Leaping Hearts(92)

In the early-morning light, A.J. saw that the crowd had yet to arrive although the press had taken up residence in droves. Already on the job, they were photographing the competitors, who were still in their barn clothes and not yet frazzled, and the club members, many of whom were wearing Borealis jackets, and looks of disdain if they were approached. The membership tolerated this yearly influx of reporters with even more contempt than they did the crowd’s arrival. If there’d been a way to freeze the press out of going to the bathroom at all, it would have been done.

Out of this scorn was born the strict caste system of the event. Members were at the top of the heap because it was their turf, and even if it wasn’t, their demeanor tended to create insecurity in Nobel laureates and proletariats alike. The horses were the next rung on the ladder, a status that the crowd was reminded of every time they traipsed through the stables and saw the luxury the animals enjoyed. Riders were behind the horses and far, far above any of the others. There’d even been an exception made to the no-guest policy after one particularly muddy event. Competitors had actually been allowed to use the showers in the clubhouse.

Rumor had it, this was how the nonmembers came to know how much better the other bathrooms were.

Somewhere behind the riders, way behind them, were the nonmember owners of the horses. Lumped in with them were their flashy wives or boy toys and the miscellaneous social hangers-on who thought that by walking on Borealis turf, they would somehow get their foot in the door to exalted status. Last stop on the road to inferiority was the press, but everyone, except the membership, only pretended not to like them. The competitors generally wanted to be interviewed, especially if they won, and the social mavens wanted to be photographed. That was why they wore outrageous hats.

Courtesy of having had her picture in the newspaper recently, and dealing with the aftermath, A.J. was feeling more aligned with her fellow members when it came to the press and she grimaced as photographers and reporters started running after the McCloud Stables trailer. When Devlin parked, the knot of harpies caught up with them and flashbulbs started going off like firecrackers.

“Better brace yourself,” Chester said while opening the door.

“Sabbath is going to like these guys about as much as blacksmiths,” she muttered.

In a rush, reporters started throwing questions at her, sharp-tongued footballs she let fall to the ground as she went back and checked on the stallion. She was wondering how she was going to get Sabbath out without him getting spooked by all the commotion, when she got a reprieve as the Sutherland truck drove by. Running headlong like a pack of hyenas, the throng went barking off after the semi. She knew they’d be back so she got to work fast.

Sabbath had handled the journey well and he was excited as she started to unload him, his ears flicking back and forth as his hooves clomped down the ramp. As soon as his coat flashed in the sun, a photographer let out a holler that triggered another avalanche of attention in their direction. Gripping the lead line with two hands, A.J. braced herself, ready to have the horse rear up and lash out at them all.

Instead, he calmly looked over his shoulder and practically batted his eyelashes. While she got over her shock, he flirted with the cameras and she could have sworn he was positioning himself so his best side got the most coverage.

“For heaven’s sake, you’re not Barbra Streisand,” she whispered to him.

But what the hell was she complaining about? A.J. thought, as Chester started to strip the stallion of his travel gear. If Sabbath wanted to play Hollywood royalty, it was better than paying for a bunch of broken camera equipment.

After the press finally dispersed, she turned around to look for Devlin.

“He went to get you registered,” Chester said without her asking.

She smiled and tried to concentrate on the horse but couldn’t. Now, when her focus should have been on the Qualifier and her horse and her riding, concern about their relationship was paramount in her mind. She was terrified about the distance between them, worried about how he felt to be back at the event. Wondering how long it would take them to get back to normal.

She felt trapped. Part of her just wanted to get through the event and then resolve the issues they were facing. But there was also a sense, and a tremendous fear, that there might not be anything left of their relationship if she waited even that short a time. Devlin had been acting strangely around her since he’d confronted her two nights before. His words when he addressed her were deliberate ones, carefully chosen to approximate normal conversation, but lifeless. Even worse, he hadn’t touched her or held her at night or taken her hand when they walked down to the barn. The few kisses he’d given her were brief and perfunctory, just pecks on the cheek.

A.J. felt as though he’d left her even though he was still around. The loneliness was unbearable and the one time she’d come close to bringing it all up, he’d quickly left the room, retreated into his study and not come out again until very late in the night. It was as if he didn’t want to get her upset right before the event, and to her that meant something was very wrong. Maybe the permanent kind of wrong.

The very idea made her sick to her stomach.

As she went through the motions of getting Sabbath ready, A.J. was feeling a cold fear she’d never known before.

In the growing crowd, Devlin walked around the grounds in a daze, going through the motions of checking A.J. and Sabbath in and getting an overview of the course. It was difficult for him to believe he was back, and he wasn’t the only one who was surprised. As he passed the other competitors, he could feel their shocked eyes and double takes. He ignored them. When reporters approached him, anxious for a sound bite on how it felt to be back, he pushed them away.