Her best bet is to stay away

Was Olivia hearing this right? The one man in Indian Lake she’d found truly intriguing since, well, forever—the hopelessly handsome heir to the region’s most successful farming operation, Rafe Barzonni—was involved in horse racing? That made him, and her sudden attraction, downright dangerous. He wasn’t just out of her league. He was a gambler. Like her father. With the shame of her father’s racetrack betting addiction still haunting her, Olivia can’t be part of that world. Rafe’s world. She can’t trust him, or his magnetism. But there’s something deep in his incredible blue eyes that keeps drawing her closer...

“I meant it when I said we should move on,” Rafe said.

Olivia’s stomach knotted with anxiety, but Rafe’s hand on her shoulder felt warm and protective. He searched her face for her reaction. Apparently, she had struck some chord in him. He didn’t want to stay mad at her and he needed her to acknowledge that they were adult enough to forgive and forget. Was he asking her to be friends?

His eyes were the color of the bluest spring sky, filled with unspoken promises. At that moment, Olivia realized she was lost in him. Did he know she would give anything to feel his lips against hers? Could he sense her heart thrumming in her chest? Why wasn’t he saying anything? And why was his hand moving so achingly slowly from her shoulder to the nape of her neck?

His mouth was so close to hers, his breath warmed her nose. “Wish me luck,” he said as he closed his eyes and leaned in.

Dear Reader,

Fear of Falling is one of those novels that comes to an author from their own life experiences and memories.

Back in the sixties and early seventies, our town was in great need of a new hospital. My mother and the other ladies in her group initiated the Hospital Horse Show to raise money for the construction, and for years the show was a huge draw.

My mother grew up going to harness racing in Florida and accompanied her father to Hot Springs, Arkansas, in the 1930s to watch horse racing. She adored Thoroughbreds, and as I grew up, she hosted a Kentucky Derby party at our house every year. I carry on that tradition with joy and a lot of mint juleps with the mint my mother planted in our garden. My mother could pick winning horses nearly every year. It was uncanny.

When the time came for my story about Rafe Barzonni, the brooding, handsome farmer who worshipped his father and adored horses as my mother did, I knew he was the perfect match for Olivia Melton, the caterer and amateur photographer whose father gambled away the family savings at the racetrack.

Fear of Falling was a joy for me to write. I hope you enjoy it, as well. Please write to me at cathlanigan1@gmail.com, or you can find me on Twitter, @cathlanigan, Facebook, Pinterest, Goodreads, Amazon, LinkedIn, at catherinelanigan.com and heartwarmingauthors.blogspot.com.

All my very best and God bless,

Catherine Lanigan

Fear of Falling

Catherine Lanigan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CATHERINE LANIGAN knew she was born to storytelling at a very young age when she told stories to her younger brothers and sister. After years of encouragement from family and teachers, Catherine was brokenhearted when her freshman college professor told her she had “no writing talent whatsoever” and she would never earn a dime as a writer. He promised he would get her through with a B grade if Catherine would promise never to write again.

For fourteen years she didn’t write until she was encouraged by a television journalist and wrote a 600-page historical romantic spy-thriller set against World War I. The journalist sent the manuscript to his agent, who got bids from two publishers. That was nearly forty published books ago.

This book is dedicated to my beloved husband, Jed Nolan, who fought a valiant battle against leukemia. It was a torturous journey, but you were gallant and brave. Sail away to that land of peace and joy.

Acknowledgments

Cutting and polishing diamonds to brilliance is the work of skilled geniuses. That is what Claire Caldwell, my valued and cherished editor, does for me. Our work together to bring The Shores of Indian Lake into existence has been a construction of monumental proportions because our little town now lives like Glocca Morra, that mythical, magical realm in the ethers. To me, it’s very real. Thank you, Claire, for helping me bring all these people to life.

And to Victoria Curran, for raising the bar each time I send in a proposal, making me think and push harder and explore the best part of myself.

And as always to Dianne Moggy, who has believed in me and my God-given talent for over twenty years. You never gave up on me.

And I want to thank my parents, Dorothy Lanigan and Frank J. Lanigan, who left a massive imprint on our community and who taught me that legacy is important.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Acknowledgments

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE EARLY-SPRING DEW glistened as dawn struck the lush grass of the Barzonni training paddock. The only disturbance in the chilly air was the heavy snort, rhythmic breathing and thundering hooves of Rowan as Rafe urged his father’s prize Thoroughbred around the second quarter mile of track.

Rafe was far from a professional jockey, and at six foot one, he’d never aspired to the career, but no one knew Rowan’s talent, spirit and desire to run like Rafe did. Every beat of Rowan’s heart matched his own. Blood pulsed through his veins, suffusing his body and mind with oxygen, and Rafe’s lungs filled and exhaled the crisp, clean morning air like an elixir. His exhilaration grew as the horse sped up, and Rafe leaned his head closer to Rowan’s neck, shouting encouragement. He knew Rowan sensed his pride, his own need to push them both to their physical limits. No run was a test or trial. Each one was the end game. It was for the win.

At moments like this, Rafe and the horse were one, moving fluidly through space and time, gobbling up track as if they weren’t part of the real world. Together they were magic.

They were coming up to the third turn, so Rafe pressed his thighs into Rowan’s sides and dug in his heels just enough to communicate it was time for Rowan to unleash all his power.

Rafe and his father had built their home track together, board by board, truckload after truckload of precisely mixed sandy loam, clay and base soil when Rafe was only fourteen. Angelo had always dreamed of owning a Kentucky Derby winner, so they’d fine-tuned their track to the exact specifications of Churchill Downs in Louisville. And no ordinary racehorse would do. Angelo wanted fame, but not necessarily fortune—though his farm had yielded a fairly large one over the years. His four sons were his legacy, but a moment in the winner’s circle would erase all his beleaguered childhood experiences, or so he’d told Rafe. Rafe never once forgot what he was racing for.

Rafe’s father had come to America after living most of his young life on the streets in Sicily. Angelo had told the boys he worked hard because he never wanted anyone to take his land from him. As long as he tilled the earth and watched vegetables grow, he knew he’d never have to scrounge through garbage for a meal. Some townspeople said Angelo was a thief, that he’d stolen bankrupt farms from their neighbors over forty years ago. But Rafe never believed his father had done anything wrong.

The fact was that Angelo was a driven man. His need to control his future and that of his sons overrode everything else in his life. Angelo was not demonstrative or thoughtful. He didn’t often tell his sons or his wife that he loved them. Instead, he toiled from dawn till long past dusk to keep the farm solvent. His hard work had made him wealthy over the years, but Angelo never saw it that way. He was always one failed crop away from destitution. He taught his sons to keep their sights on the abundance that came from the earth.

Angelo was also a man of contradictions. Though he loved horses, he never bet on a race in his life. To him, gambling was the same as burning money. A waste. But the thrill of being victorious at a race, the prestige that came from owning a winner and the possibility that his name would be attached to a horse that made history was Angelo’s dream. And he didn’t believe in half measures. When he realized Rafe shared his love for horses, Angelo did everything he could to encourage Rafe’s passion and involvement in the sport.

Rafe had raced over a dozen Thoroughbreds around this track, but no horse had ever measured up to Rowan. He was the son of a Preakness-winning sire and a mare that had won over a million dollars at Santa Anita, Arlington and other tracks in her lifetime. Rowan had been born to race, and Rafe believed that with the help of their trainer, Curt Wheeling, they were finally about to triumph.

As Rafe and Rowan headed down the final stretch, Rafe tried to imagine what it would be like to be the jockey on Rowan’s back during a professional race. Thousands of spectators would be watching him, critiquing his skills, the nuances of the tugs he gave the reins, the directions he shouted into Rowan’s ears and the lean of his body in the saddle. They would cheer and yell for him, and his boyhood dreams would become reality.

The sound of Rowan’s hooves as they pounded the dirt filled Rafe’s ears. In the distance he could hear his father’s voice rolling toward him like an oncoming storm.

“Push him out, Rafe! Put your knees into him!” Angelo shouted. Rafe could see his father out of the corner of his eye, holding his stopwatch at eye level, and he smiled to himself. Angelo never let that stopwatch drift a quarter inch out of his sight, always fearful he’d miss a split second of vital clocking.

Curt Wheeling pulled off his ever-present cowboy hat and smacked it against the white fence. His thick salt-and-pepper hair sprang into a half-dozen spiky cowlicks. “Let him free, Rafe! Let him take you to the limit!”

Curt also held a stopwatch, the one his father had given him fifty years ago on his sixth birthday. Curt had come from a long line of horse trainers, and the Barzonnis were lucky to have hired him. Curt had been let go from his last job in Texas because the owner wanted a younger man. Since coming to Indian Lake, Curt had fit right in and had bonded with Rowan just as Rafe had.

Rafe heard their instructions and leaned his chest against Rowan’s withers, keeping his head low to reduce wind resistance. When he got this close to the finish line, Rafe always wondered how many seconds faster Rowan would be with a jockey who was sixty pounds lighter and nearly a foot shorter. At the same time, this ride was so thrilling that Rafe couldn’t—wouldn’t—dream of relinquishing the track to anyone else. Angelo always said that if Rowan could run with a lanky, hard body like Rafe’s in the saddle, he could race to the stars with a professional jockey. Training Rowan with an anvil on his back was good for the horse, his father had said.

“C’mon, boy! This is it! Now—fly!”

That was all Rafe had to say. Rowan’s strong legs beat out a rhythm that Rafe had never heard from any horse before. His hooves hit the ground and carried them so fast over the finish line that Rafe wasn’t quite so sure the horse hadn’t sprouted wings and left the earth.

Then something happened that Rafe had never experienced with his horse. He kept going. With each stride, he moved even faster.

Instead of pulling him back, Rafe let him run. And run he did. Rafe felt as if he was shooting through space. The air stung his eyes and he admonished himself for not wearing goggles, but he couldn’t have anticipated this. Last week Rafe had pushed Rowan to nearly thirty-eight miles an hour, but today he knew they were moving much faster. Most Thoroughbreds’ stride was twenty feet, but Rowan’s was twenty-six. He was a highly unusual horse, and it was becoming more apparent to them all that this year Rowan was about to meet his destiny.

