the phone booth, I called the answering service. The woman who answered told me that Steve Shaw had a horse with some heat and swelling in its leg and needed me. She started to give me directions. "That's okay," I told her. "I know how to get there."
Back at the table, I told Bret, "Eat up. We've got to go see a horse."
He looked at me over his beer. "See a man about a horse? Not a bad idea. I'd better do that."
He got up and walked steadily, if a little carefully, toward the bathroom. Shaking my head, I finished my dinner. When Bret got back, I handed him what was left of his sandwich, wrapped in a napkin. "Come on, we've got to go."
He reached for the beer. "You don't need that," I told him. "You've had plenty. Come on."
I hustled him into the truck and headed back up Old San Jose Road toward Steve Shaw's horse-training operation, a big old barn a mile outside of Soquel that all the locals called the Larkin place. Steve called it Riverview Stables and was trying to establish it as the classy boarding and training barn in the area. He specialized in Western pleasure and reined cowhorses; he'd been Cindy Whitney's trainer and he was considered the expert on Western-type show horses in these parts. He was also wonderfully handsome and lethally charming, a combination that appealed to many women, including me, I had to admit.
We drove down the hill that sloped to the barn, and even in the last light of the summer day, I could see the signs of lots of money being spent. The pastures were fenced with brand-new pipe fencing, there were neat, colorful flower beds around the barnyard, and the barn had a fresh coat of paint. Business was clearly booming.
Bret's eyes took in the scenery. "This is Steve's place," he said in a disgusted tone. "He's a real piece of work."
Steve Shaw was one of the few men I'd met who could outdo Bret in the looks department, and I grinned. "You're just jealous."
"I don't even want to see the little twerp." At six foot or so, Steve was considerably taller than Bret.
"Well, stay in the truck. I've got to see him." I climbed out of the truck, hoping Bret would stay, but I should have known better. He slithered right out after me, looking around at the big barn with its covered arena.
"Pretty nice place he's got. I used to shoe a few horses here, once upon a time. Steve and I don't get along real well, though." That was obvious.
I heard a door open in the house that stood on one side of the barnyard and Steve's voice called, "Come on in; I'm on the phone."
Bret and I walked in that direction. Four-square, stucco, from the fifties-the house was practical, solid, and painted a boring beige that was entirely in character, with a neat lawn bordered by flower beds. The front door was open, and we walked in.
Inside, Steve Shaw's house was equally conventional--white walls and ceiling, wall-to-wall beige carpet-and decorated like a typical trainer's home, with pieces of fancy tack and paintings of horses on the walls. There were lots of framed photos of a smiling Steve accepting a trophy, and even more photos of Steve looking quietly composed aboard various shiny horses. Bret gave them a disgusted look.
Leather-covered couches dominated the living room; a brick fireplace, a wet bar, and an expensive looking entertainment center-TV, stereo, VCR, and so on-covered the length of one wall. I settled myself on a couch. Bret stood over by the fireplace. We could hear Steve's light voice from the other room, assuring someone that there was "no problem, no problem at all."
A few seconds later, he mouthed some regulation closing phrases, sounding as if he was placating a nervous client, and a moment after that he stepped into the room.
As always, I was struck by his physical presence. Steve Shaw lit up any room he entered as though someone had thrown the switch on an incandescent bulb. Dark hair with a premature sprinkling of silver, astonishingly blue eyes, smooth tanned skin, and a lean, hard body didn't
Back at the table, I told Bret, "Eat up. We've got to go see a horse."
He looked at me over his beer. "See a man about a horse? Not a bad idea. I'd better do that."
He got up and walked steadily, if a little carefully, toward the bathroom. Shaking my head, I finished my dinner. When Bret got back, I handed him what was left of his sandwich, wrapped in a napkin. "Come on, we've got to go."
He reached for the beer. "You don't need that," I told him. "You've had plenty. Come on."
I hustled him into the truck and headed back up Old San Jose Road toward Steve Shaw's horse-training operation, a big old barn a mile outside of Soquel that all the locals called the Larkin place. Steve called it Riverview Stables and was trying to establish it as the classy boarding and training barn in the area. He specialized in Western pleasure and reined cowhorses; he'd been Cindy Whitney's trainer and he was considered the expert on Western-type show horses in these parts. He was also wonderfully handsome and lethally charming, a combination that appealed to many women, including me, I had to admit.
We drove down the hill that sloped to the barn, and even in the last light of the summer day, I could see the signs of lots of money being spent. The pastures were fenced with brand-new pipe fencing, there were neat, colorful flower beds around the barnyard, and the barn had a fresh coat of paint. Business was clearly booming.
Bret's eyes took in the scenery. "This is Steve's place," he said in a disgusted tone. "He's a real piece of work."
Steve Shaw was one of the few men I'd met who could outdo Bret in the looks department, and I grinned. "You're just jealous."
"I don't even want to see the little twerp." At six foot or so, Steve was considerably taller than Bret.
"Well, stay in the truck. I've got to see him." I climbed out of the truck, hoping Bret would stay, but I should have known better. He slithered right out after me, looking around at the big barn with its covered arena.
"Pretty nice place he's got. I used to shoe a few horses here, once upon a time. Steve and I don't get along real well, though." That was obvious.
I heard a door open in the house that stood on one side of the barnyard and Steve's voice called, "Come on in; I'm on the phone."
Bret and I walked in that direction. Four-square, stucco, from the fifties-the house was practical, solid, and painted a boring beige that was entirely in character, with a neat lawn bordered by flower beds. The front door was open, and we walked in.
Inside, Steve Shaw's house was equally conventional--white walls and ceiling, wall-to-wall beige carpet-and decorated like a typical trainer's home, with pieces of fancy tack and paintings of horses on the walls. There were lots of framed photos of a smiling Steve accepting a trophy, and even more photos of Steve looking quietly composed aboard various shiny horses. Bret gave them a disgusted look.
Leather-covered couches dominated the living room; a brick fireplace, a wet bar, and an expensive looking entertainment center-TV, stereo, VCR, and so on-covered the length of one wall. I settled myself on a couch. Bret stood over by the fireplace. We could hear Steve's light voice from the other room, assuring someone that there was "no problem, no problem at all."
A few seconds later, he mouthed some regulation closing phrases, sounding as if he was placating a nervous client, and a moment after that he stepped into the room.
As always, I was struck by his physical presence. Steve Shaw lit up any room he entered as though someone had thrown the switch on an incandescent bulb. Dark hair with a premature sprinkling of silver, astonishingly blue eyes, smooth tanned skin, and a lean, hard body didn't
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