The hectic events of the past twelve hours merged into one hell of a migraine as Chelsea pulled her dark blue sedan into the motel parking lot.
The broken pavement jarred her body, making her head pound more. The potbellied manager stood by the pool, skimming leaves from the green water, shirtless. He turned from his work, offering a toothless grin and she struggled to return a smile.
Catching a glimpse of herself in the rear view, she stopped. Hay colored hair hung loose around a face kissed too hard by the sun. Fatigued eyes, bright red cheeks, and a pink nose stared back from the mirror.
She rubbed a finger absently over her lips. His warmth still hung there, not letting her forget the most upsetting of the day’s events. That kiss, the one that probably meant nothing to him, had awoken something in her she’d thought dead.
She’d be foolish to think anything could come of a relationship with Steven. Foolish to think he’d ever see her as more than a burden. Then she remembered the knife she’d just planted in his back. He probably did plan to get rid of her and wouldn’t be happy to find out she’d out-maneuvered him.
Analeigh waved from the door of her first-floor motel room, holding a baby across her chest as Chelsea exited the car.
“No diner tonight?” Chelsea asked, hoping against all hope Analeigh wasn’t trying to recruit a babysitter at this late hour.
“It’s Sunday night. Doug usually lets me go early on account of most of the late patrons are drunks, and all the bars are closed.” She pulled the baby closer, and showed the young mouth suckling on a nipple.
Some things were better left behind closed doors, Chelsea thought. Then again, Analeigh did pretty well for a girl raised with no mother, and an absent father. At least she made the effort.
“You look like you could use a drink.” The young mother’s face crinkled into a worried expression as she spoke. “Want to come in?”
Chelsea couldn’t imagine how a woman so young could have such an old looking face. She wanted to decline, but being alone in her motel room with the now broken TV and a stack of romance novels wasn’t much of a reason. “Sure, thanks.”
Once inside, Analeigh put the baby in a bassinet then tucked covers tightly around her two older sleeping boys in the bed. The room, though small, looked immaculate. Analeigh had moved the micro-fridge into the empty closet along with the one dresser, creating a more open feel. The harsh halogen lights were covered with colored scraps of fabric, making the light soft and pink. A well-flattened pillow and blanket lay on the floor beside the double bed, suggesting Analeigh’s sleeping spot.
“I love what you’ve done with the place.” Chelsea bit her lip at the sarcastic sound of the words. She’d meant them as praise, but then Steven’s voice resonated in her head. He’d said the same thing about her sparse and small room.
“Thanks.” Analeigh smiled and gazed. “It’s small, but we manage. Now, how about that drink?”
She pulled two soda cans from the micro-fridge in the closet and put them both on the table by the door. She took a seat on the bed, scooting one boy’s feet to the other side, and allowed Chelsea to take the only chair. “Did your boy go back home today?”
Home. The word caught Chelsea off-guard. Steven. That kiss. All the images collided at once and the anger and sadness took too strong a hold. She lowered her head into her hands and began to weep.
“Did I say something wrong?” Analeigh stood from the bed, crouched to the floor, and began to rub Chelsea’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry. My mouth gets me in trouble…I…What can I do?”
Her reaction felt ridiculous. She told herself this had everything to do with Aden. He did play his own role in it, but these tears fell for a different reason. Betrayal. Lost Dreams. Stirred emotions. You’re being an idiot, Chelsea. Pull it together.
She sucked in the next sob before it could crest her lips. “No.” She wiped at a tear spilling over her nose. “You didn’t say anything wrong. It’s just been one of those days.”
“Oh.” The thin waitress rubbed circles on Chelsea’s back. “I have those days, more so now that I’m on my own. Want to talk about it?”
The genuine gesture pulled at her emotions, but sharing her personal struggles with a near stranger wasn’t Chelsea’s style. “Thanks for the offer, but I’d better get home. I’ve got to…” She trailed off. She had to get to what?
Analeigh crossed her room and plunged a thin, pale arm into the back of her closet. She retrieved two small, clear bottles and returned to the table. “If it makes things any easier…” She held one airplane bottle of rum up for Chelsea to see.
Chelsea nodded, and the cool, smooth liquid poured into her soda can.