But what confused Rafe was the fact that Rowan had never displayed this kind of power before. Why had he held so much back?

They were nearly halfway around the track before Rowan’s speed diminished even a millisecond. The horse was breathing so hard, it sounded as if his lungs would explode, though Rafe knew well that Thoroughbreds had exceptionally efficient cardiovascular systems. Breathing through his nose, Rowan drew in air when he extended his long legs, and he exhaled when his legs came together.

Finally, without any instruction from Rafe, Rowan slowed, turned around and galloped back to the fence gate where Angelo and Curt were clapping and grinning at them.

“That was unbelievable, son!” Angelo shouted with both arms raised jubilantly over his head, his stopwatch still in his right hand.

Curt opened the gate so Angelo could walk through and hug his son.

Rafe jumped down and wrapped his father in a tight bear hug. “Did you see that? Amazing! There aren’t enough words.” Rafe unfurled his arms from around his father and threw them around his horse’s neck.

Rowan stamped a hoof and bobbed his head as if he was taking his rightful accolades. “Way to go, boy! You are the best. The best!”

Angelo hugged Rowan, as well. “I knew this was a special horse the first day we saw him in Tennessee.” Angelo held the reins and stared into Rowan’s deep brown eyes. “He has soul, Rafe. You remember that. This is no ordinary horse. He deserves your time.”

“Time.” Rafe snorted. “It’s spring. Just when I should be helping Curt train him, we’re working twenty hours a day to get the tilling and planting done. If only Gabe were here.”

“He’s not,” Angelo ground out. Gabe’s marriage to Liz Crenshaw was a sore subject with Rafe’s father. Angelo believed the marriage was an excuse for his eldest son’s defection, but Rafe understood Gabe’s need to have a career of his own.

Rafe, on the other hand, couldn’t imagine a more perfect life than what he had here on the farm. Though the work was backbreaking and exhausting at times, he couldn’t conceive of any other way to live. And it was worth it for the horses, which had been part of the farm since before Rafe was born. Though Angelo hadn’t begun purchasing Thoroughbreds until Rafe was in his teens, Rafe couldn’t remember a time he wasn’t riding. Gabe and Mica were enamored of sports cars, and though Rafe appreciated their passions, animals occupied that special place in Rafe’s heart.

Over the years, Rafe had gained every bit of knowledge and expertise he could about Thoroughbreds. Until Curt Wheeling came along, Rafe and his father had not seriously considered entering races to win a purse. The horses they’d been able to afford weren’t “star” material. But Rafe understood his father’s strategy to keep buying horses and trading them “up” until he was able to afford a quality racehorse.

When they’d driven to Tennessee to see Rowan, the owner wasn’t much interested in the young colt who took up space in his stable and time with his trainers because he already had an entrant in the Kentucky Derby.

But though Rowan was only a year old when Rafe met him, he would never forget the way the horse seemed to sense his presence. Rowan had been grazing in a grassy paddock with his mother. The owner had pointed him out to Rafe, and while Angelo and the owner talked, Rafe had wandered over to the fence to take a closer look.

Rafe was still yards away from the fence when suddenly, Rowan lifted his head from the grass and looked directly at him. There was no fear in Rowan’s eyes as he turned away from his mother’s side and strode slowly toward Rafe.

Rafe reached the fence at the same moment as Rowan, and when he reached out to touch his snout, Rowan eased his head under Rafe’s hand. Then the horse curved his neck around Rafe’s shoulders, as if he was hugging him.

Rafe got chills. “You’ll be coming home with me,” Rafe had whispered. “I’ll care for you all my life.”

Rafe put his arms around Rowan. Then he kissed him just as his father and the owner walked up. Rafe was shocked at the lump in his throat. He’d barely known this horse and yet he felt he’d known him forever.

He remembered the compassion and understanding in his father’s eyes as Angelo considered the purchase. His long pause filled Rafe with dread that the owner was asking too much for Rowan and that Rafe’s strong reaction might have negated the sale. “Is he the one, son?”

Knowing that his father was a shrewd businessman, Rafe tamped down his emotions and found his voice. “I need to ride him, Pops. See what he can do before we decide.”

Angelo remained stoic and nodded as he turned to the owner. “That all right with you?”

The owner agreed and signaled to his trainer to saddle Rowan. Then he explained that Rowan needed training. He could run, but he wasn’t making any promises. Angelo and Rafe would have to provide substantial instruction.

Rafe put Rowan through a few paces on the training track, but it only took one turn for Rafe to realize the potential that the Thoroughbred packed.

Angelo made the deal. Neither of them ever looked back on the drive home to Indiana.

Rafe returned to the present and looked at his father. “Dad, remember when I rode Rowan for the first time?”

“Never forget it,” Angelo replied, folding his arms across his chest.

“Well, something happened out there on the track today. You saw it.” He glanced at Curt, who was giving him a wary expression. “Hear me out. All this time, we’ve been racing Rowan on a track like Churchill Downs. That’s adequate for places like Arlington and such, but I think it’s too short for him.”

“What are you saying?” Angelo asked.

“I think he’s a Preakness-type runner. That race is a mile and three-sixteenths, not just the mile like the Kentucky Derby. Rowan didn’t hit his stride until we passed the finish line. I want to take him on another round right now and see what he can do. He should be tired out, but he isn’t. And to keep him running these shorter races is a disservice to his talent.”

Curt scratched his head. “How could we have missed this?”

Rafe put his hand on Curt’s shoulder. “How could we have known? It was a brutal winter. He hasn’t had a chance to let it rip for months. Two weeks ago he was running through muck and mud. This is the first time the track’s been in decent shape this season.”

“Logical,” Angelo said with an odd grimace. “Listen, you take him out. I’m tired. I’m going up to the house...to see if breakfast is ready.” He hugged himself again.

“But, Dad, you gotta see this. You have the best eye ever.”

“Oh.” Angelo stared at the ground. “All right,” he said quietly.

Rafe couldn’t understand why his father wasn’t sharing his enthusiasm, but he wouldn’t let Angelo’s attitude get to him. “Excellent!” Rafe smiled broadly and slung himself up onto Rowan’s back. He pulled on the reins and turned the horse around.

Rafe and Rowan waited at the starting line while Angelo leaned against the fence and held his stopwatch. Curt did the same. As usual, Curt held up the red bandanna he used to signal the start of the trial, which was easy for Rafe to see.

Curt dropped the bandanna, and Rowan shot ahead. Rafe could tell that Rowan had made the first turn in a shorter time than the first trial. The second turn breezed by. So did the third. Coming up to the finish, Rafe glanced over at his father and Curt as he always did. Curt was screaming something at Rafe, though he couldn’t make out the words. Angelo still held his stopwatch at eye level, but he was not cheering or shouting like Rafe thought he would be. He’d expected his father to be bursting with enthusiasm; instead, he appeared to be watching with a very steady gaze.

Rafe glowed with pride as he leaned forward and pushed Rowan to cross the finish line and not stop. Rowan poured on the power and left the finish line far behind him. They were around the first turn before the horse’s stride slowed.

Rafe’s suspicions were confirmed. They hadn’t begun to tap Rowan’s power and abilities. As Rafe slowed the horse, his mind filled with visions of great races, superb wins...and making history. Rafe was nearly euphoric as they galloped back toward the gate.

Instantly, his smile melted off his face. Angelo was lying on the ground, and Curt was still yelling at him. Rafe couldn’t make out the words over the pounding of his heart. He urged Rowan to the gate and jumped off.

“What’s wrong?” Rafe shouted as he opened the gate and stooped over his father.

“I called 911 from my cell,” Curt said. “He clutched his chest and sank to the ground just as you passed the finish line. There was no way you could hear or even see me then.”

Angelo’s eyes were closed, his face a ghastly, frightening gray.

“He’s not breathing,” Rafe said, placing his cheek next to his father’s nostrils. He started CPR, pushing on Angelo’s chest with all his strength. His mother had made sure all four of her sons kept up-to-date on first-aid courses. On a farm, they needed to be prepared for all eventualities. Rafe knew his father had heart issues, but Angelo refused to talk about his ill health—ever.

Rafe should have seen this coming.

Thinking back, he’d had a warning of sorts. At his brother Nate’s couples’ shower at Mrs. Beabots’s house, Rafe learned his father had been prescribed Coumadin. Nate actually hadn’t known anything about Angelo’s heart condition. Nate had told Rafe and Gabe that it was time for Angelo to slow down, perhaps even retire. But it hadn’t happened.

Then Gabe had married Liz, and that caused Angelo an extreme amount of stress, which Rafe didn’t truly understand. Apparently, something had happened between Liz’s grandfather and Angelo decades ago, but Rafe, Nate and Mica had no clue what that “thing” was. But Rafe had noticed their mother hovering over Angelo this past winter, acting as if he was dying. It was ridiculous. As far as Rafe could tell, his father was as fit as him or his brother. He was just older, that was all. Angelo needed to knock off at four instead of six or seven like he and Mica did, but their father went on, day after day, as if he was still fighting to make his farm a success. Now Rafe realized with torturous hindsight that Angelo’s refusal to take it easy was precisely why his mother had been making such a fuss.

Rafe continued to press on his father’s chest so hard he was afraid he’d break Angelo’s sternum.

“Come on, Dad! You can make it. Come on! I’ll save you. Promise.”

Curt placed a hand on his back. A comforting hand. An empathetic hand. He barely registered the sirens in the distance. He would do anything to save the most important person in his life. Rafe loved his father with all his being, and he would trade his own life to save Angelo’s.

“Rafe,” Curt said softly. “Rafe. He’s gone.”

Rafe didn’t hear Curt. He wouldn’t. What he was saying was an absolute impossibility. His father was not dead. The paramedics would come. They’d stick some paddles on his chest and wake him up.

An ambulance and a fire truck drove down the long brick drive that Angelo had laid himself. The sirens echoed across the spring fields. Gina came running from the house still dressed in her robe and pajamas. Mica rushed down the back stairs.

