Chance Meeting by Laura Moore

smiled and shook their heads. Trainers and breeders enjoyed few things more in life than griping about the idiocy they encountered in the horse world. As soon as Clyde had disappeared into the barn’s interior, however, Steve Sr. turned to his son, all business.
    “Don’t go getting all mushy over a pretty face, now, Steve. The gelding’s a looker, all right, but for all we know, he might have been born with four left hooves.” His father didn’t sound as if he believed his words of caution himself.
    Steve reached out and stroked the velvety skin between Fancy Free’s wide nostrils. His hands and eyes then moved along the graceful curve of his neck. The shock of recognition, when he’d first laid eyes on Fancy Free, hadn’t diminished at all. Every instinct told him this was it. This horse was the one. The feeling transcended all logic. But it was as strong and insistent as the beating of his heart. And while his father was right to voice a certain skepticism, Steve knew that he was going to trust his instinct when it came to this young gelding.
    “Pop, as one betting man to another, I’m willing to make a wager with you right now, before I even have a chance to hop on his back and see how he moves. I’ll wager Clyde’s asking price that in seven years’
    time, this horse and I will be at the top of the show jumping world.”
    Silently, carefully, Steve Sr. inspected Fancy Free once more. The horse was standing quietly, but even motionless he radiated energy. His head held high, his nostrils flared, his intelligent eyes were fixed on the distant pastures where other horses grazed. His long black tail was extended, individual strands lifting slightly in the warm summer breeze.
    Steve’s father continued his scrutiny of the gelding’s conformation, searching for any hint of weakness or flaw, finding nothing but strength and beauty. His connoisseur’s gaze moved up and down the horse’s legs. He knelt close, running his hands up and down, his fingers probing for swelling in the tendons, any slight puffiness that might signal injury. Finally, he stood, a small smile hovering about his lips as he gave his son an answer: “Sorry, Steve, but you know I don’t take sucker bets.”
    5
    “ W e’ll have to organize a party for after the show at Madison Square Garden. I’ll get Smythe to write up a guest list.”
    “Really, Father, a party’s not necessary. Just qualifying for the National is exciting enough.”
    “Nonsense. We’ll need to celebrate your winning the Medal class.”
    Ty stared at her father. He was standing before her in his library. An interior designer had been hired to decorate it, his mission to underscore Tyler Stannard’s immense wealth in this and every single other room in the mansion. Against one wall stood floor-to-ceiling oak bookshelves, filled with perfectly aligned rows of Moroccan leather–bound books which no one ever disturbed. On the opposite side of the room, an enormous fireplace had been built of imported Italian marble. Green, gray, and black marble were inlaid in an intricate pattern modeled after one of the fireplaces in the Palazzo Medici in Florence. Above the massive mantelpiece hung a Picasso depicting a female armed with long, daggerlike teeth and eyes grotesquely distorted, their stare cross-eyed.
    Ty hated the painting and always tried to avoid looking at it. She knew, however, that the Picasso hung there for a specific reason. Two years ago, Smythe had been sent to bid for the painting at an auction held at Sotheby’s in New York with strict instructions that he wasn’t to return to the Stannard mansion without it. The following day, her father’s purchase had made the headlines in all the major papers, having set a record for Picassos that had come on the art market. As Tyler Stannard’s representative, Smythe had emerged victorious after a furious bidding war that involved several major museums and some Japanese and Arab collectors, too. No one who entered