Saratoga Sunrise (10 page)

Sara opened her reticule and looked at the cigar Diamond Jim had given to her. Somehow, it was a symbol of her victory over Monty Fordice. She was hopeful it would become a symbol of more victories to come.

She watched Aunt Trixie walk in the direction of the chair just vacated by Diamond Jim. She turned back when she must have realized that Sara wasn't following.

"Go ahead, Aunt Trixie, and keep Dad company," Sara urged. "I'm just going to go back to the cottage and go to bed. I'm awfully tired from the day's events."

"All right, dear," Aunt Trixie said, then hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. "Sweet dreams."

As Sara walked through the sweet-smelling garden to cottage row, she thought about her father and Aunt Trixie.

Aunt Trixie loved her father. Sara had known it for years. She could tell by the way Aunt Trixie always wanted to be in his company, how she smiled whenever he was around, the way her eyes sparkled whenever he took her hand or offered her his arm.

Why couldn't her father see it?

She wondered how he could not notice, but then again, he couldn't seem to see what a fool Montague Fordice was either. For a man who was so smart in business, how was it that he was such a terrible judge of a possible future son-in-law?

For a man who could size up a business contact by just looking in his eyes, how come he couldn't see that Aunt Trixie cared for him as more than a brother-in-law? She loved him in a way that a woman loves a man, and he didn't even know it.

Before she could think about it more, voices raised in anger intruded on Sara's thoughts from a dark corner of the garden behind a statue. A lover's quarrel perhaps. Sara slowed her pace, hoping the quarrel would end before she reached that corner of the garden.

"This isn't like you. Not the man I know," said the woman.

"Just give me a little more time, then you can do what you want." The male voice was deep and rich, and familiar. "But this is important to me. Important to my family."

"I don't know. I'll think about it," the woman said.

She saw them in the shadows. He reached for her, as if to embrace her or to get her to listen to him, but the woman stormed away, mumbling to herself, her arms flailing.

Clara.

The man hurried off in the opposite direction.

Jack Summers.

She froze, shocked by the disturbing scene. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears as she fought back the bile threatening to choke her. Then realization hit her all at once.

Clara and Jack know each other.

# # #

Jack paced in front of the stables, thinking. He still didn't have any information that would help clear his father and it was frustrating him.

In spite of his best efforts, Sara Peterson didn't tell him anything that he didn't already know, and now Clara Cunningham was ready to tell everyone about his real identity.

Frowning, he hoped he’d convinced Clara to remain silent and to allow him more time.

He doubted if she would. Clara made it known that she was a close and loyal friend of Sara Peterson. So time was of the essence. He had to hurry.

Sara Peterson. Her name was like a whisper on the wind.

He thought of the deep gash on her leg, the horrible scars. It must have been a horrible accident for such a result. He sighed that such a thing had happened to mar such a lovely woman and how courageous she must have been to suffer through the healing process.

One thing was for certain, the injury to her body did not damage her spirit. An unbidden feeling of profound admiration for Sara Peterson flowed through him.

Then outrage overcame him. What idiot was driving the carriage that killed her mother and maimed such a lovely woman?

"For heaven's sake!" he blurted. The force of his words startled Amberglow and she whickered in annoyance.

He knew he had upset Sara by inspecting her injury. Even though her eyes had been dry, they were unforgiving.

He didn't know what he'd done to hurt her.

But he would make up for it tomorrow night at the ball. He'd ask Sara to dance and wouldn't take no for an answer.

Surprisingly, he found himself looking forward to holding Sara in his arms again.

CHAPTER 6

Porky Wagner, resplendent in plaid pants that didn’t reach his ankles and his lucky polka-dotted shirt, looked every bit the Saratoga gadabout as he waddled from stall-to-stall at the horse stables. Binoculars, hanging from around his neck on a black strap, alternately swung like a pendulum then bounced off his protruding stomach.

Clutching several scribbled papers in his meaty fist and a well-chewed, unlit cigar between his teeth, he pulled a pencil from behind his ear and shifted the papers in every direction trying to find a clean space on which to write.