Curt raced toward the ambulance, waving his arms. “Over here!”

Rafe was right. The paramedics placed paddles on Angelo’s chest and shocked him with enough electricity to bring a dead man back to life.

Angelo’s body remained quiet and still.

CHAPTER TWO

BENEATH A FLUTTER of pink crab-apple blossoms floating on the spring breeze, Olivia opened a café umbrella to welcome her patrons to the street-side tables at Indian Lake Deli for breakfast. A pair of robins flew to their nest in the white flowering pear tree. Spring was Olivia’s favorite season. Winter storm windows were taken down and opened, tulips and daffodils filled the city planters and the tops rolled back on convertibles. Everything she saw and smelled was electric with promise. She always felt anticipation in the spring, but this season was different somehow. She could almost feel a burst of creative energy taking place inside her cells, igniting them into tiny, raging flares of ideas and dreams. She just hoped that this year they didn’t all suffocate by summer’s end like they usually did.

Before she thought herself into a downward spiral, Olivia took out the digital camera she always carried in her apron pocket and snapped a close-up shot of the robins in the tree. She caught the radiant and colorful male tilting his head toward the dowdy, demure-looking female. Their flirtatious behavior was nearly human, and the photo offered the kind of peek into the animal dimension that Olivia prided herself on.

Over the years, Olivia had been amazed at the glimpses of the natural world she’d captured on film. Butterflies in whirling masses around butterfly bushes. Spiders spinning opalescent webs. Dewdrops slipping off rose petals and onto the back of a crawling grasshopper. Iridescent dragonfly wings as the insects darted in and out of sunbeams.

Sometimes Olivia left her apartment long before dawn to go down to the lake. Or she came home late at night after taking sunset photos on Lake Michigan’s beach.

Olivia had logged many hours perfecting her photographic skills, but she had yet to do anything significant with them. For years she’d told herself she wasn’t good enough yet, or that her lack of formal training was a non-starter. Then she became critical of others’ work and realized that her photos were as good as those that were published. Sometimes they were even better. More insightful.

But Olivia was practical. She knew art and talent didn’t always pay the bills. To put food on the table and pay her rent, insurance premiums and car note, she had to keep her day job, working with her mother at the Indian Lake Deli.

Just as Olivia locked the green canvas umbrella in place, Sarah, Maddie, Liz and Katia walked up and hugged her. They plopped down in the matching green canvas folding chairs. Liz looked exhausted but radiant and was starting to show her pregnancy in her spring-green tunic.

“Olivia, we need a round of your raspberry iced tea,” Sarah said, pushing her blond hair away from her flushed face. “We’re pooped.”

“You can say that again,” Maddie groaned. “My cappuccino is good, but your teas are absolutely vital for people in our ragged condition.” She swiped her palm across her neck. “I’m so out of shape,” she said under her breath.

“What have you been doing?” Olivia asked, taking out her pad and pen from her apron.

“Walking. Fast walking, to be exact. Liz has to exercise every day—so says her ob-gyn,” Maddie explained.

“Yeah,” Liz grumbled, smoothing her long hair into a ponytail. “As if working the vineyard isn’t enough.”

“It’s not the right kind of exercise,” Katia interjected. “Half a dozen of my Chicago girlfriends have been where you are. Walking is mandatory. I should loan you my treadmill,” she said with a flick of her wrist as if the decision didn’t require any more discussion.

“Spare me!” Liz raised her hands in mock horror. “I walk my hills every day!” Liz looked at Olivia. “Who knew I would have so many mother hens?”

“You need us, Liz,” Olivia insisted.

Sarah snapped her head in agreement. “Besides, walking together is a great stress reducer for all of us. The best part is that it gets me out of the office.”

“Me, too,” Katia chimed in. “I swear I could easily miss the whole spring if it weren’t for you, Liz. Olivia, you better make that six teas. Gina and Charmaine are supposed to join us in a few minutes.”

“Where are they now?” Olivia asked.

“Gina’s meeting Charmaine at Kid’s Corner to pick out the linens for the nursery,” Liz said. “I assume they’re there now.”

“You’re a lucky girl, Liz.” Olivia winked. “Gina and Charmaine have the best taste in just about everything.”

“So true. They almost make me feel guilty. Gina has been so generous. I asked Sarah to design the nursery, but...”

Sarah threw up her hands. “But oh, no! Charmaine wouldn’t hear of it. She practically stole one of my best friend’s accounts from me. Just teasing. Charmaine was dying to do that nursery.”

Olivia nodded. “I get that.” Charmaine had never been married, and with no kids of her own, she had to be over the moon about it.

Sarah chuckled. “Her real problem was reining in her ideas. You should have seen her design boards.” Sarah slapped both palms on her cheeks. “It was like every kid’s fantasy—from castles and dragons to little sailboats flying to the moon.”

Liz lifted her eyes to Olivia. “I went with the sailboats, by the way. Over a vineyard, of course,” She beamed happily. “The ceiling has glow-in-the-dark stars with glittery comets. It’s adorable.”

“Sounds magical.” Olivia sighed. This was what spring was all about. Looking forward to changes and new perspectives. Liz was living proof that something unexpected and wonderful could happen at any minute. Last spring she was tending her new grapevines just like she did every year. Then boom! Gabe Barzonni trespassed on her land, she nearly shot him and now here was Liz, married to Gabe and having his baby. Olivia would swoon over the romance of it all, if she was the swooning type. Which she was not. Olivia was much too practical for rhapsodic thoughts.

Olivia smiled at Liz. “I’m so happy for you, Liz. Really happy.”

“Thanks, Olivia.” Liz squeezed Olivia’s hand then looked around the table. “Friends like you—all of you—are so rare. We’re all very lucky.”

“Yes, we are,” Katia said. “Moving back to Indian Lake was the best thing I ever did.”

Olivia nearly hooted. “No kidding! And we have you to thank for putting the smile back on Austin’s face. I’ve always liked him. My mom and I have catered in his home several times. He’s always been kind to us.” Olivia smiled. “We’re sure glad you’re here, Katia.”

“Thanks.” Katia returned Olivia’s smile.

Just then Liz’s cell phone chimed. She took it out of her pocket and checked the caller ID. “It’s Gabe. I gotta take this.”

“I’ll get the iced teas,” Olivia said, heading back inside the deli. She’d just stepped behind the pastry case when the phone rang. “Indian Lake Deli,” she answered.

At first she could barely understand the woman on the other end of the phone because she was crying so much. Olivia put her left hand over her left ear to shut out the din of voices inside the deli. “How can I help you?” Her mouth fell open as she realized it was Gina Barzonni. “Gina. Slow down. Tell me again what happened.”

Olivia was stunned by the news. Angelo was dead. Heart attack. Gina was planning a funeral for Saturday, five days from now, because one of her sisters was flying in from Sicily. Gina wanted a formal sit-down luncheon after the burial, and she wanted Olivia and her mother, Julia, to handle the entire event. She promised to call the next day to go over details, but she needed to make sure that Olivia was free at such late notice.

“I’m so, so sorry to hear all this, Gina. I had no idea Angelo was sick. Don’t worry about a thing,” Olivia assured her. “We’ll put together some ideas and I’ll call you tomorrow. You take care of yourself. This is a very stressful time, and I know your entire family will be leaning on you.”

Olivia hung up and glanced out to the window. From the stricken looks on her friends’ faces, she guessed Gabe had just called Liz with the news. Liz was still on the phone, nodding and looking compassionately at Maddie, now her sister-in-law. Sarah was holding Liz’s hand. Katia’s expression was solemn.

Olivia rushed back outside to be with them. Maddie’s phone rang just as she reached the table. She answered it, rose and walked to the curb to have privacy while she spoke to her husband.

“Liz, I’m so sorry,” Olivia said once Liz hung up, standing over her friend and putting her arm around her shoulder. “How is Gabe?”

Sarah glanced up at Olivia. “You were inside. How did you hear about it?”

“That was Gina on the phone.”

“How did she sound?”

“Devastated. I could barely make out what she was saying.”

Liz nodded. “Gabe said he was worried about her. I guess he should be.”

Olivia had to agree. “She told me the funeral and burial are set for Saturday. She wants me and Mom to cater the luncheon. I’m in shock. You must be, too, Liz. And Maddie. Angelo seemed so healthy to me.”

“To be honest, Nate told us that Angelo had several heart issues, but he just wouldn’t take care of himself,” Liz explained sadly.

Maddie hung up her phone and came back to the table. She looked at Olivia. “Nate was in surgery since nearly daybreak. He just got the news from Rafe. Nate told me he’s been expecting this exact thing to happen, but he’s still shocked. I don’t think there is any way we can prepare ourselves for something like this.”

Olivia couldn’t help thinking that only a few minutes ago, she’d sensed that something was about to change and that her life was about to alter its course. She shivered. To Olivia, Angelo Barzonni was a legend, the immigrant from the streets of Sicily who came to Indian Lake and built one of the most successful family-owned farms in the Midwest. She admired him. He’d taken the raw fabric of his life and created a mini-dynasty with his wife and four sons. Olivia could feel the void opening up in Indian Lake with his passing, like a rip in the universe. Already, she could tell that a lot would change with his death.

“Maddie, I’m so very sorry. Please tell Nate I’m praying for the whole family.”

“I will.”

Katia took out her phone. “I should call Austin. He needs to be with Rafe. They’re so close, and I’m sure this is devastating for Rafe.”

Maddie’s gaze swung to Katia. “I hadn’t thought about that. Rafe will be the most affected. Nate always said Rafe was Angelo’s favorite. And Rafe and Mica were the last ones left on the farm. They’ve been sharing Gabe’s duties since the wedding.”

Liz pressed her hand to her forehead. “I feel so sorry for all of them. They were a close family. I can’t imagine what it would be like if my grandfather—”

“Don’t even go there,” Olivia admonished her. “Sam is fine, and he does see Nate when he’s supposed to.”

Liz nodded glumly.

