Whitehorse (25 page)

No saddle today.

She mounted by way of a step stool.

The sky was just beginning to gray as Genesis pranced out of the barn, neck arched and ears erect, Leah playing with the reins just enough to remind the hot-blooded Arabian that this was not to be his usual dawn frolic around the turnout paddock. They headed for the breaking pen, a hundred-foot-diameter round pen not far from the stables.

Leah had not lied about her bareback capabilities. She was good, but not great. As long as the stallion behaved she could handle the situation. Her father would explode, of course. He preferred her to look the part of the senator's daughter—all refined and ladylike, a role model for young women who aspired to represent the very best of Uncle Sam, apple pie, and money.

The horse easily gave to the bit as she set him into a collected canter around the arena, glancing occasionally toward the stables where she had last seen Johnny Whitehorse. The horse warmed between her legs, and its easy rocking motion fingered a slow, oozing sensation through her, one that she had come to recognize and appreciate over the last couple of years. She wasn't ignorant of what it was, and meant. She and Larry weren't exactly angels, not that they had gone all the way. No way was she giving her virginity to such a moron, but they had, on occasion, enjoyed some fairly heavy petting.

Johnny leaned against the wall and watched her.

Leah brought the horse down to a slow, collected trot, a more difficult gait to sit with no saddle.

So Johnny wasn't as disinterested in her as he'd pretended.

She sank her heels hard into the stallion's side. He jumped forward, front feet leaving the ground as he pushed powerfully off his rear end. The reins slid through her loose fingers and she slipped sideways, hitting the ground and rolling face down in the sand. Eyes closed, she waited.

Footsteps running. The gate thrown open.

Leah smiled.

Johnny sank to his knees beside her, took her gently in his hands and turned her carefully. "Leah?" he said softly, but urgently. "Speak to me, Leah."

Her eyelids fluttered and opened.

His face was no longer expressionless. His eyes looked turbulent. Cradling her cheek with one hand he eased his thumb along her lower lip and asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes." She nodded.

He raised one eyebrow and sat back on his heels. "Then the next time you bail off a horse to try and impress me you should try harder to land on your head. A little blood would go a long way to inspiring my pity."

"What are you insinuating? That I purposefully fell off that horse—"

"Exactly." Standing, Johnny turned on his heels and walked toward the horse that was nervously watching from the far side of the round pen.

"You're crazy," she shouted, sitting up and dusting sand from her arms and legs. "Why would I bother doing such a stupid thing?"

"Because you're rich and spoiled and accustomed to getting your way."

"I am
not
spoiled."

Johnny took the reins and led the horse to her as Leah got up, slapping dirt off her rear. He extended the reins. "One thing you must learn about the Apache, Miss Foster. We tolerate nothing but honesty from any man or woman. As my mother always said, 'Say what you mean, and mean what you say.'"

Leah rolled her eyes as Johnny started back toward the gate. "Fine," she yelled. "I fell off the horse on purpose. I thought you might be more receptive to giving me lessons if you thought I was a klutz. Look, I just want to get to know you. What's wrong with that?"

He stopped and slowly turned back. "Why are you so interested in getting to know me? I'm only an Indian."

"You're a guy first, aren't you?"

"No." He shook his head. "I'm Indian first. And you aren't. That's reason number one why you shouldn't bother getting to know me. Reason number two is your father. He doesn't like Indians, remember?"

"That's just stupid." She laughed. "He hired your father, didn't he?"

"If my father was from the moon and had eight eyes and seventeen arms, your father would have hired him because he's the finest trainer in this state. That doesn't mean he has to like him."

Shaking her head and crossing her arms, Leah said, "That's just not true."

"No?" Johnny walked toward her. "When is the last time your father asked my father into his house? Never. When has he ever asked about my father's health? Never. When has he given my father the credit he deserves for training his horses? Never. Instead, he takes these horses and gives them to Jack Jones to run because he doesn't want it known that an Indian trains his horses. And while my father drowns his disgrace in mescal, Jack pockets thousands of dollars in bonuses and commissions that should be my father's."

Taking the reins from her, Johnny tossed them over the stallion's withers. "Get on your horse, Miss Foster, and I'll give you one lesson only." He turned her toward the horse and gave her a leg up. With his dark hand lying upon her thigh, he lifted his black eyes up to hers. "You must become one with your animal. Your body is his body, from here—" He slid his hand to the top of her leg, where her crotch nestled into the animal's flesh, then down, slowly, along her leg, to just below her knee. "—to here. You hold his heart between your knees. Be gentle but firm and there's nothing he won't do for you. His heart and spirit are yours,
Sons-ee-ah-ray."

