Ring of Fear
- Автор: Маккефри Энн
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «Ring of Fear». Краткое содержание книги:
We worked the grays next, until all four of us were sweating heavily. The weatherman had been right, and by eleven the sun scorched hot through the heavy humid air.
"Let's call it a day, Nialla. I feel stewed in my own juices. And the jumping will be hot at Locust Valley. We ought to go watch awhile. You may be riding against some of the winners later on."
Dennis appeared to take the sweating horses from us, listening carefully to Rafe's instructions about cooling them.
I seemed to have spent a good portion of the last week in a shower-far better than a pail in the ladies'-but this time I made a conscious effort to stick to cleaning and rinsing, without deviation.
I'd have to improve if I wanted to beat Rafe, for he was tapping at the bathroom door, black hair still wet but sleekly combed. He also looked disgustingly cool in a tissue-thin blue jersey pullover and elegant walk shorts, twirling ebony-framed sunglasses in one hand. He presented me with a matching pair.
"Reduce the glare. Charlie's place usually has a nice breeze, but there's not much air stirring on the island today."
Charlie's place happened to be one of those huge estates that still boast ten-foot, glass-topped concrete walls. Only a discreet sign in gay-nineties printing, "Horse Show," gave any hint of the doings those walls hid.
We turned obliquely left, before the drive that led to a gorgeous Georgian brick mansion, past an elaborate swimming pool glimpsed through screening rose arbors, around the estate's stable complex, before we came to the open fields with the usual appointments of horse trailers, cars, people, horses, temporary rings, children, and even a mobile sandwich truck.
Some events were already in progress as Rafe stopped at the improvised box office of card table and elderly gatekeeper. The loudspeaker was urging Numbers 18, 23, 36, and 72 to come to Ring Number Four, if you please!
"Nice to see you holding up after last winter, Willie," Rafe said, handing over money and accepting two programs.
"Hot weather's good for me, Mr. Clery. It's the cold bothers my chest."
"Ought to be hot enough today."
"Just right. Just right," the old man agreed, mopping his brow.
As the Austin-Healey made its low, slow way over the rough ground, I suddenly wished I were on horseback among all these strangers. Rafe's chuckle, pure devilment, distracted me.
"This'll be good. George's here."
"George?"
"Uh-huh. One of the top jump trainers in the world. Look at him! Flaunting enough ribbons to set up a shop!"
I followed his gesture to the big blue horse van whose side doors had been rigged with a line on which hung an impressive array of reds, blues, and damned few lesser shades. Two youngsters were sitting in the camp chairs, bootless legs stretched out, fanning themselves. Four pink hunting jackets and several plain linen ones hung on a bar across the back of the van.
"George runs one of the best jump clinics on the East Coast. He's got young hopefuls from all over, saying yes-sir and no-sir, ready to swallow their pride and their fathers' almighty dollars to qualify for Madison Square or Chagrin Valley. God, there are some people who'll make a racket out of anything."
"George?"
"No!" Rafe seemed almost annoyed, not realizing that his aspersion was ambiguous. "The prestige-seekers, the status-claimers. 'My kid won a blue jumping at Broken Tooth.' Takes all the joy 'out of it."
The one clump of shade by the larger of the two iron-picketed rings had been preempted by the show officials. They had even moved the equipment from the loudspeaker truck, which would have been a glass-walled steam bath.
Four separate rings were in operation, I realized, looking over my program as Rafe parked the car on the far side of the ring and began to study his. There was a small ring beyond the main field for the pony classes, a huge meadow with five substantial hunt-class jumps, and the one permanent ring, set under some magnificent oaks, where flat riding was being judged. One could see the dust clouds, at any rate, and the spectators were standing well back from the railing. I wondered that the judges could see a thing in such smog.
"Ray just informed me," the announcer informed the county, "that unless 18, 36, and 72 are at Ring Number One gate in one minute, Class 23 will be closed. What's that? Oh, well, we'll give her one more minute to change tack." Then, sort of off-mike, "We're not giving them enough time between classes, Ray."
Just as Rafe suggested that we drift around, someone hailed him. I was delighted to see the Eldicotts coming over. They were such a handsome couple, bearing gracefully the years which Iona Farnham and Wendy Madison tried to deny.
"Anne, you sneaked away far too soon last night," Rafe said, kissing her hand and then shaking Steve Eldicott's.
"Just as well, I gather," Steve replied in a dry voice.
"Oh?"
Anne Eldicott smiled reassuringly and patted Rafe's hand, for he hadn't released hers. "The show is a gossip kettle, Rafe. They'd make soup from a stone. They'd have it that the Herrington estate was raided by narcotics agents last night, and half a dozen people were rushed to the hospital. That's the worst you'll hear. Ran into Ted McCormack, and he told us that Lou had a mild seizure."
Rafe gave her a long look. "Lou's heart is bad, and he did have a seizure last night, and Bauman rushed him to Nassau County. He's holding his own."
"Bob Wellesley has heart trouble, too?" Steve asked, his expression very bland.
Rafe began to chuckle. "Bob, you might say, has heart trouble, too. Faith."
"Hope and Charity," mocked Steve.
"We really were sorry we couldn't stay longer last night," Anne told me, without seeming to change the subject. "Rafe's one of our favorite people, so very much like his father."
"And all the time I thought it was my winning personality."
"Ha!" said Steve with a disparaging snort, then addressed me. "Pure self-interest on Anne's part. She's an inveterate gambler, and used to treble her betting fun every time Rafe rode."
Rafe cast a despairing look at Anne. "It wasn't my big blue eyes?"
"Sorry, chum," Anne said with an unpenitent grin. "Have you noticed that Korlin is still trying?"
Rafe looked around, spotted a tall, graying man warming up a chestnut. "He'll never make it on that bay. I keep telling him bargains in horseflesh aren't bargains if you're after jump trophies."
We walked along the rail, seeking a spot that gave us the best view of the set jumps. The entries were by now all assembled, and the first contestant did her round. The Eldicotts knew most of the entrants. There was a preponderance of younger riders in this open class, all hoping to win enough points to qualify for the events in the bigger regional horse shows, and finally Madison Square, come November. Some of the kids were good; certainly all were well-mounted.
"One of George's," Rafe said to me as a girl trotted by on a well-bred dark dappled gray with an uncommonly white mane and tail. "How can you tell?"
"Look at George." He pointed across the ring, where a man stood, arms on the top metal strap, intently taking the jumps with the contestant. When the girl made a flawless round, the man relaxed but did not smile.
Although Rafe and the Eldicotts chatted about mutual acquaintances and training troubles, I never felt left out, though I had few comments to offer. We were all interested in the class's progress. The judge's indecision between the two first-place contenders was exactly mine. He asked them to switch mounts. The gray moved out as well for the boy as for the girl. She had to keep the boy's mount well in hand, for the chestnut showed an inclination to refuse, which she thwarted with nice leg work. She took the blue. George's face seemed to indicate that there'd been no question at all in his mind. And then I saw the second-placer joining George's small knot of adherents. His rather flat voice carried across the ring as he discussed the class, gesturing from one rider to another as he remarked on the aggregate performance.