“I just had a thought,” Maddie said to Olivia. “Could you do me a favor and put together a tray of sandwiches and maybe a bowl of potato salad—the yogurt kind Nate likes—so I could take it out to the farm? It’s my bet people will be stopping by all day today.”

“All week, you mean. Sure. Absolutely.” Olivia went over to hug Maddie.

Liz rose. “I better go. Gabe’s going to meet me at the farm. You want to drive with me, Maddie?” she asked her sister-in-law.

“Sure.” Maddie paused and looked at Sarah. “Will you tell Mrs. Beabots or do you want me to call her?”

“I’ll go over to her house. I’ll call Luke from my cell. Charmaine, too.”

Olivia hugged each of her friends one more time and as they walked off in separate directions, she was struck with the significance of the moment. In one way or another, big and small, they’d each been touched by Angelo’s life...and now death. Maddie and Liz had married his sons. Katia’s fiancé, Austin, was Rafe Barzonni’s best friend. Though Olivia didn’t know Angelo all that well, her best friends were part of his family now and that affected her. Olivia had always believed that all living organisms were connected, somehow. This sad event was a kind of proof.

The rupture in her friends’ world was overtaking them. And the tragedy touched Olivia, too. But Angelo was an inspiration, and Olivia couldn’t help but wonder whether there was a lesson in the life he’d lived.

Olivia dreamed of taking her photography skills and talent to the next level, but she’d never done much about it. She left her ability buried and untried, never giving it a chance to flourish. Angelo had never compromised on his ambition, working dawn till dusk to achieve his goals and build a legacy.

She went back inside the deli, taking out her pad to begin making a list of what they’d need to cater the funeral. She could ponder the meaning of Angelo’s death on her life, but this coming week would be brutal and heart-wrenching for her friends. She could only hope to give them support and words of solace. She would be the loving friend they needed.

CHAPTER THREE

THE DAY OF Angelo Barzonni’s funeral dinner sounded like the clanging of requiem bells as Olivia and Julia slammed pots, pans and metal trays into the back of their eight-year-old Chevrolet minivan. With her hair shoved into a tight knot on top of her head, wearing little makeup and comfortable black leggings, a chef’s jacket and running shoes, Olivia’s only concession to fashion were the gold hoop earrings in her ears.

“Did you get the copper chafing dish and the Sterno?” Julia asked.

“Yes. Did you remember the warming tray and the plug?”

Her mother’s dark eyes grew wide. “The plug. I never remember the plug.”

“I taped it to the back of the tray after we catered the Halsteads’ brunch last Sunday. I just wanted to make sure it was there.”

Julia turned the heavy electronic tray over. “Here!”

“Great. Also, I packed the three-tiered epergne for my macarons and napoleon pastries. The gingerbread cookies are in tins, and I’ll put those in the scoops of cinnamon ice cream right before we serve the desserts.”

Julia looked around the inside of the van. “Where’s the chocolate mousse?”

Olivia gasped. “What mousse? Was I supposed to make chocolate mousse? I didn’t see it on the menu. Oh, no. What’ll I do?”

Julia dropped her chin to her chest but then looked up in relief. “Silly me. We used the mousse for the macarons.”

Olivia’s exhale could have set sail to a Yankee Clipper. “Thank goodness! We don’t have time for mistakes, and I want this to be as stress-free for that family as possible.”

“I agree.” Julia paused thoughtfully. “Angelo was only five years older than I am. This has made me sit up and take notice.”

Olivia shoved a bowl of ambrosia into the van. “Notice what?”

“You know. Life.”

“I know what you mean, Mom. I guess death always does that to the rest of us, huh?”

Julia shook her head. “Somehow this is different. Did you see the cortege that drove past here on the way to the grave site? I counted sixty-five cars.”

“Sixty-seven,” Olivia corrected her, checking her watch. “Fortunately, not all of them are invited to the house. The family will be back from the cemetery by now. Still, we need to hustle.”

“You’re right,” Julia said. “Why don’t you drive out and get started. I’ll gather up the rest of the salads, the fruit and casseroles and bring them out in a few minutes.”

“Good thinking. I’ll meet you out there.” Olivia patted her pockets to make sure she hadn’t forgotten her camera. Olivia never went anywhere without a camera of some kind. Though it was important for their catering business that she take photos of the food for their website, Olivia was always on the lookout for the exceptional photo, the surprise shot that one day, someday, she could submit in a portfolio for a major magazine.

As Olivia drove off, she glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see her mother wave to her, as she always did when she left her mom’s sight. It was just a little gesture in a long day of catering, planning...living, but it meant a great deal to Olivia. Her mother was right. Death always made people stop and think about their own lives. She smiled at the reflection in the rearview mirror. Olivia loved her mother a great deal; Julia was her best friend. She couldn’t imagine what the Barzonni sons were going through right now.

* * *

HALF A DOZEN cars were parked along the winding path to the Barzonni villa. The dinner guests weren’t due for another two hours, but Olivia knew it would be almost impossible to find a spot on the drive by then.

Olivia continued past a two-story carriage house, with garage doors on the ground level and what she guessed was an apartment up above. She parked outside it, close to the back door of the main house, then followed a short hall past the laundry room and into the kitchen. Easy access was always a plus for Olivia when she was hauling large chafing dishes, food and serving pieces. Her marble-and-silver epergne was lovely, but it weighed thirty pounds.

The aromas of garlic, basil, tomato and baking bread hit Olivia when she entered the enormous, Tuscan-style kitchen. Gina had conferred with Olivia and Julia about the menu and in the end, Gina had decided she wanted to cook a few of her signature Italian dishes for her family.

Gina was dressed in a black silk sheath dress with long lace sleeves and a white apron that was smeared with what looked like red sauce. She was stirring something in an industrial-size stainless-steel pot. She lifted a huge spoon and said to Olivia, “You have to taste this. My cream-of-tomato soup. I froze the tomatoes last fall and dried the basil from my garden. I think it’s my best ever.”

Olivia put the plastic crate she was carrying on the floor next to one of the two granite-topped islands and crossed to the six-burner gas stove. Gina offered her a teaspoon and Olivia dipped it in the soup. “It’s incredible. Sweet,” Olivia said when she tasted it.

“That’s brown sugar. My secret. You can tell your mother but no one else. By the way, where is Julia?”

“She’s on her way with the rest of the food. But may I ask, why aren’t you with your guests and visitors?”

Gina lowered her eyes and looked at the pot. “This was Angelo’s favorite soup. He would have wanted me to make it for the family.” She stirred the soup absently. “I’m better when I’m busy. It’s hours until we eat. I even told the boys to stop hovering. Gabe took Liz for a walk. I think Mica, Nate and Maddie are playing cards with my sister, Bianca. Most of the guests are in the living room. Rafe went out for a ride on Rowan.”

“Rowan?” Olivia asked.

“His favorite horse. We have quite a few horses, did you know?”

Olivia felt a knot form in her stomach. “Oh, yeah. Workhorses. Sure. Makes sense. This being a farm and all.”

“We have those, but I’m talking about Thoroughbreds.”

Olivia’s mouth went dry with an all-too-familiar, though long-buried fear. Gina was talking about racehorses.

“Rafe and Angelo think they have a winner in Rowan. They’re hoping to enter him in some Graded Stakes races for the Kentucky Derby. They changed all the rules two years ago. Even the Illinois Derby isn’t part of the qualifying trials anymore. Angelo—” Gina’s voice hitched.

Olivia reached out to console her.

Racing horses. She said racing horses.

She froze and dropped her arm to her side. She felt the thrum thrum thrum of her heart in her ears. Olivia tried to formulate some kind of empathetic sentence. Nothing happened. Her stomach roiled. The fear she’d felt earlier gripped her. She knew she wouldn’t escape this time.

Gina wiped the tears from her eyes and kept staring at the soup. “Sorry. They won’t be doing that this year. I don’t know what Rafe will do.”

Anger and fear rooted Olivia to the spot. It had been years since she’d been confronted by the demons of her past. Those dark, sinewy fingers of dread that crippled her mind and soul had returned. She felt as if she were tumbling backward through the years. Through a tunnel of black terror.

Olivia’s father had been addicted to gambling. Horse races, in particular. Any horse race: those he listened to on the radio, those he watched on television. But the ones he loved most were live action. His thrill meter soared the highest when he was in the crowd, cheering and stomping for his horse to cross the finish line.

She choked back the sour taste in her mouth.

When she was very young, her father drove her to Arlington International Racecourse near Chicago and showed her how to place bets. He went into great detail about the strategy he used, the amount of money he would win and all the wonderful things he would do for her and her mother once he “hit the jackpot.” Olivia hadn’t cared about the betting, but she had been mesmerized by the horses: their gait, the way the sun glinted off their shiny coats as their muscles strained with each gallop. She admired their majesty and the tilt of their heads in the winner’s circle, as if they knew they were the stars. They were the real trophies.

She’d revisited the memory of her first encounter with horses often in her life. She only wished it had not been juxtaposed with the disappointment and betrayal of her father’s disease.

When Olivia was twelve, her father had drained the family savings account, surreptitiously taken out a second mortgage on their home and run up a mountain of credit-card debt by taking cash advances. All the rehabilitation meetings and counseling sessions that Julia had dragged him to hadn’t made a dent. He continued to borrow from friends, claiming the money was for Olivia or some other lie he’d concocted. Finally, one night during a screaming match between her parents, Julia had asked for a divorce.

Olivia’s father left the next morning and never contacted them again. Julia had no formal education, but she was an excellent cook. With the help of Ann Marie Jensen, who co-signed the lease for the space that would become the Indian Lake Deli, Julia began her catering business. It took every last cent Julia had hidden for Olivia’s college fund to pay off her father’s debts and to keep the deli open in those early years, but together Olivia and her mother had survived.

The shameful years. That was what Olivia had called them when she was younger. Kids often whispered behind her back or bullied her. But her real friends, like Sarah, Maddie and Isabelle, had stuck by her and got her through. It had been Sarah’s idea to help Olivia get over her fears by forcing Olivia to accompany her to dressage classes.

