Deeper Than Secrets

CHAPTER 2 | Beau

CHAPTER 2 | Beau

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I lean against Holly’s ancient Bronco while she rummages around inside, sneaking glances at me through the window. She thinks I’m drunk. Hell, between the swaying and the uneven walk, I look drunk. But I’m not. It’s the pain.

It’s been a year since the accident. I’m supposed to be getting better, and I’m not. My hands are almost always numb. My back almost always feels like it’s on fire. I can’t ride. I can’t sleep—or I can’t unless I drink.

In fact, if I drink enough, I don’t see Arch anymore. I don’t feel that sickening impact when his body hit the ground and I followed.

Freak accident, everyone said. Undiagnosed heart condition, everyone said. But all that matters is he was my horse, and he died under me.

And I know his owner had something to do with it.

I roll both hands into fists, remembering how Dell’s face had looked when I yanked him close. He was scared—and not just of me. His eyes kept skittering around, looking at anyone who might be listening. He had Parish kill Arch for the insurance money. He knows it. I know it.

Now I just have to prove it before he destroys another defenseless animal.

“Hi, Beau!” The voice is lilting and unmistakably southern. I turn, spotting one of my former clients walking through the parking lot, heading for the auction.

I lift one hand, nod. Once, she would’ve stopped to talk. She would’ve wanted to be seen with me. Kind of sucks to be reminded again that I’m well past worth being seen with, but whatever.

More people are coming in for the afternoon sales listings. I recognize a fair number of them too. Riders, trainers, some very wealthy owners. This is my world.

Was my world?

My cell rings and I pat my pockets for a couple seconds before I remember Holly has my phone. I hold out a hand for it, and she rolls her eyes.

“As if,” she hisses at me, answering it herself. “This is Holly...no, he can’t come to the phone. Can I take a message?”

Holly bends down to grab a stack of fabric from her passenger seat, and I can’t take my eyes off her ass. God, she annoys me. She’s uptight, rides my ass like she stole it, and I have never wanted to f**k a woman more in my life.

Which, honestly, annoys me even more.

Holly says something about ‘no problem’ and ‘we’ll get back to you,’ and stands up, motioning for me to get into the Bronco. With those heels on, we’re almost eye level. If I ever do get a chance to f**k her, I’m going to leave the heels on and revel in it every time they dig into my back.

“What?” Holly brushes a fringe of blonde hair out of her eyes. “What are you thinking about?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“If you’re going to be sick, do it out here. I don’t get hazard pay.”

“What if I can’t help it?” I give her my laziest grin. “What if I get sick on you? Accidents happen, sweet.”

“I’m not your ‘sweet,’ and if you puke on me, I will punch you in the ear. Got it?”

She’d do it too. I look her up and down, deliberately taking my time to garner maximum annoyance. Unfortunately, it only makes me even more aware of how those curvy hips look in her skirt, how perfect her breasts look in that T-shirt.

Holly’s always coming up with something interesting to wear. Gotta admit, I don’t really get the whole worn T-shirt with the formal pencil skirt and sky-high heels thing, but I like the effect. She gravitates toward fabrics I want to touch.

I ease into the Bronco’s passenger seat while Holly stalks around to the other side. She cranks the engine, blasting us with hot air as the retro-fitted AC begins to work. She shifts into reverse and then stops, both hands on the wheel and eyes focused on the windshield. “Beau?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you really think Dell Landers had something to do with your horse’s death?”

“I know he did.” I pause, another wave of pain washing over me. I moved too fast on those steps and it’s catching up with me. “I just can’t prove it.”

Yet.

“That isn’t something you can just go around saying,” she whispers. “I mean, that’s a serious allegation and he’s your boss’s childhood friend. They owned that horse together. If you’re saying Dell did something like that, you’re basically saying she would’ve known, and after everything Mrs. Mar has done...I mean...”

She trails off unable to say, After everything Mrs. Mar has done for you. Or maybe even After all the money Mrs. Mar has spent on you. Either—both—would be accurate. Not many broken down riders get kept on by their sponsors, but after twenty some years of working together, Adele and I are practically family. She’s let me recover, kept me on the payroll, and hasn’t even brought up riding.

Probably because, like everyone else in the horse world, she thinks as soon as I’m healed, I’m headed straight for the top again.

Holly pauses, waiting for me to say something and when I don’t, she gives up, steering the Bronco out of the parking space. I stare out the window, flexing my hands over and over again in the exercises the doctors taught me. The joints catch, shooting pain up my forearms. By the time we’ve hit the main road, I stop. There’s no point—not with the exercises, not with pretending I’ll eventually get better. Arch is gone. I’m not healing. I’m not going to ride anymore.

Actually, that’s not accurate: I won’t be able to ride at the level I did and international showjumping? Being number one in the world? It’s everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ve worked for.

If I lose that, what will be left of me?