Ring of Fear

1

I don’t know whether it was the June sun’s heat or sheer blinding fury that made me sweat so. Sweat, not the “glow” that ladies are said to show. Like that heavy-handed, brass-haired, buck-toothed society lady on her flashy, hammer headed black horse in the line in front of me, cool in her crisp yellow linen jacket and clinging pipe-stem hopsacking pants. (She must be either bowlegged or calfless.) Could the Sunbury County Fair judges see that the black gelding’s gaits jarred every bone in her body? (How did she keep that smile on her face?) My mare, Phi Bete, had floated so easily through her paces in this Ladies’ Hack Class, and simply hadn’t been noticed. Not with the black pulling stunt after stunt, being “expertly” controlled! (He hadn’t half the wits Phi Bete had.)

It wasn’t fair, I thought bitterly, the sweat dripping down my nose now, my hands swimming in the heavy leather gloves. The white shirt was plastered to my back, because the wool jacket, suitable for winter riding, was the only one I had. (I’d seen Mrs. Flashy-Black in three other outfits so far, and the show was only two days old.) She didn’t need the prize money, and she was taking hay from my horses and peanut butter from me.

Hay bills and Skippy notwithstanding, I had to admit that she was a good rider… even if Phi Bete was the better horse. Certainly as far as confirmation went. Would the judges consider that in the final totaling of points? And Phi Bete’s gaits were as smooth as glass.

The judges signaled all contestants into the center now, and the black cavorted, snorting. Oh, the judges wandered about, appropriately frowning in deep thought. They nodded sagely to each other. I wondered which was the local banker… there always is one asked to officiate if he knows which end of a horse wears the bridle. The thin man with the sad eyes looked like a coroner, but it was the character in the puttees (and he wasn’t ancient enough to have worn them in the First World War, so where did he find them?) who was to be reckoned with. The thin man made a show of considering his verdict, but he finally nodded, and then, of course, the third one-his silvery hair denoted senility, not sense-made the decision unanimous.

Couldn’t they see that the red ribbon of second was going to clash with the sorrel coat of Phi Bete? Not that she cared. But I did. The blue ribbon looked well against the black’s cheek, but the $150 prize money would have looked better in my bank account than second’s $75. Ho-hum, pull the girths in again, Nialla Dunn. You’ve been done in. I grimaced, unappreciative of my own feeble attempts to improve my humor. I managed to turn the grimace into a grin, for the thin judge was congratulating me. It’s very difficult to give the proper picture of good sportsmanship when you’re biting, your lower lip to keep from crying. The rangy gray got the yellow, and the bay had the green fluttering from his bridle.

We winners trotted smartly around, and there was great applause for Mrs. Flashy-Black. I couldn’t help myself. I kept trying to see Dad’s face somewhere in the crowd as I circled. It was silly. But sometimes, I’d see someone whose shoulders also tilted to the right, or the set of a head of curly gray hair, or his way of standing, hip-shot, or a chin jutting in the same belligerent way. But Dad was dead… horribly dead… would I always see the pitchfork swaying, its tines soaked red?

Suddenly a face did stand out from that anonymous mass of mouths and bodiless heads. A short man, in a brilliant blue-ribbon blue body shirt, standing up on the empty end of the bleachers, his legs spread slightly, hands in the slot pockets of his tight black breeches. I’d an impression of delighted amazement, blue eyes, black wavy hair under the white-grass Stetson… and his delight was for my mare! Then we had trotted past.

I was wondering why that one face should catch my attention… probably the color of his shirt… when Phi Bete snorted, tossed her head back at me, and slid to an abrupt halt. I shook my head and realized that the single file had slowed to go out the gate. Phi Bete had her mind on her work, at least. Mrs. Flashy-Black’s friends were complimenting her in droves, crowding around her as she held her horse’s bridle, smiling toothily for her picture. Someone, as Phi Bete and I trotted smartly past her, was stupid enough to approach the black’s rear. Naturally he lashed out, and there were shrieks and oaths and scurryings.

I had to rein in, but I didn’t dismount. It was eminently satisfying to look down on the lesser breeds, gawking and ahing at the exhibits and us Olympian creatures. I could feel safe and superior on Phi Bete’s back.

It was disconcerting enough to have to go back to the stifling reality of G-Barn. I should have expected inferior quarters, of course. An unknown with a two-horse string, a battered trailer and station wagon, no money to grease the fairground steward’s favor for better accommodations. And yet I’d been given D-Barn at first. Did D really sound that much like G?