She couldn’t afford the lessons, of course, but Sarah had insisted she just come along and watch, maybe take photos of her. And it had been fun. Sarah had helped Olivia realize that horses were not just beautiful, but also intelligent and not to be feared. Eventually, Olivia realized that it was her father’s addiction that terrified her, not the horses. In fact, Olivia believed she understood not just horses but all animals, too, more than she understood humans. What she wished for horses was freedom to run unencumbered by a rider, especially a jockey, whose sole purpose and drive was to win a race.

Olivia had never forgiven her father. She blamed him for all the difficulties she’d faced, and for having to stay home and work when almost all her friends went off to college. She’d developed an abhorrence for horse racing and anything associated with the sport. She despised gambling and though several casinos had opened nearby, she hadn’t even driven past them.

As she stood in Gina’s kitchen, Olivia was astounded that the Barzonni family was in league with what she considered the pond scum of all sports. But she was here for a job, and she had to stay professional.

“Gina, what can I do?”

Gina tapped the spoon on the edge of the soup pot then gently laid it in a blue-and-white spoon rest. “We should get on with it.”

Olivia knew Gina’s thoughts were just as much in the past as hers were. She could only hope the older woman’s memories were not as bitter.

“The bartenders are serving the wine. Would you mind putting out more canapés?”

“Absolutely. I brought spinach dip in a round of rye bread. Boiled finger potatoes filled with sour cream and salmon, and stuffed cherry tomatoes with herbed cream cheese.”

“Lovely. I got out some silver trays for you to use. Over there on the counter.” Gina nodded toward the far side of the kitchen near the butler’s pantry.

Just then Rafe walked in, wearing old jeans and a faded T-shirt that stretched across his broad chest like a second skin. His cowboy boots were scuffed. His black hair was windblown and ragged, but apparently, he didn’t notice or care because he didn’t make the first effort to smooth it.

“Hi,” he said, going to the refrigerator and taking out a protein shake. He popped the top and slugged it, tilting his head back as he drank.

Olivia watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. Beads of sweat trickled down from his temples, past his strong jaw. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with his tanned forearm. Rafe was arrestingly handsome, yes, but there was also something dangerous and wild in his expression. He must be hurting so much right now, Olivia thought, remembering what Katia and Maddie had said about his relationship with Angelo.

“Raphael, did you wipe those boots outside?” Gina scolded him. Olivia got the impression her comment was out of habit more than necessity.

“I did,” he replied flatly.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. How was your ride?”

“Good. Rowan really poured it on. It was as if he was running to show Pop how he could measure up, you know?”

“I do,” Gina replied, walking over to Rafe and putting her hand gently on his cheek. “He loved you a great deal.”

Olivia felt like an intruder as Rafe’s eyes filled with tears. She winced at the pain she both saw and felt. Gina seemed to have forgotten she was there, and she wasn’t sure Rafe had noticed her at all.

Rafe squeezed his mother’s hand. “I’ll go change. I’m sure Aunt Bianca wouldn’t think too highly of me in these clothes so soon after Dad’s funeral.”

“She always was a stickler for decorum. Probably another reason I was so anxious to leave home and travel halfway around the world to get away from her.” Gina laughed softly at her joke.

“You shower,” she said, pointing to the back kitchen door. “And then you can get Nate and Mica to help you with the tables and chairs for dinner.”

“Will do.” Rafe crossed the kitchen. As he stepped out through the back door, he glanced at Olivia. “See you later.”

“Sure,” she managed. She empathized with Rafe; he was obviously grief-stricken, and Olivia knew what it was like to lose a father. Yet Gina had just told her that Rafe was involved with horse racing, the evil of all evils. She should dismiss him. Dissolve the imaginary freeze-frame of him in his worn jeans and T-shirt, vulnerable yet masculine. But she couldn’t. Then again, it made sense that his presence would affect her so strongly. She’d been thinking about her dad, and here was Rafe, suffering a similar loss. But at the same time, Rafe represented everything Olivia loathed in this world.

Death always made people think, muddled them up. Olivia struggled to clear the fog from her brain and get back to her work. “I’ll get those appetizers for you, Mrs. Barzonni.”

“I have a table set up near the bar in the den.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Olivia assured her.

On her way to the van, Olivia suddenly wondered why Rafe would be going outside to take his shower. She looked over at the carriage house and saw that the door to the upstairs apartment was slightly ajar. That explained it.

Olivia had moved to her own one-bedroom apartment a few years ago, needing to get some space and independence from her mom, especially as they continued to work at the deli together. Now she lived on the first floor of one of the Victorian mansions on Maple Boulevard. It was a small space, but the twelve-foot-high, floor-to-ceiling windows filled her little kitchen and living area with light. There was a back entrance that was hers alone, and she’d lined the steps with pots of daffodil and tulip bulbs. The gardens in back were not as spectacular as Mrs. Beabots’s, but the yard was ringed with blue spruce, maples and oaks, and it provided a secluded respite from the world. She could understand why Rafe had wanted a place of his own, even if it was only a few steps from where his parents lived.

* * *

OLIVIA SPENT THE rest of the afternoon putting out food and helping her mother clean up in the kitchen, stealing whatever moments she could to give her condolences to Nate, Gabe and Mica. Twice, she approached the table where Rafe sat with his mother, her sister, Bianca, and the priest who had performed the funeral service, and twice, she backed away, unable to talk to him.

After her second attempt, Olivia felt as if the walls were closing in on her. The room had grown stifling. She remembered these reactions from those years right after her father left. Her aunt and some of her mother’s friends had told her she was being dramatic, but Olivia’s symptoms were very real. Her words would be cut off midsentence, or she wouldn’t be able to speak at all. She would sweat and her hands would shake—just like they were doing now. The cure was to simply avoid the triggers. In this case: Rafe. She had to stay away from him at all costs.

There were more chores waiting for her in the kitchen, and she needed to take photos of the elegant pastry display she’d created. But when she reached the kitchen, she noticed Gina had come in behind her.

“I want to serve the dessert and coffee now,” Gina said. “Come help me fill the coffeepots. Olivia, you’ll pour the left side of the room, and Julia, will you take the right?”

“Of course,” Olivia said. “What about the ice creams?”

Gina nodded briskly. “I’ll serve them after we’ve put them together.”

Olivia went to the island and opened the containers. “I got the ice cream from Louise.” She took out a silver dish, scooped a perfect ball of ice cream into it, stuck a ginger star cookie in the middle and then sprinkled spun sugar “glitter” on top. “It was my idea to add the stars,” Olivia said hesitantly. “I like to think of Mr. Barzonni being in heaven, walking among the stars.”

Gina flung her arms around Olivia. “My sweet girl. That is the loveliest thing anyone has said to me all week. I’ll remember it forever. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Olivia fought back tears as she glanced at her mother and saw pride and love shining in her eyes.

Gina took a deep breath and swept her fingers under her eyes. “I’ll announce dessert. Oh, Olivia, don’t forget the cream and sugar. I put it over there on that silver tray.”

Olivia smiled. “I got it.”

She watched from the kitchen as Rafe and Mica stacked their plates with her pastries. She wished she could take their photos; their smiles were the first she’d seen all day, and it warmed her to know that her creations brought them this little joy on such a sorrowful day. Once everyone had visited the dessert table, Gina began serving the ice cream, and Olivia followed her out with a china pot of hot coffee.

As she rounded Rafe’s table, pouring coffee, Rafe reached out and clutched her hand.

“Is it true you made these macaroons?” he asked, holding up the colorful cookie with chocolate mousse filling between the layers.

“I did. Do you like them?”

“They’re great,” he said sourly. “But these aren’t macaroons. There’s no coconut in these.”

“I didn’t want to correct you, but yes, these are French macarons. Macaroons do have coconut.” She leaned down to pick up his cup and saucer. Her arm passed very close to his shoulder, but he didn’t move to give her more space. “Would you like cream or sugar?”

“Black. There’s enough sugar in the cookies. I could eat a dozen of these. You’re very talented.”

“Thank you,” she said, feeling a rush of warmth through her body. As she poured the coffee, she could smell his spicy cologne over the fresh scents of soap and shampoo.

He put his hand on her sleeve and she felt the strength of his fingers as they curled around her wrist. She turned her head slightly to meet his blazing eyes. “Thanks for helping my mom. You’ve been very kind to her. She told me what you said about my father walking among the stars. Thank you.”

Olivia was tongue-tied. “I...I believe what I said.”

Rafe nodded. “Well, it was what she needed to hear. I know Mom’s still planning a baby shower for Gabe and Liz. We’ve all decided that from now on, we want you and your mother to cater her parties so she doesn’t have to work so hard.”

It was sweet that Rafe and his brothers were looking out for Gina, and Olivia tried to ignore the jab of disappointment: Rafe saw her as an employee. A hired hand.

But why should she care, and why should he think of her any other way? She was the hired professional for their dinner party. Period. Olivia tried to move on from the moment, but she couldn’t. She was rooted to the spot. His intense eyes, his fresh, clean smell, the pressure of his hand on her arm were all causing sensual overload.

“I’m more than happy to help anytime,” Olivia struggled to say.

He dropped his hand and looked at the coffee Olivia was still holding. “Thanks.” She still didn’t move. “I’ve got it,” he said, taking the cup and saucer from her when she didn’t put it down. His fingers bumped hers, and Olivia retracted her hand as if she’d been burned. Rafe was immersed in the world of horse racing. The one sphere in the universe she’d vowed never to enter again. Too many shadows and whispers of her father’s addiction to overwhelm her. She didn’t trust this man or his magnetism, and she knew that if she wavered at all, she would be lost.

“Cream? Sugar?” She heard herself ask perfunctorily. He glanced up at her with eyes that cut right to her core. She read honesty, friendliness, gratitude, sadness...and loneliness. Was that right? His eyes searched her face in expectation, but of what? She got the distinct impression that he wanted to ask her something, though she was unsure of his reasons or needs. What she did know was that he was making himself unforgettable.

“No. Like I said, I take it straight.”

“Right. Gotcha,” she said and backed away from his table. Gina asked Rafe a question and he turned to her. “I’m sorry, Mom. What were you saying?”