“I hear everything at the diner.” Analeigh poured the second bottle into her own drink then slid the empty containers into the pocket of her house dress. “I know who’s sleeping around on whom, and I’ve never told a soul.” She criss-crossed a finger over her heart then laid her hand across her lips. Chelsea wanted to get it off her chest. Who else did she have to talk to? Judd had never been much for conversation. As long as his girls brought home respectable young men, he didn’t ask questions. His sense of romance had died with her mother, she guessed. That left Aden, much too young to understand, Nicky, still out of town with friends, and Mrs Potts. The woman had a way about her that made you want to talk, but her close relationship with Steven made her hard to trust on the subject. The sudden desire to have a close girlfriend won out. Chelsea took a cleansing breath and started from the beginning. Analeigh looked on with concentration etched over her face as Chelsea explained the horse show that changed her life eight years before. “It was called The Classic,” she started. “I spent the whole summer getting ready for that one show. I put every cent I had into registering.” She stifled another sob. “I should have won.”
“Sounds like a dream to me.” Analeigh checked on the baby, peacefully sleeping in the corner.
“What happened?”
Chelsea took a sip of the spiked soda, easing the building acid in her throat. “I took second.” She tipped her head, and rubbed a finger over the smooth mouth of her can. “I know it sounds superficial to get that upset over second, but I’d poured my life into that one night.”
“I can understand that.” Analeigh pulled covers up over the fidgeting child. “Dreams die hard.”
“That’s part of it.” Chelsea cleared her throat with a hard swallow. “A few weeks later the winning horse died of a drug overdose.”
“A drug overdose?” Analeigh turned her head from the bassinet. “People give drugs to horses?
Like steroids and stuff?”
“Sometimes.” Chelsea cleared her throat. “Someone doped him with painkillers for a bad leg injury to get him in the ring.” After so many years, the rage at the inhumane act still cut to her soul.
“They caught the guy, and banned him from the show circuit for a few years.” She’d have done far worse if she’d known who he was.
“That’s horrible, but didn’t you win? I mean technically, right?” Analeigh looked up, perplexed.
“Technically, yes. The whole thing disheartened me. My boyfriend at the time, Chase,” she said his name then wished she could take it back. He’d been so different back then, so loving and faithful. It hurt to remember him that way in contrast to what he had become. “He wanted me to go to college. Already a senior at State, he wanted to get married right away.”
“I see.” Analeigh pulled another soda from the fridge and put it down on the table. Chelsea hadn’t realized she’d already drained the first one. “So, love won out?”
Chelsea slipped a nail under the tab of the can and pulled back, sending droplets of amber liquid to the table. “For a while it did.”
Analeigh held up another clear bottle, and Chelsea raised a hand to decline. Two drinks in one night exceeded her limit. The waitress returned the bottle to her house dress and took a seat back on the bed.
“Let me guess.” Analeigh leaned in close. “You worked while he went to school, and then the bastard left you for a younger woman.”
Chelsea realized she’d never heard Analeigh’s story. She wondered if she had a husband. Or had he been just a boyfriend?
“Not really.” She pulled back and forth on the tab of the drink until it came loose. “He paid my way through school. He gave me everything I could want—a nice home and a family to fill it.” Her thoughts went back to Aden, the one reason she’d never regret the marriage altogether. “We had what you could call an extravagant life style.”
Analeigh’s eyes widened.
“From the outside, things looked perfect, but on the inside, we were falling apart. Then came the administrative assistant in her tight skirts, and low cut shirts.” Only the first woman he was caught with. The thought made her stomach churn. How many more had there been, and for how long?
The baby stirred and Analeigh went to her. She brought the small infant to her chest, lowered the top of her dress, and allowed the girl to take hold of her again. The act both repulsed Chelsea and intrigued her. Would she ever have the chance to have a little girl?
“How’d you catch him?” Analeigh’s question brought her out of her wondering. The woman’s eyes were as wide as saucers now, as if enthralled in one of those daytime soap operas Chelsea hated.
“Panties in the couch,” Chelsea laughed. “The maid found them. They were frilly little black things. A thong with pearls in the…Well, you get the picture.”
Analeigh sat on the edge of the bed, haphazardly holding the baby to her breast and keeping her eyes focused on her guest with an intent stare that made Chelsea uncomfortable.
“That’s how I ended up living with my father,” she continued, “and working in the business world for a few years.” The best thing the bastard ever did was pay for her college education. At least she could support herself and Aden after his indiscretion.
“Wow.” Analeigh’s mouth hung open with a blank expression on her face. “So, how did you end up here?”
The baby must have bit too hard. Analeigh moved her eyes to the bundle in her hands and grabbed at her breast.
“I found an ad in the paper for a horse farm out this way. It’s always been important to me to teach Aden to follow his dreams, and I can’t very well not practice what I preach, so I applied for it. I got the job, moved here, and the rest is history.”
Analeigh shifted the baby from one side of her chest to the other. Her hands delicately cradled the little head, still barren of hair, and she swayed back and forth on the bed, rocking the bundle as she fed.