G-Barn faced south, its T-shape backed against an old granary’s concrete shell. It caught the sun all day long, with nary a tree to shade the sprawling roof. In the back stalls where I’d placed Phi Bete and Orfeo-we had the barn to ourselves-the darkness deceived you into thinking cool.

There were still empty stalls in D-Barn. But once Budnell, the steward, had seen Orfeo, and worse, remembered him… Orfeo couldn’t help that. For one thing, I’d made such a point of unloading him so that his docility would be noted. Noted, yes, but not trusted. I’d even heard the mutter of astonishment when the noble beast followed me, lead-less, his long full tail switching placidly at the June flies, toward the reassigned G-Barn. I’d heard all the tales of Orfeo’s viciousness from the Poiriers, and from astounded hostlers all the way from Florida. The jaws that bit, the claws that snatched-that description applied to the old abused Juggernaut, not to my mild, loving Orfeo.

Well, we were alone, and the small practice ring was right handy to G-Barn. I off-saddled Phi Bete. She was barely damp, though she’d worked hard in that ring for her lousy red. Gratefully I removed my jacket and hard top hat; both were soaked. I pulled my shirt from my pants to let the wind loosen the wet hold on my back. I slipped the bit from Phi Bete’s mouth but left the bridle on, the measly red rayon flapping at her cheek. The bit tinkled pleasantly as I walked her. By the time she was dry, I was somewhat drier myself. Phi Bete drank deeply at the trough, slobbering affectionately down my breeches. Oh, well, I’d have to sponge them anyway before this afternoon, and she was a sweet-tempered dear.

All our horses were good-tempered, because Dad didn’t… I stopped that line of thinking, but it was hard. Hard not to be able to remember him, even after a full year, without bitter, bitter hurt. One day I’d find his murderer. One day I’d make him pay for that death… and the little death in me. Marchmount’s smug face… No, not that memory, too!

“C’mon, useless nuisance,” I said to Phi Bete, and her ears wigwagged at the sound of her name. I jammed the red ribbon in my pocket and gathered up the tack. It was a hot walk in the full sun all the way to the front of the barn, so I led the sorrel to the rear door. As I passed my ancient station wagon, Eurydice sprang alert,, all twenty-pounds of raccoon-marked Maine cat, subsiding with mock incivility. He’d known who was approaching all along.

“Catch any good meeces?” I asked him.

He told me all about his morning’s labors with well-chosen phrases and flirts of his eloquent tail. Then he jumped out of the back of the car on some errand of his own. Nialla Dunn was back in charge. Dice was off duty.

I was looking over my shoulder, amused by the undulating curve of his insolent tail, so that I didn’t even see the man until I crashed into him. Phi Bete’s hooves clattered on the cobbled floor, because she was startled, too. Orfeo’s head came up, ears forward, and he farruped softly before resuming his private meditation.

“I beg your pardon, miss. I was just admiring the transformation in old Juggernaut.”

“His name is Orfeo!” I said with more annoyance than was necessary, and then I saw who it was. The short, dapper man from the stands. And he stood head-even with mine.

“And you were his Eurydice?” he asked with a grin of such charisma that I stared at him a moment.

“Nnnnooo.” I slipped past him as fast as I could. He looked the type who pinches. Short men do take odd ways of manifesting masculinity, most of them offensive.

By leading Phi Bete past, I forced him up against the box stall. I saw his apprehensive backward glance at Orfeo.

“He certainly has changed, ma’am,” Shorty said with commendable aplomb. “Last time I saw him, he was trying to sample a hostler’s hand for breakfast.”

“There’s nothing hungry about him now.” I slipped the bridle from Phi Bete and held sugar to her lips, reassured by the velvet caress as she daintily nibbled her reward. She had plenty of good timothy hay. At least I got my money’s worth on that. You had to be careful about hay. Dad used to bring his with him whenever he did the track circuit.

“Seeing’s believing, but I had to see it once I’d heard he was here,” the man admitted, lifting his hat to scratch his wavy hair, the picture of bucolic incredulity.

He grinned again, his blue eyes twinkling in the friendliest way. “Can I spot you a cup of coffee and learn the secret of your success?”

I was suddenly very conscious of my sticky clothes, of my bra showing through the damp shirt, my sweat-dried hair, although he wasn’t looking at me that way. He was looking me square in the eye, and we were eye-level, though the stall separated us. I wondered if he found such parity as unusual as I did.

“You should have taken the blue, you know,” he went on, “but Bess Tomlinson has to win her quota to hold her head up at the country club. And with her string, if she doesn’t get ‘em early in the season, she’s out of luck!”