Olivia could hear the shutter snapping in her mind, taking dozens of mental images of Rafe as she walked from table to table. Normally, she liked the way she saw the world in photographs. But right now she wanted to focus on anything but Rafe. Besides, he wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to her.

As she took a load of dishes to the kitchen, she reminded herself that Rafe Barzonni was a gambler. Like her father.

Actually, he was worse than her father, because Rafe was the horse owner. The kind of man whose pastime fueled the flames of spiritual and financial demise for others.

This night had unleashed a battalion of emotions for Olivia, and if she was smart, she would lock them up for good. Nights like this were dangerous because they tapped into what her mother called the “dark side of the soul.” Too much introspection could be a bad thing.

Olivia should have expected this kind of inner turmoil at a funeral, yet it had caught her off guard. The only way she could put an end to her consternation was to forget Rafe. She relaxed a little. That would be easy; after tonight, she probably wouldn’t see Rafe again for months. If ever.

CHAPTER FOUR

RAFE SLIPPED OUT of the house as soon as he could, knowing that most of the guests would hang around after dinner, devouring the remains of the desserts or sipping brandy with Nate, Gabe and Mica. The air in the house was claustrophobic. The walls pressed in on him as if he were the one in the coffin. It was all he could do to make it through dinner. He’d barely registered what had been served, except for those cookies the caterer had explained to him.

Macarons. He had to remember that. She had been nice. Pretty, too. Soft brown eyes. A guy could lose himself in eyes like that. He’d liked how genuine she seemed. He didn’t actually recall much else about her—she’d been dressed in her chef’s coat and black leggings. She looked official, he supposed, for a caterer.

His mother seemed to know her fairly well, he thought, trying to rattle his thoughts into place.

Rafe rotated his neck from left to right. Everything seemed surreal. He knew people had been talking to him, but their voices seemed so far away. Words floated around him like kelp in the ocean. He felt as if he was half-conscious. Or going crazy.

Pulling the collar of his jacket up to ward off the early-spring chill, he made his way toward the stable. The sun was down and the warmth he’d felt earlier was gone. He shoved his hands into his pants pockets and held his arms close to his sides to keep warm. The cold was more than physical. It bored into his psyche and sat upon his soul. Suddenly, he felt alone. Abandoned. Adrift.

He supposed these feelings were to be expected when death came around. Rafe hadn’t experienced death personally before, except when his chocolate Lab, Moosie, had died ten years ago. His father had been orphaned as a child, and his maternal grandparents had never come to America. He remembered talking to them on the telephone a few times, but all he’d ever said was buongiorno, since they didn’t speak English. When they passed on, he and his brothers all stayed home. He didn’t have any aunts, uncles or cousins in America—even Aunt Bianca had been a stranger to him before this visit.

He hadn’t really missed having relatives around. Today, the house was filled with friends who had become like family. Austin McCreary was nearly a brother to him. He liked old Mrs. Beabots. But when he got down to it, his life had been wrapped up in his father, his mother and his brothers, this farm and his horses.

He’d never needed much else. Naively, he’d thought it would all go on forever. He’d never once thought about his father dying. Angelo had been the essence of good health and had always had a strong body. Sure, they’d been worried about his heart condition in recent months, but Rafe had chalked it up to a bit of aging. He couldn’t believe there was anything seriously wrong with his dad. He was Angelo. The invincible Italian.

Rafe looked down as he neared the stables. His father had hand-laid the drive and pathways when Rafe was just a baby. Angelo had built half the house with his own hands and as the boys got older, they were expected to do the same. They’d all worked on the barns and the horse stable. Rafe had painted every board, shutter, gate, fence post and board in and around the paddock. He’d hauled dirt, raked loam and planted grass to make the horse arena the finest in the area.

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and looked at them. Rafe had believed he could build a dream with his hands, just as his father had. But they couldn’t stop death. He’d pressed on his father’s chest with all his might, and it hadn’t made a difference. He felt incompetent and inadequate. In the days since Angelo’s collapse, Rafe had wished over and over again that he’d been Nate instead. A heart surgeon. A man who could have saved his father. But he was just Rafe. A farmer. A guy who loved horses and horse racing.

Rafe went into the stable and closed the door behind him. To his left was the tack room and next to it was the office, complete with a sofa and television that Curt used. There were six wide horse stalls to his right. Years ago they’d installed heaters to keep the horses warm during the bitter Indiana winters. Warm, dry air blasted into the hallway between the stalls. It felt good on Rafe’s back as he went over to see Rowan.

Curt must have just cleaned the stall because the concrete floor was strewn with fresh hay. Rowan’s feeder was filled with food, and the plastic water bottle that fed into the trough had been replenished.

Rowan, hearing Rafe’s approach, turned from the back of the stall where he’d been taking a drink and walked to the white half door. The horse raised his neck and bowed his head as he always did when he saw Rafe. It was their greeting. Rowan held his head still for a long moment, as if assessing his owner. Then he put his head on Rafe’s shoulder.

Rafe curled his arms around Rowan’s neck and wept. For three days Rafe had felt a burning inside him that cut off his breath and strangled his heart. Yet even as tears slid down his cheeks and soaked the horse’s mane, the pressure didn’t subside. It grew worse. He nearly fell to his knees but he clung tight to Rowan.

“Sorry, boy.” Rafe didn’t recognize his own voice, raspy and filled with a pain he’d never known. Rafe struggled just to open his eyes. But feeling Rowan’s heartbeat surging through his chest and the warmth of his breath cascading over his shoulder, Rafe suddenly felt safe in a way he hadn’t in a very long time. Rafe had loved his father, but Angelo had rarely shown him physical affection. He hadn’t cradled Rafe in his arms when he fell off a horse, spraining his ankle; or when he nearly drowned in the swimming pool attempting a swan dive when he was eight; or when he’d broken his collarbone during the rival football game his junior year as quarterback.

Every time he’d needed comforting, it was his mother’s arms that held him. Her hands that smoothed his sweaty hair from his face, and her lips that kissed his cheek, giving him the courage to try again.

He’d tried to prove himself to his father, but nothing he’d done had ever been good enough.

Except for Rowan.

This horse had saved Rafe in his father’s eyes. By the time they’d bought Rowan, Rafe had learned how to ride like a jockey, though he was much too tall and at a hundred and seventy-five pounds, far too heavy; but he had the skills. Angelo had seen that and admired it.

But now Rafe’s chance to show his father just what he could do with Rowan was gone.

There was nothing left to prove. Rafe’s dreams were dust in his hands.

Rowan snorted and jerked out of Rafe’s embrace. He backed up and stomped his foot.

“What is it, boy?”

Rowan whinnied. He cocked his head, and Rafe read challenge and chastisement in his eyes.

“You can’t know what I’m thinking,” Rafe said.

Rowan walked back to the door, lowered his nose and pushed Rafe. Hard.

Rafe stumbled backward and nearly slipped on the cement. Extending his arms out to his sides, he caught his balance and righted himself. He stared at his horse. “I get it. You think I’m feeling sorry for myself. Well, I was. I have a right to. Everything has changed.” Rafe’s voice rose as his emotions battled between grief and anger. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. There’s just me and Mica now to run things. That leaves no time for you or for training. Maybe it would be best if I sold you to someone who could do you justice.”

Rowan stood stock-still and leveled his eyes at Rafe.

Rafe rubbed his forehead. “I must be losing it. I wouldn’t do that. I promise. In the long run, you may not like staying with me, but I won’t abandon you.” He put his arm around Rowan and then placed his face against the horse’s neck. Rafe exhaled so deeply he thought he might have expunged all the sorrow and guilt inside him. But when he inhaled again, he felt the same painful barbs clinging to his ribs. Maybe he deserved it.

It was his fault his father was dead.

Just as his dark thoughts were about to overwhelm him, Curt Wheeling came through the door carrying a bucket of feed and a plastic jug of water on his right shoulder. Curt was wearing his familiar plaid wool jacket, faded jeans, Western boots and brown work gloves. He had a horse brush sticking out of his jacket pocket and a red bandanna hanging out of his back pocket like a warning flag.

“Hi, Curt,” Rafe said, releasing Rowan’s neck and swiping his hands over his face to clear any evidence of tears.

“Rafe. Thought you’d be up at the main house.” He put the bucket down and squinted. His bushy gray eyebrows crept together until they were almost a single shelf across Curt’s forehead. “Why aren’t you with your friends and brothers?”

“I needed to get away in the worst way,” Rafe said. Clearly, it was a night for confession.

Pursing his lips, Curt replied, “I understand.” He lowered his head and picked up the tin bucket. “Gotta feed Pegasus. Your mom said she wants to ride in the morning.”

Rafe looked at Rowan. “Yeah?”

“Capital idea if you ask me. Nothing gets the cobwebs out like a ride.”

“Cobwebs?”

“Yeah. Those sticky echoes of all the ‘should haves’ and ‘would haves’ that death brings around.”

“You sound like you know about this kind of...feeling.”

Curt walked to the next stall where Gina’s purebred gray Arabian mare stood. Pegasus was only fourteen point three hands high, just barely making it past the cutoff that distinguished a pony from a horse, but she was regal and strong-boned.

There were three other Arabian horses on the farm: Rocky, the black stallion his father rode, Gabe’s chestnut, Merlot, and Mica’s bay, Misty. Angelo preferred Arabians because they could carry a heavier ride, possessed great endurance and were suited to many types of riding. Thanks to centuries of domestication, Arabians were willing to please, good-natured and quick to learn.

Rafe opened the stall door for Curt and helped him with the water. Curt filled Pegasus’s feed sack while Rafe snatched the brush from the trainer’s jacket pocket.

Running his hands over the mare’s smooth white coat, he cooed and spoke softly. Rafe wasn’t aware of what he said exactly, but Pegasus stretched her neck and laid her head across Rafe’s shoulders.

Curt stood up and laughed. “I gotta say, Rafe, you have a way with the ladies.”

“Aw, Pegasus was my first girlfriend. Weren’t you, girl? She’ll always be my number one.”