Deep-set, clear blue eyes peered over gold-rimmed spectacles that had slipped down his sunburned nose. He studied Bravo Joe from no more than ten feet away, then lifted his binoculars and studied the horse again.

"What da' ya' think about that one, Mike?" Porky asked, giving his long-time friend a nudge in the side with his elbow.

Mike Lasky, as skinny as Porky was not, pulled on his whiskered chin thoughtfully. "Nice lookin', nice legs, nice shiny hair, strong hips and thighs."

"Dammit, Mike, I'm not talkin' about your lady friend, I'm talking about Bravo Joe."

They both tugged on their pants together: Porky, to pull his down past his stomach hoping to locate a place where they weren't as tight around the waist, and Mike to pick his up because the cuffs were dragging through the dirt and manure.

"Who owns him?" Mike asked, looking at his friend.

Porky leafed through the sheets of paper like he was shuffling cards, finally finding what he wanted. "Montague Fordice."

"The old man?"

"Dead. His son owns the horse now."

Mike held up his hand. "I don't like 'em."

"Which one?"

"Both of them."

"So you won't bet on his horse?"

"Nope."

Porky clicked his tongue against his back teeth. "That's ridiculous. That's a good horse there."

"Bet him if you want, but I won't. Like owner, like horse, I always say. Let's see some more."

"Seawind's over here. Owned by Bond Peterson."

"I like Bond. I like that girl of his even more. Where is Sara? She must be around somewhere." Mike turned to look in every direction.

"She’s a sweet girl. It about broke my heart when I read about her accident in the Albany Times Union. She doesn't talk about it much, but I heard around the track that she almost died."

Porky sniffed, took out a plain cotton handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose without removing his cigar.

Mike jumped at the sound. "I know, Pork. I was the one that told you."

"Oh."

"Sheesh, are you getting so old that you can't remember anything?"

"Shh! Here comes Sara!" Porky straightened his striped tie and whipped his misshapen beaver hat off his fairly bald head. He tossed the pencil and his papers into the middle of the bowl of the hat and waited politely.

"Pork, dammit, don't stand there like a statue. Let's go meet her for goodness sake! Ya' going to make her walk all the way over here?" Mike yelled.

"I wasn't thinking. Quit yer harpin' at me and let's go greet her." He walked penguin-like away from Mike, who hurried to keep up.

"Mike...Porky...how wonderful it is to see you both again!" Sara held out her arms wide and gave them both a hug. "It's been so long, but I do so enjoy the letters you write me throughout the year."

"We like yours, too, sweetie," Porky said as Mike nodded in agreement.

"Care to sit down on that bale of hay, Miss Sara?" Mike shrugged out of his too-large topcoat, spread it on the hay, and motioned regally for Sara to sit.

She smiled. "Thank you, Mike."

Not to be outdone, Porky held her hand to steady her as she sat down on the hay.

"You both are looking quite dapper!" Sara said. They blushed to the tip of their heads. "I've missed you both."

"You're a good friend, Sara Peterson," Porky said with reverence.

"You get more beautiful every year," Mike added. "We heard about you being betrothed. Who's the lucky gent?"

Sara's high spirits at seeing her friends, slowly dissolved. "It's Montague Fordice. I believe you both know him."

"Indeed we do," said Mike.

"That foolish jackass?"

"Watch your language, Porky."

"Oh, sorry, Miss Sara. You mean that fish-faced fool Fordice?"

Mike snickered. "Oh, that was much better, Pork."

Laughter bubbled up from inside Sara until it had no recourse but to escape. "Oh, thank you so much you two. I needed a good laugh."

Porky turned the brim of his hat around in his hands, careful not to disturb his papers. "Do you love him, sweetie?"

"No."

"Well, then why the hell–oops, sorry–heck...are ya' marrying him?" Porky asked.

Sara looked down. How could she tell her friends that it was her father's wishes, and that she was going to marry him so that she could have her horse farm? Knowing them, they'd storm over to her father and hound him unmercifully until he changed his mind. But it was her battle to fight. She'd handle her father. . . eventually.

Sara sighed. "I have my reasons, Porky."

"Honey, you're too good for that fool. We've known him for years, hell...I mean heck...we've been coming here for years, and I know I speak for Porky here when I say he's no good," Mike said.