The scene reminded Chelsea of Aden as a baby. Life had been so different then. Chase had been different, coming home from work early to spend time with his new family, and always bringing some small gift, flowers, or candy. He’d done the same as Aden grew, but soon the gifts became placeholders for the times he’d missed with them, and promises to be there next time.
“So.” Analeigh pulled at the fabric of her dress, allowing the baby more access to her teat. “You were crying earlier because everything’s worked out so well?”
Young and naive, yet smart. Analeigh had more perception than she’d been given credit for. Chelsea took another swig of her drink to wet her throat. It had been ages since she’d talked so much to anybody.
“Not really.” She felt the wave of panic wash over her.
“Well?” Analeigh prodded.
“Well.” Chelsea pressed her hand to her forehead, trying to relieve the building pressure in her head. “It’s just…There’s this guy…”
“There always is,” Analeigh interrupted. When Chelsea shot her a stern look, she covered her lips with a free hand. “Go on.”
“He’s been a jerk to me all this time, but I still can’t get over being attracted to him. It’s like some sick fetish I don’t want to have, but can’t give up.”
“Is this the man who brought you home that night?” Analeigh covered her mouth again when Chelsea stared. “Sorry, I was going to add how good looking he was. I’ve seen him around town a few times. Even in the diner once or twice. I took notice of him, too, until...” She trailed off as if she’d said more then she’d wanted to.
“Until what?” Chelsea picked up the cold can and rubbed it over her temples. The pressure in her head pounded, making her eyes sore.
“Oh, nothing. I’ve just seen him with a woman a time or two―never doing anything affectionate to each other. Just eating together at the diner, or walking down Main Street. Never holding hands.”
The last part felt like a bone, thrown out to pacify a wondering mind. It didn’t matter. A man like Steven wouldn’t be single for long. She’d already guessed he had his own entourage of women in town.
“It doesn’t matter much anyway.” Chelsea went on to explain how she’d just made a deal, and killed any chance she’d have to be with him. The kiss part she left out. That part was hers and she wasn’t quite ready to share it, not even with her new girlfriend.
* * * *
Steven wiped sweat and paint from his face with the back of his hand while balancing on a ladder. He’d thought working in the apartment would take his mind off things―off her—but if anything, the work only escalated his feelings.
Boy, he’d been a real jackass this time. Even he had to admit it. She had some kind of strange power over him, something that made him feel love-struck and exasperated all at the same time. She made him want to hold her and to make every worry in her perfect little head disappear with his touch, with his kiss.
So why couldn’t he control himself when she was around? He'd think one thing―how nice she looked or how well she was working out on the farm―then he’d open his mouth and the words that came out shocked even him.
Maybe she intimidated him? He’d never been so attracted to a woman who didn’t at least find him appealing. But Chelsea acted indifferent to him.
And that kiss! The way she held on, begging for more, even for just a second. He’d felt the hunger in her touch, the longing to be loved again―wanting for more. And so he did it.
His heart raced just thinking about the feel of her bare back on his hands, the smell of her hair, fragrant and spicy, brushing against his face, the give of her neck when he wrapped his hand around the back of it, holding her steady to him. Giving him more of her the closer she came. He’d taken from her in greed at first, but then she gave willingly, too.
It wasn’t until the end, when she’d pulled away and looked up with fear-shocked eyes, that his heart fell to his boots. She’d liked it, or so he’d thought. Had she come willingly to him, giving of herself openly, without reservation? Or had he taken what he wanted without asking?
How’d it work out for you, bud? Stupid! What had he really expected from her? She would melt into his arms, begging to be taken right there and then?
No. That’s not what he wanted from her at all―maybe one day, but not like that. He wanted something much more than lust and one night stands. He’d had enough of those to last a lifetime. This had the makings of something much more real. Something long lived and cherished late into their years together.
“Stupid!” he muttered aloud, almost knocking the can of Rose Taupe paint from the ladder. His late night visits with the mare gave him an excuse to work on the small apartment. Tonight, he’d added new hardware to the cabinets in the bathroom and kitchen, tightened a few loose planks of wood on the floor, given it a good polish, and now started painting the walls in the bedroom and living area. In between each chore he stepped out into the open barn area for some fresh air and to check on the mare.
A roller, covered with rose-tinted paint, glided over the last spot of dingy white on the wall when he heard tires grinding on the gravel road by the main house. He descended the ladder, wiped his hands on a rag by the door then stepped out into the still, humid night. It would take hours for the paint to dry in this weather. With one more coat and the installation of the new air unit he’d picked up at the hardware store that afternoon, the apartment would be finished. It wasn’t much, but a far cry from the no-tell-motel in town.