Pegasus raised her top lip in a grin.

“See?” Rafe turned to Curt. “She knows I’m her guy.”

Curt slapped Rafe on the back. “She’s a good friend to you, Rafe. She wants to make you happy. Ease your pain. That’s what friends are for.”

Rafe put his hand on Curt’s shoulder. “Like you’re doing for me now. That about it?”

“Trying,” Curt admitted. “So, besides missing your pappy, there’s something else eatin’ at you. What is it?”

Rafe looked up at Pegasus. “The horses. Rowan, specifically. With Dad gone, I won’t have time to train him, and he still needs work before we can even think about the Blue Grass Stakes.”

“That’s weeks from now. I’ll double my time with him. We’ll run him at night.”

“Without lights? He could injure himself.”

Curt scratched his head. “I thought of that. Know that old generator your Pappy bought several years back? We never did hook it up to the house. What say I get some light bars, set them on a couple tractors and position them around the track? I could light it up like a carnival.”

“It might work.” Rafe rubbed his chin with the back of his hand.

“I was thinking, too, that maybe we should lower our sights a bit. Try to get Rowan used to running real races. Maybe something a little more...small-town.”

“What are you getting at, Curt?”

“In a few weeks there’s a charity horse race here in Indian Lake. Only a five-hundred-dollar purse. Most winners give the money back.”

“Money’s not the issue. Running Rowan is.”

Curt snapped his finger. “Just what I was thinking!” He smiled broadly at Rafe.

For the first time since Rafe had held his dying father in his arms, unable to save him, he felt release. A lightening of the guilt that had weighed him down like a lead vest. It was only a local horse race, probably thought up by some bored socialite who wanted her name at the top of a brochure. But whatever the reasons, it was happening, and it was happening here. They had an opportunity to run Rowan and see what he could do.

Rafe couldn’t get his father back, but if he could train Rowan well enough to enter him in the Blue Grass Stakes, there was a chance, small as it was, that Rafe could fulfill the dream Angelo had held most dear.

The Kentucky Derby. It was a long shot, but weren’t all dreams supposed to be impossible?

Rafe opened the door to Pegasus’s stall and held it for Curt. “Tell me more about this Indian Lake race, Curt.”

“I’ve got a brochure over in the bunkhouse.”

“Let’s check it out together.” Rafe approached Rowan one last time for the night. He hugged his horse.

“Don’t give up on me, boy. We just might make it yet.”

CHAPTER FIVE

OLIVIA LOADED THE last of her chafing dishes, trays and plates into her van. Her mother had already taken home the first load of glassware, linens and dinnerware that Gina had rented from them.

Olivia had stayed behind to make sure they had cleaned everything thoroughly and that none of the dishes were left in any of the rooms. Partygoers were notorious for dropping silverware on the floor and kicking it under a skirted chair or sofa. Many times, she’d found wineglasses on bookshelves or windowsills. She also checked all the potted plants. It was amazing what could be found in the philodendrons. After more than a decade catering funerals, weddings and countless other functions, Olivia could spot a missing teaspoon from yards away.

Several guests were still lingering in the den playing cards, talking and using every excuse not to be alone with their sorrow. She refilled water and coffee cups for Maddie, Nate, Gabe and Liz. Liz yawned and put her head on Gabe’s shoulder. He slipped his arm around her and looked at Olivia. “I think I’ll put my girl to bed.”

“Are you driving home tonight?”

Liz opened her eyes. “We’re staying in Gabe’s old room for the weekend in case Gina needs us. Nate’s got surgery in the morning, and Maddie has to be at the café for the early customers. Grampa said he’ll drive back, though I worry about him at this time of night.”

“He’ll be okay,” Gabe assured her. “Maybe he should have a cup of that coffee,” he said to Olivia.

“Good idea,” Olivia replied, glancing over at Sam Crenshaw, who appeared very wide-awake and engrossed in a quiet conversation with Gina near the French doors to the terrace.

Olivia excused herself and carried the silver coffeepot and tray with cream and sugar over to them. “Would you like more coffee?” Olivia asked. “This is decaf, but I can get regular, Mr. Crenshaw. Gabe said you had to drive back.”

“I’m not at all tired.” Sam smiled. “The decaf is just fine.” He held out his cup and saucer for Olivia. “How have you been, Olivia?”

“Very well, sir. Especially now that spring is here. I can’t wait to get out to the lake.”

Gina looked from Sam to Olivia. “Why the lake?”

Sam touched Gina’s arm affectionately and allowed his hand to remain there, his thumb gently stroking her sleeve. It was a subtle gesture, but a telling one. What was going on between Sam and Gina? And did she want to know?

Sam followed Olivia’s gaze and he immediately withdrew his hand. He rushed to speak. “Olivia is a wonderful photographer. You should see her work sometime. And she and Liz are on a rowing team together. Isn’t that right, Olivia?”

Olivia’s eyes tracked back to Gina, who was waiting patiently for an answer to her question. “Uh, yes. Exactly. Sarah, Maddie, Liz, Isabelle and I have been sculling for years. We can hardly stand these long winters, waiting for the ice to melt. Although, I have to admit to spending a lot of time out there taking pictures in the past few months. Did either of you see the frozen fog? I’d never experienced that before. I had a one-hour window to capture it before the sun melted those fuzzy stalactites. They formed on everything—bushes, tree branches. My shots were amazing.” Olivia’s voice held more energy and excitement than she’d anticipated. That happened whenever she talked about her photography. Adrenaline surged through her. She would have been perfectly happy to put down the pot and tray, sit and talk to them till dawn about the photos she took—those visions of nature she’d seen while combing the edges of the winter lake. Bass swimming under thick, frosted plates of ice. She’d zoomed in on a squirrel burying nuts from the walnut trees around the Pine Tree Lodges. She had taken over two hundred shots of beavers building a dam, cutting wood with their razor-sharp teeth and flapping their flat tails in the canal that connected Lily Lake and Indian Lake. She had photos that showed geese against the full moon, lavender ribbons of dawn rippling over the chunks of icy lake water and a clouded winter sun struggling to make its presence known through a snowstorm.

But Olivia’s favorite subjects were animals. They were sweet souls that did not betray or bully unless they were hungry and on the prowl for food. That was the circle of life. That was survival. She understood that. Animals were peace and danger, calm and destruction, and they fascinated her. She strove to capture their essence in photographs though she knew it would be a lifelong, elusive effort.

She blinked, realizing Sam and Gina were staring at her strangely. “Um, anyway. I guess Liz won’t be doing much rowing this spring.”

“Don’t count her out. She told me that as soon as the doctor tells her she’s fit after the baby comes, she’ll be out there at the crack of dawn with you girls,” Sam said.

“I’m looking forward to that. You must be so excited about the baby.”

“We are!” Gina and Sam exclaimed in unison. They looked at each other and laughed.

Then just as suddenly, the smile on Gina’s face disappeared.

Olivia thought she knew why. “I’m sure Mr. Barzonni was looking forward to his first grandchild.”

Gina cleared her throat and rose. “I see you need more cream,” she said in flat, commanding tones that told Olivia not to object. “Let me help you.”

Gina took the little tray of sugar and creamer and headed for the kitchen. Sam’s eyes were glued to her. He shook himself then turned to Olivia with a crestfallen expression.

“I’ll be right back,” she told him.

Olivia found Gina with a carton of heavy cream in one hand, holding the refrigerator door open with the other.

“I’ll do it,” Olivia offered.

“Angelo didn’t sanction Gabe’s marriage to Liz, which you probably already know,” Gina began, handing her the carton. “You and your friends are all very close, aren’t you?”

“Like sisters. Closer maybe.” She shrugged. “I’m an only child, so I don’t actually know what it’s like to have siblings. My mom was always my best friend.”

Gina lifted her chin. “That’s how it is with Gabe and me. Best friends. Probably because he’s the oldest. I was thrilled about the baby. But Angelo—he carried his resentments around with him like the wallet in his back pocket. Always at hand. He was an unforgiving man in many ways.”

“But you loved him.”

“Oh, yes. That’s true. But I believe there are many kinds of love. Not all people are lucky enough to find true love. You know? Gabe and Liz. They have that. Maddie and Nate do, too. I can see the difference now that my sons are so happy.”

So that was it. The sparks that danced between Gina and Sam were romantic ones. Yet she was clearly grieving her husband deeply. Olivia had catered enough funerals to last a lifetime. She’d seen bizarre, out-of-character behavior at funerals that rivaled most reality shows. Death skewed human psyches like no other crisis.

She considered the cream. “Didn’t Mr. Crenshaw have a heart attack last fall?”

“He did,” Gina replied quietly. “It was a frightening time for Liz, as you must know.”

Olivia stepped around Gina and eased the refrigerator door wide-open. “Then maybe we should give him the fat-free half-and-half I saw in here earlier.”

Gina tilted her head and studied Olivia. “You’re observant. And thoughtful. Thank you for thinking of him like that.”

Olivia handed the cream to Gina. “He’s always meant the world to Liz. He’s a lovable man.”

“He is,” Gina replied, taking out a second cream pitcher. She glanced up at the digital clock on the microwave. “You’re about done here. Everything is cleaned up. I’ll write your check.”

“It’s okay. You can mail it.”

Gina smiled. “Would you mind doing me one last favor before you go, Olivia?”

“Not at all.” Olivia smiled. “Anything.”

Gina turned to the stove and picked up a foil-covered dinner plate. “I put this aside for Curt, but he didn’t have time to come up for supper.” Gina slipped a dish towel under the bottom of the plate.

“Curt?”

“Our horse trainer. He’s still down at the stables, and I don’t want him to leave without something to eat,” Gina said with a little shake to her head as she held the plate out to Olivia.

Olivia gulped back a lump of fear. Her eyes tracked over to the window, where she could see the lights still shining in the stable.

Olivia took the plate from Gina, hoping her hands wouldn’t shake the roast beef right off. She bit her lip; maybe physical pain would jolt her out of the memory of her father shoving wads of bills at the betting-cage teller.

