Page 67 of You'll Find Out
Laughter danced in Ian’s faded blue eyes and his grizzled face showed his appreciation for Becca’s grim sense of humor. “Just leave Gypsy to me. We’ll be ready, come next spring.”
“Ready for what?”
“Whatever the competition can dish out. Surprise them, we will. Even the colts.”
“You think she can keep up with the colts?” Becca was clearly dubious and a cold chill of apprehension touched the back of her neck. The last time she had put a filly against a colt, the result had been a nightmare. Becca had vowed never to repeat her mistake.
“Of course she can. Not only that, she’ll outclass the lot of them. Just wait and see. Remember, we have the element of surprise on our side.”
“Not much longer. The first time she runs, the press will be there, digging up everything on Sentimental Lady.”
“Let them. This time will be different,” he promised. Ian gave Becca a hefty pat on the shoulders before he sauntered back toward the broodmare barn.
Becca’s gaze returned to the fiery horse. She wanted to be unbiased when she appraised the blood bay filly, but Becca couldn’t help but compare Gypsy Wind with her full sister, Sentimental Lady. Gypsy was built similarly to Sentimental Lady, so much so that it was eerie at times. Though slightly shorter than Lady, Gypsy Wind was heavier and stronger. Fortunately, Gypsy’s long, graceful legs were stouter than Sentimental Lady’s, capable of standing additional weight and stress. Her coloring was identical except that the small, uneven star which Lady had worn so proudly was missing on her sister.
Doubts crowded Becca’s tired mind. Maybe she had made a foolish mistake in the breeding of Gypsy Wind. The question haunted her nights. How was she supposed to know that the offspring of Night Dancer and Gypsy Lady would produce another filly, an uncanny likeness of the first?
As she watched the dark horse shy from a fluttering leaf, Becca wondered what Brig would think if he saw Gypsy Wind. She had asked herself the same question a thousand times over and the answer had always been the same. He would be stunned, and afterward, when the initial shock had worn thin, he would be furious to the point of violence. Still, Becca had hoped to someday proudly show off the Gypsy to Brig. New tears burned in Becca’s throat as she watched the dark horse and realized that Brig might never see Gypsy Wind. Brig Chambers might already be dead.
Becca let loose of the emotional restraint she had placed upon herself and cried quietly, feeling small and alone. She lowered her head to the upper rail of the fence and let out the sobs of fear and grief that had been building within her. Why had she never swallowed her stubborn pride and told Brig Chambers just how desperately she still loved him? Why had she waited until it was too late?
Chapter 2
The first gray fingers of dawn found Becca still awake, lying restlessly on the crumpled bedclothes. She snapped off the radio that had been her companion throughout the long night. The endless hours had been torture. There had been no broadcasts during the night to relieve her dread. She was numb from the reality that the only man she had ever loved might be lost to her forever.
The night had seemed endless while she stared vacantly at the luminous numbers on the clock radio, listening above the soft static-ridden music to the sounds of the hot summer night. Even in the early hours before dawn, the mercurial temperature hadn’t cooled noticeably, making the night drag on even longer. Though the windows of her room had been open, the lace curtains had remained still, unmoved by even the faintest breath of wind. Trapped in a clammy layer of sweat, Becca had tossed on the bed, impatiently waiting for the dawn. When she had finally dozed, it was only to be reawakened by nightmares of an inferno, a disemboweled Cessna, and the haunting image of Brig’s tortured face.
It was nearly six o’clock when her silent vigil ended. The familiar sound of a throbbing engine pierced the solitude as it halted momentarily at the end of the drive. At the sound, Becca rolled out of bed and quickly slipped into a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She pulled on her boots as she ran from her room, flew down the stairs, and raced like a wild-woman to the mailbox.
Her heart was thundering in her chest and her fingers were trembling as she opened the rolled newspaper. Anxiously her eyes swept the headlines, stopping on a blurred photograph of a ragged, weary-looking Brig Chambers.He’s alive,her willing mind screamed at her while her eyes scanned the article to confirm her prayers. Slowly the fear and dread that had been mounting within her heart began to ebb. “Thank God,” Becca whispered in the morning sunlight as she crumpled into a fragile mound at the side of the road and let the tears of joy run freely down her cheeks. “Thank God.”
It was several minutes before she could collect herself. She stood up and hastily rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes to stem the uneven flow. A tremendous weight seemed to have been lifted from her shoulders as she half-ran back to the house. She reread the article several times before finally opening the kitchen door. A wistful smile crossed her lips. She still felt sadness at the death of Brig’s father, but the relief in knowing that Brig was alive warmed her heart.
The newspaper article indicated that Chambers Oil was not, as yet, making a statement concerning the crash, although the rumor that there had been passengers on the plane was confirmed by a company spokesman. The names of the persons accompanying the oil baron on his tragic journey were being withheld until the next of kin had been notified.
Becca stared at the picture of Brig and wondered how he was. His relationship with his father had been close, if sometimes strained. No doubt Brig was immersed in grief, but she knew that he would survive. It was his way.
The aroma of fresh-perked coffee greeted Becca as she entered the roomy old-fashioned kitchen. “What are you doing up so early?” she asked Dean as she reached for a mug of the steaming black coffee.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Dean grumbled. He sat at the table, his forehead cradled in his palms. His sandy hair was uncombed and he had two days’ worth of stubble on his chin. It looked as if he had slept in his dusty jeans and T-shirt.
“You got in late last night,” Becca observed quietly. “I didn’t expect to see you till midafternoon.”
“I guess I’ve got things on my mind,” he replied caustically. He raised his bloodshot eyes to stare at his sister, and in an instant he knew that Brig Chambers was still alive. It was written all over Becca’s relieved face. “You got the paper?” he asked gruffly.
Becca nodded, taking a sip from her coffee as she sat down at the small table. Because Dean was being irritable, she purposely goaded him. “Do you want the sports section?”
Dean’s eyes darkened. “Not this morning.” He reached for the paper and began skimming the front page. Mockingly he added, “I’m glad to see you’re back to normal.”
“A pity you’re not.”
“All right, all right, I admit it. I’ve got one helluva hangover . . . Jesus Christ, give me a break, will ya?” His eyes moved quickly across the newsprint. “So Brig wasn’t in the plane with his father!”
Was Dean relieved or disappointed? Becca couldn’t guess. Her brother was becoming more of an enigma with each passing day. “Thank goodness for that,” she sighed.
Dean shook his head slowly from side to side, trying to quell the throbbing in his temples and attempting to concentrate. “Okay, so now we know exactly what we’re up against, don’t we?” His eyes narrowed as he ran his thumb over his chin. “The question is, what are we going to do about it.”
“I haven’t quite decided—”