If he had time on Monday, he’d run by the thrift store and see what he could find in the way of furnishings. Eric had already offered a couch and love seat combo he’d had in storage, and several Tiffany style standing lamps, no doubt holdovers from the late Mrs Chandler. Mrs Potts had been after her church group just that afternoon and had come up with a queen size bed frame and possibly a new set of pots and pans for the kitchen. He’d chip in for a new mattress and hoped to find a kitchen table and chairs at the shop tomorrow.
Red brake lights intertwined with the yellow illumination of the main house windows. A shadow moved from the dark sedan past a lit window then up the main steps. He couldn’t identify the person at such a distance, but his gut told him it was Chelsea. No doubt she’d come to complain. He’d let her have her few minutes with Eric then he’d catch her before she left. Apologies were in order and he owed her at least a few.
“Hey there, mama. How are you doing?” He peeked in the birthing stall on his way to scrub the paint from his hands. In the weak glow of the single bulb above, the horse looked bathed in silver light. Anything would sweat like a hog in this heat, but her legs gained his attention. The sticky liquid had matted her fur and caused shavings to stick to her hindquarters and back.
“Ho, girl.” He held up a hand when he opened the stall door, rubbing it over her face and neck as he got a closer look. The shavings below, the ones he’d just changed within the hour, sat soaked with amniotic fluid. “Your water broke, girl.” He patted her back. The mare’s body jerked like a hiccup.
“And you’re contracting.”
He had to guess she’d only started labor a short time before. In every instance he’d seen, the water broke just as the white sack, then foal, became visible. The mare groaned as another round of contractions caused her body to lurch. He moved, allowing her to lay in the shavings. “No,” he called, hearing his own panic in his voice. “Don’t roll.”
“Something’s wrong.” It had been ten minutes or more since he’d found her in labor. He’d scrubbed his hands free of paint, and retrieved the birthing kit from the tack room. When the sack still had not shown, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for the vet.
“The foal’s probably turned,” the sleepy voice answered. “The mare’s rolling to get the baby back in place.”
Steven could hear the man on the other end of the cell carrying on a conversation with someone else.
“Not tonight,” he heard a woman’s voice.
“Everything is fine, Rhonda. Go back to sleep,” the vet answered. The mare tried to roll again, rocking back and forth on her side, then stood. More light brown liquid fell from between her legs. “Doctor Everheart, I think it’s coming now.” The words escaped as the first of the white amniotic sack breached the vulva. “It’s white.”
“Good, good,” the vet praised. “White is good. Do you see any feet?”
First one, then two soft, white hooves pushed free from the mother’s quivering body. Steven’s heart stilled when he saw the soles of the foal’s feet.
“Shit,” he cursed. “He’s turned. Should I pull?”
“No, no.” Dr Everheart’s voice stayed calm. “She’ll do the work. This happens in nature all the time and foals survive. Just watch her for signs of fatigue.”
Steven sent a silent prayer to Heaven when the mare laid in the shavings once more. Lying down, she’d be able to push harder, giving the little one a better chance to survive. In what seemed like slow motion, he watched her push with each coming contraction. “Come on, girl. You can do this. He—”
he checked the foal “—I mean, she, needs you. Come on, mama, give it a good push.”
“Is the head out yet?” Steven had almost forgotten about the vet, or the phone he held in a steel grip to his ear.
“Not yet,” he answered, now understanding the implication of the vet’s words. “She’s real tired. The contractions are slowing, and I don’t see her pushing.”
“All right.” The voice sounded more alert than before. “Now it’s time to help the mama. With the next contraction, I want you to pull both legs slowly towards you. Steven?”
He waited and Steven grumbled an “Uh-hum”.
“Don’t pull until she contracts or you can hurt the mare.”
Steven knelt by the exhausted animal and rubbed her hindquarters. “Come on, girl,” he encouraged. “You’ve got at least one more good push in you. Come on, I’ll help you.”
With that, the mare’s body lurched forward again, and Steven pulled both legs with steady pressure. The foal’s muzzle broke free from the sack and Steven lowered the bottom half of the body to the ground. “You did it, mama. You have a beautiful baby girl!”
“Steven, good job,” Dr Everheart finished his instructions, making sure the foal’s face was free of the sack and her airways were clear, then made plans to visit in the morning, before hanging up.
The mare lay still in the shavings, only moving her body to breathe while the foal licked at fluid on her leg. “You rest, mama,” Steven said, out of breath himself. He pulled at the sack until the foal fell free from the white film, then checked the time on the cell before calling Eric. “How fitting,” he talked to the foal. “Midnight.”