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and a vest. She refreshed her color with a slash of blush across each cheek. Running a brush through her hair, she caught the white flash of the remaining silk glove shrouding her left hand. Casting her glance out the window, she removed it and took a pair of worn leather riding gloves from her vest pocket. She put them on, taking extra care with the left one, adjusting it carefully so that it appeared to fit naturally. There.

She backed her car from the garage and slid her sunglasses on her face and cruised down the twisting road, feeling a little buzzed as the convertible gained speed, the wind whipping all around her.

This area of Woodside was hilly and lush. Either side of the road occasionally gave way to gated driveways or hedged walls. At certain bends, off to the right and downhill, she could see the small, artificial lake resting in the middle of this particular smart-set valley. It was a short drive, her destination within walking distance of her home had she chosen to take the footpath that circled the lake.

She turned onto the long private drive. The hot pavement turned to dusty road as she approached the ranch. She passed a small stilted shed that marked the property line of the ranch. To the right, in a liberally spaced cluster, were two cottages, a ranch house, a small stable, and a second, larger double-door barn. Dressage and jumping rings were not far from these buildings, separated from the lake by a dirt path. In one of the fenced circles a trainer led a tethered Morgan colt in medium-sized circles, gently guiding the shining black animal with a long lunge whip. In another ring a young girl neatly sailed a black Hanoverian over post-and-rail jumps, under the instruction of a tall man dressed in mixed hues of indigo. Greta had never seen the man here before. From this distance he appeared lithe and attractive, and her curiosity was piqued. As if sensing her appraisal, he turned and looked in her direction. He leveled his hand against his brow to shield the sunlight. As he did this, she noticed that he was wearing an odd white garment over his right arm; it took her an instant to realize it was a sling.

She raised her sunglasses from her face and settled them in her hair. Had the man been looking at her or at something else nearby? He turned back to the rider, signing with a wave, then turned and jogged out of the ring, disappearing into the smaller barn.

She climbed out of the car and proceeded to the massive double doors. Inside, she was surrounded on either side by large beautiful horses of various breeds. Their heads turned in her direction as she passed. Occasionally she stopped to pet a particular animal owned by an acquaintance. She grew excited by the smell of the horses, the dust, the feed, and the dryness, and was glad she had decided to come here to ride. When she wasn’t shopping or doing the other things that consumed the hours of her day, this was her passion, being here at the ranch with these beautiful, powerful creatures.

Stall 28, at the end of a long row, held Mighty Boy, her four-year-old thoroughbred stallion. So black he was almost purple, Mighty Boy had been a gift from Matthew when they had moved to California.

“Hi sweetie,” Greta said, stroking the animal’s head. She nuzzled her face into his cheek, her chestnut hair mixing and mingling with his black mane. The horse nodded and whinnied, happy for her arrival.

“Hello, Mrs. Locke,” said Jennifer, the ranch’s owner. She was a solid woman with white-gray hair and eternally sun-squinted eyes. “What a happy boy he is,” Jennifer said. “Everyone who sees him is in awe of his beauty.”

“He is a pretty boy, isn’t he?” Greta said. She paused to appraise the animal for a moment before leading him out of his stall.

Jennifer slipped Mighty Boy a treat and patted his head. “Gorgeous day for a ride.”

“Truly,” Greta agreed. Peripherally, a movement caught her eye. It was the man she’d seen in the ring, dressed in denim pants and a worn denim shirt. He was walking toward them. She became conscious of her tousled hair, and tried to remember whether or not she had brushed her teeth. Yet she did not fully connect these concerns with the materialization of this stranger.

“You must be the fortunate owner of this magnificent beast,” the smiling man said. His lean, strong jaw and powerful physique were matched by a robust, accented voice.

“Yes,” Greta said with evident pride.

He was taller than he had first appeared when she spotted him in the ring, a hair over six feet, she estimated. He had hazel eyes, and his dark brown hair was long and thick and pulled back into a neat ponytail. She guessed he was in his mid-thirties.

“Jennifer?” the man said, turning to the ranch’s owner.

“Oh! I’m sorry.” The older woman placed a casual hand on Greta’s shoulder. “Jean-Pierre Poitras, this is Mrs. Greta Locke.” At the “Mrs.” part, her voice had risen ever so slightly.

Greta offered her right hand, then realized her mistake. He laughed, and with his left hand he gestured at his slung arm. Staring at it, she saw that there was no cast. “We can use this hand,” Jean-Pierre said. Before she had a chance to realize what was happening, he had her left hand in his own.

She gasped, recoiling her hand like a viper. She clasped it protectively in her other hand, as if it had been scalded.

Jean-Pierre’s face mirrored her own astonished expression. Jennifer’s too.

Greta attempted to cover the awkwardness. “Oh,” she said with a nervous laugh, “I’m sorry. It’s just that you startled me.” Unconsciously she was gently squeezing the hand he’d held, trying to imagine how it had felt to him. Horrorstricken, she asked herself, Did he feel it?

