Grant stroked his hands down Wellington’s neck. “I’m deuced annoyed, too, boy. In more ways than one.” Irritated that he missed half the jumps today and irritated because he missed Freddy. Missed her now in the moment but more so missed the promise of her in every day of the rest of his life.
He rubbed Wellington’s nose. The silk of his old friend’s hair offered small comfort. A bit of Grant had been carved out, leaving him empty.
Perhaps he should ask Freddy to continue their affair and play a long game of seduction. Show her he meant to tame his life to one fit for a family through time and action. Because that’s what he’d determined to do. What he realized now he had to do. When Freddy had left him behind in the park, he’d died then and there. No horse needed; no fall necessary. Just the stark, gently sloped lines of her shoulders and the steel of her spine. Just those little girls looking at him with sad eyes over their shoulders, waving. His. All three of them.
He couldn’t have them if he was determined to die in a blaze of glory. But why shouldn’t he welcome that blaze if Freddy wouldn’t have him?
He raised his hand once more and jumped onto Wellington’s back. “Again.” Because he needed to feel the ache of overwork, the exultation of victory, the evidence that hard work and patience did indeed pay off.
At the other end of the arena, the trainer readied Apollo.
Grant’s muscles tightened in preparation and groaned in misery, but he locked them down. They would not own him today. He gave the signal.
“Wait.” Garrison stepped into the arena. “Come down from there, Webster.”
“Damn me,” Grant hissed under his breath, grip tightening on the reins. Garrison meant to bicker, and Grant would oblige him, but his apprentice was out with a broken arm, and Grant would have to perform both acts tonight. He needed to get this right. And if Freddy came like he’d asked her to, he wanted her to see him shine.
He glared at Garrison. “I’ve missed five out of twelve jumps. I have to keep on till I get it right consistently.”
“You’ve missed more than you’ve hit because your ankle is precariously close to breaking,” Garrison said. “You need to rest it. If William hadn’t hurt himself, I’d be putting him in tonight instead of you.” He approached Wellington with a cube of sugar on his palm. “You agree with me, don’t you boy.” He lifted a glance at Grant. “You should agree with me, too. Do you want to perform in a week? A year?”
“You know I do.”
“Then you must take proper care of your body now. You must listen to it, or you will run it down. You will—” He snaped his teeth together.
“Die? As my father did?”
A tight nod from Garrison. “Yes. I tried to convince him to take it easy, too. He had you to think of after all. Aches and pains lead to mistakes, and—”
“Mistakes lead to death.” And Freddy didn’t want him to die. He couldn’t blame her. The pain of his father’s death still knocked him breathless some days. Bridget and Izzy … would they feel the same one day, thinking of their father? If he convinced Freddy to marry him, and he fell, died too soon, would they then carry that same grief for him? Two small chests carved hollow by two losses.
Damn. He could not hate Freddy for thinking of her girls’ happiness. He wanted them happy, too.
“Death. Exactly.” Garrison lowered his voice. “Become my partner and reduce the number of shows you appear in by half. You’ll make just as much because the audience will come on the only days they can see you perform, and you’ll perform better because your body will be happier.”
Grant turned away from him, did not dismount Wellington.
“You cannot live forever, Grant, but why do you wish to die early?”
Because he no longer had a forever to live for. He had wanted Freddy there, and she had said no. And with good reason because he could die.
“Is there nothing … no one … you wish to live for, Grant?” Garrison patted Wellington’s rump and turned.
Grant collapsed forward onto Wellington, Garrison’s words echoing in the amphitheatre.
Is there nothing … no one … you wish to live for, Grant?
Freddy. Bridget. Izzy. He wanted to live for them.
He jumped off Wellington and hurried after Garrison.
Garrison turned around and lifted a brow. “Well?”
“I think I have some papers to sign.”
Garrison slapped him on the back. “’Bout time, son.”
About time. Yes. About time, too, to give the woman he loved what she needed, what she craved from him, to assuage her fears and start a life together. Life. Not death.
