Rebound (Boomerang #2)(43)

“Oh, no. What happened?”

“My younger brother, Grey. He was around eight at the time and he didn’t have the attention span to help out. I don’t think he has that attention span now, at almost nineteen, but anyway. Dad and I had just finished the car. The paint was barely dry when Grey flew into the garage on his skateboard and wiped out. The board popped out from beneath him and smacked the Cobra’s driver-side door. The jury’s still out on whether he did it intentionally. He never copped to it.”

Ali laughs. “Poor kid.”

“Poor Adam. I busted my ass for a year on that car.” I shake my head, remembering. “I was so pissed at him.”

“What about your dad? Wasn’t he angry?”

“Oh, he went red. But he never punished Grey. See, our dad was always telling us it’s good to leave evidence of your impact on the world. It’s why he’s into restaurants and real estate . . . ‘Get out there, make your mark,’ he’d say to us. ‘It means you’re living.’ Well, Grey quoted those words right back to him. He stood there and told our dad he’d left evidence of his impact on the world on that Cobra. He got off scot-free. The car’s still in our garage back home. Still has the dent, too.”

Ali giggles. “Your brother sounds like a handful.”

“You have no idea.” I realize I’ve been talking her ear off. “What about you? Tell me about the horses you love so much. Do you do dressage—that kind of thing?” That’s about as knowledgeable as I can sound on the subject of horses.

“When I was younger, I did.” She turns in the seat a little, to face me better. “Show-jumping. Competitions, horse shows. All of that.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“No,” she says. “We had to put down my horse, Zenith, a few years ago. I loved him. I’ve never found another horse I trusted like that. Who trusted me. Now I just ride. And rehab them. I’ve grown to love that just as much.”

“What does rehabilitating involve?”

She tells me about how it varies, case by case. Some have poor health, or injuries that require nurturing that’s primarily physical. Others need treatment that focuses on their behavior, or rebuilding trust. She tells me she’s only been rehabbing horses for about a year, but she sounds sure of what she’s saying and passionate about it.

“The ones who’ve lost the ability to trust are the hardest,” she says, “but those are my favorite to rescue. They’re the most rewarding.”

Some invisible force pulls my eyes to her; I couldn’t stop it if my life depended on it. The canyon walls rise higher, and shadows bleed across the dashboard. All I can see is her shining white-blond hair and the sparkle of the charm bracelet on her wrist. I want to reach for her hand.

“Will you show me?” I ask instead.

“You want to see my horses?”

“Yes.” But the truth is I want to see her with her horses.

I have to focus on the road again as we reach the turnoff to her home. The engine rumbles deeper as I decelerate, a reluctant, displeased growl that’s a good reflection of my mood. This drive went too fast. My time with her is almost over. What an idiot. I should’ve driven fifteen miles an hour all the way here.

“How about tonight?” Ali says. “If you wanted to . . . How about right now?”

“Sure,” I say. “Now works.”

We reach her house, and Ali gives me the gate code. Heavy wrought-iron gates swing open, and I drive into the property.

I rarely come up to this part of Malibu, with its sprawling ranches. Suddenly, it feels like we come from different sides of the track, even though my house is only a mile away and on the beach side of the highway. My place is house, sand, ocean. Simple. This, I see as I pull inside, is an estate.

A long crushed-oyster-shell driveway leads to a main house, which sits up on a slope. Even from a distance, I can tell it’s massive—a Mediterranean villa, all stone columns and topiary hedges. To my left, I see the white fencing of a horse enclosure. To the right, well-lit paths weave through landscaped gardens.

Wealth doesn’t intimidate me. I grew up rich and got a lot richer on my own. I like finer things. More than that I like the ability to execute on just about any desire I have. It’s not the extravagance on display here that unsettles me. I can’t really place what it is. But I feel a sudden protective urge to whisk Alison away from this place.

She directs me to a tidy white building with a red tile roof. She’s practically out of my car before I put it in park, but she waits for me to join her.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” she says, “but I usually don’t ride in dresses.”

“That’s not what my sources say, but okay. I believe you.”

She laughs and slips off her heels, slinging them over her shoulder. “Hope you’re okay with a little hay and horse smell.”

“I’m okay with making hay. Does that count?”

“Blackwood, are you flirting with me?”

“Sorry, Quick. I’m here strictly for the horses.”

“Then you won’t be disappointed.” She drops her heels by a shrub and unlatches double doors. They’re heavy, and I’m mesmerized by the sight of her, barefoot, in an elegant dress, using all the strength of her slender body to slide the doors open. She steps inside, hits the lights, and twirls around, flourishing a hand. “Behold! The glory of a real-life stable.”