There was a long moment of silence in which everyone looked to everyone else. Finally, Jennifer spoke. “Jean-Pierre is a polo champion from Deauville, France.”

Greta seized on this to move the conversation along. “Really? How fascinating. Are you playing polo here?”

He laughed at this, and everything seemed to fall back in order. “There is no polo here. That is why I’ve come.”

Jennifer explained. “We’re considering starting a polo club right here in Woodside, Mrs. Locke. Perhaps Mr. Locke would be interested in sponsoring a player.” This last comment was directed to Jean-Pierre. He arched his brows, inviting an explanation.

Instead of responding to this, Greta let go of her hand and fluttered it uneasily at his arm. “What happened?”

“Oh, this. My nemesis. Chronic dislocation. Shoulder. Worst it has ever been. I figured it was time to give my pony a rest and look into the idea of starting a club here. I need some time to recuperate.” His eyes connected with hers, and for the moment that she held them, she felt as if he were acknowledging some unspoken confidence that they shared.

Jennifer spoke up. “We’re delighted he’s going to be staying with us for awhile.” With a click of her tongue she began leading Mighty Boy along.

Jean-Pierre stopped her and took the horse by the halter. “May I?” he asked Greta.

“Oh. Why, yes,” she replied.

Jennifer patted Mighty Boy’s head. “Have a nice ride,” she said, and walked back toward the office.

Greta studied Jean-Pierre as he led the animal from its stall with a firm but casual hand. Mighty Boy tramped along happily, unresisting, as they walked the length of the stable in silence. Outside they stepped aside to allow the young groom to bridle and saddle the animal.

Jean-Pierre plucked a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket. “Perhaps we can ride together one morning, Mrs. Locke?” He grinned. Perfect straight white teeth contrasted with his healthy, tanned complexion. There was something suggestive in his fixed smile.

She felt herself blush. “Perhaps,” she said. She had a premonition that was not altogether unpleasant. Before she had time to let the image develop any further, she quickly busied herself with the saddle’s girth and stirrups. She could feel his eyes observing her. It felt intrusive, yet, at the same time, exciting. She nullified this indulgence by reminding herself of today’s board meeting at Wallaby; its conclusion would signal a new beginning for her and Matthew. She pulled her scarf from her vest pocket, twirled it, and wrapped it lightly around her neck. The lenses of his sunglasses reflected her motions, but she could not tell on what exactly his eyes were focused, though they seemed fixed in the general direction of her upper body. Her breasts. At this thought she felt a prickling beneath her skin. First chilly. Then hot.

Feeling suddenly loony and playful, she stared directly into his sunglasses, as if she were facing a small display mirror. With a bold tug she knotted her scarf and laughed, and at the same time cinched her commitment to Matthew.

His own hearty laughter joined hers, filling her with an uncharacteristic and powerful sense of triumph.

She placed her booted foot into the stirrup, and his deft attention was little surprise as his free hand solidly gripped her other boot. With a quick hoist she was in the saddle.

He stood before Mighty Boy and stroked the horse’s head. “Such a beautiful creature,” he said, removing his sunglasses, “should certainly be allowed to jump, to learn new things. Yes? Maybe you would like to try?” He lifted his sunglasses and held them so that their eyes connected. He held hers for more time than she should have permitted. She quickly diverted her gaze to the jumping ring. Could she do that? Wait - why was she even considering it? She told herself to get going. Besides, she had not showered, and her hair was all mussed. Hadn’t she come here to ride her horse?

“I don’t think I could do that,” she said. “I think I prefer simply riding alone.”

He lowered his sunglasses again and bowed, as if to say that was fine. For now.

“Well, then. See you,” she said. She was satisfied with the way that had come out, a practiced social indifference to her tone. Pressing her heels into the horse’s ribs, she trotted off past the buildings and toward the hills across the low, golden, grassy field. She let herself look back. He was still standing there, watching her ride off. She hastily returned her attention to the path.

After Mighty Boy warmed up she pushed him hard, leaning into his powerful gallop. As if testing her will, yesterday’s clear, hard thoughts of Matthew’s secret plan and of her celebration bowl melted away, and were supplanted by fantasy. Her heart raced, and her mind ran free with raw and fiery images of the provocative Jean-Pierre.

 

*

 

“Thank you, Martin,” Matthew Locke said.

Peter turned to Hank Towers for an explanation for this break in custom; it was he, Peter, who always started the meeting with opening remarks. But Hank’s attention, like that of everyone else in the room, had shifted to Matthew. Something was wrong, but before he could speculate, Matthew spoke.

“As we are all aware, Peter and I have been at odds about how this company should be managed.”

Peter threw his pen down on the table. With an audible huff he pushed himself back in his seat with straightened arms. “What’s going on here?”

Matthew ignored this and continued, his eyes roaming from person to person in careful, measured doses.

“Peter and I have very different styles and strategies, which is positioning you, the executive staff and board of directors, in the middle of our discord. The situation isn’t healthy for Wallaby.” He let this sink in for