"Sons-ee…?"

"Sons-ee-ah-ray
. Morning Star." He pointed to the solitary star that continued to shine in the dwindling gray of the bluing sky. "You shine like fire in the mist, Miss Foster."

Leah smiled, aware that Johnny's hand remained on her leg, like shadow upon sunlight. Even more aware that she liked it in a way that she had never liked Larry Norman's touch.

Johnny's father exited the barn, his step slowing as he saw Leah and Johnny.
"Ish-kay-nay!"
he shouted angrily, striding toward the round pen, fists clenched and jaw bulging.

"He looks pissed," Leah whispered. "What does
ish-kay-nay
mean?"

"Boy." Removing his hand from her leg, Johnny backed away, lowering his head. "In my father's eyes I haven't yet achieved an act worthy of an Apache name."

Jefferson Whitehorse shouted again at Johnny, his language as foreign to Leah as Japanese. But his anger was undeniable. He did not look at Leah directly, but turned his profile to her, and with hands on his hips, waited until Johnny left the arena. They exchanged words before Johnny turned his back on his father and walked toward the barn. Only then did Jefferson Whitehorse look at her—briefly, the whites of his eyes red as fire.

That night after dinner, Leah sat on the porch with her mother. The whir of insects filled the air and the first bite of chill settled around her shoulders, making her glad that she had put on jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt before curling up in the chaise. This was her favorite time to spend with her mother. Jane Foster was usually more relaxed after her evening meal and several strong drinks she called her dessert. When she was totally sober she was far too concerned with living up to her husband's expectations.

Jane held a partially full glass of Jack Daniel's on the rocks as she gazed out over the sprawling front gardens. At eighteen she had won the coveted title of Miss
Louisiana
and had gone on to become a top five runner-up for Miss Universe. She'd met Leah's father the following year. Their marriage had been the joining of two of the most prestigious families in the country—arranged by their fathers, of course. Even modern aristocracy made certain their bloodlines ran with nothing but the bluest blood money could buy.

"I met Johnny Whitehorse today," Leah said.

"Did you?" Jane replied.

"He's very nice."

Jane sipped her Jack Daniel's.

"Not bad on the eyes either."

"Like father, like son, I guess."

"He called me
Sons-ee-ah-ray.
That means 'Morning Star.'"

"Pretty." She drank again.

"Did Daddy ever have a nickname for you?"

Her lips thinned into something less than a smile. "I'm occasionally surprised your father even knows my
real
name. Then again, he has his staff to remind him." The ice in the glass tinkled as she raised the drink to her lips. "His winning this election should suit him nicely. He can now legitimately spend all his time in
Washington
rubbing elbows with men as power hungry as he is."

Leah sighed and sank back in the chair. She'd never been comfortable with her mother's cutting remarks about her husband—Leah's father—but only from the standpoint that it forced Leah to face the fact that there was no love between them. Not that she need worry that they would divorce. Foster made certain his wife was kept financially satisfied.

"You could always move to
Washington
," Leah said.

"You're joking, right?" Jane laughed. "I would suffocate within a week. Nope. This is my home. My Shangri-La. I have the freedom here to do what I want, and be whom I want. If I want to climb on a horse buck naked and ride howling under the moon, I can do just that."

Grinning, Leah said, "As if you would."

Turning her blue eyes on Leah, Jane raised her glass as if in toast and said, "Wanna see me? Another couple of these and I'll be ready to parasail off the fucking Sierra Blanca."

"What if I told you that I have a crush on Johnny Whitehorse?"

"I'd say that I wouldn't blame you. He's a hunk. Just like his old man. They're walking, talking testosterone in blue jeans. They're enough to make a woman come just looking at them." Glancing at Leah, Jane grinned.

"Oops. My little girl probably doesn't know what that means yet. Or do you?"

"I'm sixteen, Mom."

"Sixteen going on thirty. Jesus, Leah, you're too damned mature for your age. But then again, you always were. You have an old soul. A girl your age and with your looks should be out partying every night, getting laid by the football team before you marry some jerk who'll ultimately make you feel as sexually dead as an android."

"There are names for the girls who sleep with entire football teams."

"So what difference will it make when you're forty-two years old? At least you'll have your memories."

"So you're giving me your permission to sleep with the football team?"

Jane finished her drink and set the glass of ice on the floor by her chair. "Over my dead body," she finally replied.

THIRTEEN