“Just follow the paved bricks down there. I see that Rafe turned on the walk lights. I’d do it myself, but I—”

Olivia interrupted. “It’s no bother. Honestly, I’m happy to help.” She forced a smile.

“Oh, and when you’re down there, give a pet to my Pegasus for me, will you?” Gina put her hand to her cheek. “Silly of me. You’re not afraid of horses, are you?”

“Horses?” No, she wasn’t afraid of the most gorgeous creatures on earth. In fact, she adored them and had loved them all her life. It was the gambling they represented that she abhorred. “I like horses. They’re some of my favorite photography subjects.”

“Oh, my goodness. Then my Arabians will delight you and that talented eye of yours. My Pegasus is nearly pure white, though technically, she’s a gray. Pink skin. Blue eyes. A vision.”

“She sounds gorgeous. May I take a picture of her? I would be so grateful. I hardly ever get the chance to be around horses, though I went to Sarah Jensen’s dressage classes when we were kids.”

“You ride, then?”

“Oh, no. We couldn’t afford the lessons, but I took my little camera and photographed Sarah. The instructor always let me pet the horses and talk to them.” Olivia felt the rhapsody of those special times chime through her heart. She remembered country drives when she would cajole her mother to stop each time she saw a horse and let her take a picture. Even then, Olivia felt the conflict between loving the animals and despising the task they were forced to do. She wanted them to run free. “I’ve always wanted to learn, but I—well, I just haven’t. I have my digital camera in my car...”

“Of course, dear. Just tell Curt that I said you could visit with Pegasus.”

Olivia thanked her, and Gina left the kitchen with the cream pitchers.

Olivia took off her chef’s coat and put on the black zip-up jacket she’d brought. All day she’d had her hair clipped up on top of her head. It kept her long, thick locks out of the way, but the tight twist always gave her a slight headache by the end of the day. When she pulled out the clip, the release was instantaneous. She shook her hair out and let it fall down her back as she massaged her scalp.

“That’s better. Freedom,” Olivia said to herself as she slipped out the back door and headed for her van. Her camera was in its case on the floor of the passenger side. The rest of the van was stuffed with catering utensils and serving pieces. There was only room for her to drive.

She checked her lens and looped the wide black strap around her neck, pulling her hair out from under it.

The single door to the stable was unlocked, so Olivia turned the knob and stepped inside. “Hello? Curt?” she said as she shut the door behind her. It was considerably warmer in here than it was outside. She was surprised at how roomy the structure was. To her left were a tack room and a meeting room of some kind, with dark, wood-paneled walls, green carpet, several red plaid wing chairs with matching footstools, a brown leather sofa and a large plasma screen television. There was also a roll-top desk and shelves filled with books and framed photographs.

“Hello?” Olivia continued walking down the corridor between the horse stalls. “Gina sent you some dinner.”

At the sound of her voice, four horses came to the edge of their stalls and stuck their heads out over the closed half doors. Olivia put the plate down on a small table and moved toward them, smiling.

To her right was a midnight-black Arabian with a braided mane. He had a thick neck and wider chest than the chestnut horse in the stall next to him. Olivia placed her hand on the Arabian’s neck and said, “Aren’t you a handsome thing?” Then she noticed the nameplate on his stall. Rocky.

Olivia smiled. “I’ll bet you’re a real fighter, Rocky. The Italian stallion, huh?”

The horse neighed as if answering her question. He snorted and then backed away from her and went about eating his dinner.

Olivia clicked off several shots of Rocky, then she moved down to the chestnut horse, Merlot. Next was the bay, Misty.

She took photographs of all three before spinning around to see the strikingly beautiful, all-white Pegasus. “You do look like you thundered down from the heavens, don’t you, girl?”

Olivia clicked a dozen pictures of Pegasus before she moved back up the line to Rowan’s stall. Unlike the others, he had not displayed curiosity over hearing a stranger’s voice when she entered the stable. He’d hung back and was standing in the shadows of his stall.

She leaned over the gate and peered at him. “Whose horse are you?”

Rowan stood very still, his brown eyes assessing her, weighing her intentions with each word she spoke.

“You’re quite the cautious one. I like that. You want to be sure before you make your move. I don’t blame you. I’ve always thought it was wise to take my time. Size up the situation. And the opponent.” She lifted her camera to her face. “Except that I’m not the enemy.”

The second she peered through the viewfinder, framed him in what was to become her photograph, her breath caught in her lungs. Chills swept across her skin. She lowered the camera with stiff arms, too stunned to talk. He was magnificent.

Rowan lifted his snout a few inches and cocked it at an angle, giving her an imperious gaze. Haughty and self-assured, he sauntered toward her.

He was sleek and muscular, with eyes that were wise, intelligent and held no quarter for fools. Rowan had waited for her to move toward him first. He didn’t seek her out just because she was human. He’d waited for her like a king awaits an audience with his subjects.

His eyes never wavered from her face as he slowly approached her. This was different from those moments in the wild when animals would pause to stare at her. She wasn’t a curiosity to him. She wasn’t just being observed. It was as if they were connecting on some deeper level.

Friends.

The single word skittered across Olivia’s brain.

“I’ll be your friend,” she said aloud.

He hitched up his head.

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered. Then she picked up her camera.

Olivia’s finger clicked off a dozen shots so fast she knew she’d caught his every breath. He swished his tail and pressed his snout against her camera as if daring her to put it away.

She lowered the camera and without another thought, she put her arms around his neck and hugged him. Feeling her cheek against his throat, she was amazed at the emotions racing through her. “I meant what I said. I want to be your friend.”

CHAPTER SIX

RAFE WAS STILL HOLDING the Indian Lake horse race brochure when he left the barn. He’d promised Curt he would close down the stable and lock up so the trainer could go straight to bed.

Rafe had just opened the stable door when he heard someone speaking.

He couldn’t make out what was said, but it was definitely a woman’s voice that lilted through his ears. It was a sweet sound, and it floated toward him like a lullaby. Then he heard the woman say Rowan’s name with esteem and playfulness. He didn’t understand. His mother, Liz and Maddie were all up at the house, and no other women knew his horse. And this voice was totally unfamiliar to him.

He inched forward, curious about the intruder.

Then he saw her. Her head was turned away from him, a waterfall of lush brown hair falling down her back, glistening with gold-and-red highlights. She was standing on her tiptoes, leaning far enough over the gate to Rowan’s stall that he wondered if she knew she was in danger of falling right in.

He rushed up, grabbed her by the waist and pulled her back.

“Careful there!” he exclaimed as she tried to kick free of his grasp.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought you were going to fall,” he said. She straightened up and yanked the waistband of her jacket into place, but not before he saw a band of creamy skin.

“I can take care of myself! And I certainly wasn’t about to fall into a horse stall. I’m not stupid,” she snapped.

Where was that musical voice he’d heard a minute ago? Was there someone else in his stable he didn’t know about?

He fought a smile. He didn’t know who she was, but her brown eyes blazed at him as if he was the one off base here. He lifted his palms apologetically. “Hey, I just wanted to help.”

She snorted.

“I’m Rafe, by the way.” He kept staring at her. She was familiar, but that gloomy fog in his brain refused to dissipate.

The woman gave him a strange look. “Your mom wanted me to bring supper down here for Curt,” she said slowly, pointing behind him to the table. He glanced back, and sure enough, there was a plate of food covered in foil.

Then it hit him. “The cookie girl!”

“Pardon me?”

“Macarons. Or whatever they’re called. You’re the woman my mother hired.”

“Olivia,” she said. He could swear her tone held disappointment.

He grabbed her hand and shook it. “I knew I recognized you.”

“Um...you did?” She was staring at him as if he was nuts. Which he probably was at the moment. He hadn’t carried on a coherent conversation with anyone since his father died. “What I meant was that I didn’t know who you were when I first walked in here, but yes, I remember you now.”

Those eyes. Who could forget those eyes?

She raised her arm and gestured toward the stalls. “Your mother told me it was okay for me to meet her horse and maybe take a few pictures. I didn’t see Curt or anyone else out here, so I sort of...introduced myself to all your horses.”

It was cute, the way she stumbled over her apology. She had a pert mouth with a full bottom lip that was naturally pink. No lipstick. In fact, he didn’t see much makeup at all on her. Her cheeks were red from embarrassment or being caught red-handed; he didn’t know which. He’d have to get his mother to corroborate her story later.

“I love horses,” she explained. “I’ve always thought they were God’s most majestic animal.”

“Don’t tell that to any cat lover,” he joked, shifting his weight. “So, you ride, then?”

“Your mother asked me the same thing. I don’t. But I was around horses a lot as a kid with my friend Sarah Jensen—Bosworth now—when we went to her dressage classes.” She lowered her gaze as if deep in thought. “There were other times I was around horses, too.” She paused for a long moment.

Rafe couldn’t imagine what was going on with her, but he noticed that her shoulders slumped and a frown plowed across her forehead. Whatever she was remembering, it wasn’t good.

“I’m not sure I’d be good at riding,” she continued.

“You just need instruction and practice,” he said brightly, hoping to lift her spirits. “You certainly don’t seem to be afraid of horses. For most people, that’s half the battle.”

“Afraid.” She said the word as if considering its meaning. “Not exactly.” She smiled at him, but it was forced. Her eyes were guarded; she was definitely holding something back.

His own curiosity surprised him. He wanted to know what that something was. Olivia was a total stranger to him, yet he was responding to her as if he’d known her for some time. Maybe it was their shared love of horses. Maybe his grief-torn heart just wanted a distraction from the reality of his father’s death. If he was guilty of using her to ease his pain, he didn’t care. At this moment he felt better. He felt as if he was breaking out of prison.

“Is it all right that I took a couple photos in here? I’m a photographer. An amateur. I mean, not professional by any means,” she equivocated.

He took in the expensive-looking Pentax camera suspended from a strap around her neck. “I don’t know anything about cameras. But I’m guessing you didn’t buy that at Walmart.”

Her ivory skin turned blotchy crimson-red. She touched the zoom lens daintily.

He didn’t know what trigger he’d just pulled, but something had hit home. He was fascinated.

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