"Oh, he's all right. He's just a little...stuffy," she said.

"Yeah, I'd like to stuff him all right." Porky plopped his hat back on his head, and Sara chuckled when bits of paper stuck out of the brim and surrounded his face.

She decided to change the subject. "So who do you like today, gentlemen?"

"How about giving us a tip, sweetie?"

She giggled. "Porky, you know I always bet on Peterson horses. My money's on Lucky Clover in the first and Comet in the second." She handed him two dollars. "Will you place my bet for me, as usual?"

Porky took her money and stuffed it into the pocket of his vest. "Most certainly, sweetie."

"Would you like to see our horses, gentlemen?" Sara asked. "I know how much you always enjoy a first-hand look."

The answer was overwhelmingly "Yes!"

Porky and Mike each took one of her elbows and helped her up from the bale of hay. After thanking them, she locked her arm in theirs, and they proceeded in the direction of the Peterson stables.

Sara knew that Jack would be at the stables, and her stomach churned, half in eager anticipation, half in dread.

When they got there, Sara made introductions. She tried to concentrate, but her gaze kept straying to Jack Summers who was brushing Lucky Clover. His muscles were straining his crisp white shirt with every move he made.

 "So, Jack, are Clover and Comet ready to race today?" Bond ran a hand over the glossy neck of Lucky Clover. "These folks might want to place a bet on him."

"Yes, sir. Toady has been working them out, and they both clocked fine."

"Good to hear." Bond patted Clover's neck.

Jack slipped his hand into the currycomb and began brushing Clover's withers. "Any further instructions, Mr. Peterson?"

"No. Just make sure everything's all right and get them to the post on time."

"I will," Jack said.

Bond Peterson took Porky and Mike on a tour of his stables, but Sara remained behind to give her leg a rest. Sitting on the only chair in close proximity, she tried to avoid glancing at Jack Summers.

# # #

Jack's gaze met Sara's, but she quickly looked away. What did I do to upset her? It wasn't his fault that she got wet. If she hadn't made such a fuss about him touching her leg, she never would have been dunked. He supposed it wasn't the gentlemanly thing to do, but he couldn't help himself. He was still incensed about the scars she wore, but she was lucky to be alive.

She was beautiful when she was wet. Hell, she was beautiful when she wasn't wet! Her clothes had clung to her figure in all the right places. There was something about Sara Peterson that made his hands itch to touch her.

The first day he’d met her, she looked so fragile, yet he sensed an inner strength about her. A man could get lost in her violet eyes and her dewy lips. She tried valiantly to walk normally, but she couldn’t.

At veterinary school, he studied the bones of animals, humans included. Perhaps he could help her with the right kind of exercise or some kind of alteration to her shoe. Walking was good, and she seemed to do a lot of that, but she might benefit from exercise devoted to specific muscles.

Lucky Clover snorted as if she had read his thoughts. "You're right, Lucky Clover, what could I possibly do to help her that the best doctors in the country haven't tried?" he mumbled, feeling a sadness creep into his heart.

He reminded himself that his plan was to use Sara to get information to clear his father. But still, he couldn't help but notice how the morning sun lit up her hair so that it was almost silver in spots, and how her petite figure looked trim in a striped shirtwaist and pale blue skirt. He remembered how her laughter rang out like silver tinkling against the finest crystal, but she wasn't laughing now.

Sara must have sensed him staring at her for she looked over at him. He smiled boldly. She seemed to forget herself, and began to return his smile, then turned away.

"Are you upset at something Sara?"

"No. Not at all."

Her voice dripped with icy displeasure. He was puzzled. What did he do wrong, other than kiss her?

But he was only a horse handler, so she thought, and she was a rich heiress. Even though the class system was somewhat forgotten at Saratoga, it still was a matter-of-fact outside of the Springs, and the Petersons would be no exception.

 He vowed to ask Sara again what was bothering her, when not so many people were around. Yes, the ball tonight at the Grand Union would be the perfect time. Of course, she'd be in attendance. All the belles would be there. He'd ask her to dance, then question her. However, he reminded himself to make sure to avoid anyone who might recognize him, or know him, like Clara Cunningham.