, there is one thing I ought to tell you. I'm married."

My mind was going double-speed now, catching up to my body and outdistancing it in the stretch. "That would have been a shock," I said blankly.

The voice in my head was shouting, Steer clear of this one, Gail; nothing worse than a man with a wife. Stay independent. Don't get hurt. "Maybe we do need to get to know each other a little better," I added.

Lonny didn't say anything. His arm was still around me and I could feel the warmth and solid comfort of him. I wondered if he was regretting his impulse toward honesty.

I snuggled my body more comfortably against him. How could anybody not want this? "It's hard to explain. I do and I don't. I've got a strong sense of independence; I'm uncomfortable needing anyone. There're a lot of reasons."

Lonny squeezed me gently and I could feel his free hand playing up and down my arm. It sent corresponding shivers up and down my spine. "So how about us?" he asked me.

I sighed. "I don't know." A picture of Kris and Rick Griffith with their seven-year-old daughter standing between them jumped into my mind; was I so sure I didn't want a life like that with a man I loved and admired? I'd never made a conscious decision to stay solitary; it was more that I'd become self-sufficient out of necessity after my parents had died, and at this point I was accustomed to my independence. Making my own decisions, accommodating no one, was a habit, a habit I wasn't sure I wanted to change. Still, there were evenings when the house could seem very empty, when I drank an extra glass of wine just to hurry the unconscious peace of sleep. I could use a lover-some of the time, anyway.