“Which of the judges is she married to?” He laughed at my cynicism, and it was a real laugh, not one of those social whinnies. He laughed with his head back, his mouth wide open, so I could see he had very few fillings in his even white teeth. If I’d been buying a pony stud, he’d ‘ve been a bargain.

“I don’t think she sleeps with the Colonel,” he said, his eyes gleaming with pure malice for a moment, “but…”

I couldn’t go on standing there in Phi Bete’s stall, but I really didn’t know what to do. I certainly didn’t want to get chummy with any circuit riders. Dad had warned me against that long, long ago. You made your appearances in the show ring, not the bars and the fancy night spots near the shows. And you took care of your stock, not your libido, or you became fair game for everyone. I couldn’t suppress my involuntary shudder, and Eager Blue-eyes caught it.

“You haven’t had any trouble with the Colonel, have you?”

“No. No.” But I would glance toward Orfeo, for I knew that the Colonel had been in the steward’s office when I checked in. And it was apparent that the Colonel had been judging shows long enough on the East Coast to recognize that “fence-swallowing, man-eating” black gelding Juggernaut.

“Give you any trouble with Jug-Orfeo? Sorry, habit.”

I’m not the kind to jump to conclusions and point fingers, but I was so sure that the steward had originally told me D-Barn. Then he’d come out of his office in an awful hurry to correct me, and the Colonel had been in there.

“Yes,” Shorty said sourly, “he did.” Then he jerked his head toward Orfeo’s cocked hip. “He is reformed?”

I took my opportunity, left Phi Bete’s stall, and slipped into Orfeo’s, crooning to him as I always did, though, Lord knows, he was smart enough to know that I was the only person who ever entered his stall.

Orfeo arched his neck and ducked his head around, his deep eyes warm and loving, his scarred lips pouting out with old lesions nothing would heal. My hand, running up the gleaming black hide, slid across old spur and whip scars, up the curved muscular neck that gelding hadn’t thinned. I always felt smaller-and bigger-next to Orfeo. Small because he was a giant of a beast, like those in medieval days who could carry a knight in full armor all day; and big because I, Nialla Donnel… Dunn (one day I’d stumbled over that name aloud) had tamed the volcanic fury of the poor benighted creature.

Then Shorty was in the stall beside me, and his voice seemed to have dropped two full notes, to a deep affectionate murmur. He ran his hand fearlessly along Orfeo’s rump. It was a short-fingered, wide-palmed hand, a strong hand; the fingers were well-shaped, the tips sensitive, the nails pared neatly; an odd hand for a man like him, somehow, a contradiction. A man like him? I scarcely knew him. But I wanted to.

He talked to horses the right way. I stood at Orfeo’s head now, and he nudged me out of the way to look back, with idle curiosity, at this brave mortal. Orfeo farruped softly… acknowledgment? welcome? approval? And then, displaying massive equine indifference, Orfeo bent his head to lip up hay. As he began to munch, his eyelids drooped contemplatively.

“Yes, ma’am, I never would have believed it,” Shorty said, the grin on his lips echoed by his eyes.

Dad always said to trust a man whose eyes smile when he does. I suddenly realized that I hadn’t seen any smiling men for a long time. Shorty backed respectfully out of the stall and looked at me expectantly through the upper bars.

“Coffee? Or, in this weather, iced coffee? Coke? Right out in public, too!” The grin was crooked, and the smile didn’t light up his eyes as much. In fact, Shorty suddenly looked as wary as I felt. “God in heaven, what’s this?” he cried, jumping back and glancing down.

Dice announced his presence with a loud satisfied “brrow” and leaped effortlessly to Orfeo’s rump.

“Don’t tell me,” the visitor begged. “That… that mountain lion… is Eurydice, which, I might add, is a misnomer,” for he glared at me, aware of the cat’s maleness.

I giggled. I couldn’t help it. He was funny. He was even… cute. Though that’s a word I hate, and highly inappropriate for this short blue-eyed man who could not be described by a single convenient adjective.

Now he cocked his head to one side as if he, in turn, found me cute… and funny. Then I realized something else. He spoke in various twists of accent, but he knew what good speech was, and he had pronounced “Eurydice” correctly. Not “Ur-dis” or “Err-you-dice,” but “You-ri-di-che” in the proper Italianate fashion. The man was a contradiction. An intelligent, educated circuit rider?

“Who led whom out of hell? And which hell?” he asked then in a complete change of tone. He had jammed his fists against the elegant hand-stitched belt that held up those body-clinging peg-legged breeches on his no-hipped frame. I noticed something else about him at that level and quickly looked up, anywhere but at the telltale and extraordinary bulge.

A sudden flood of curses, horse squealings and thudding hooves, the slap of a crop against flesh, and a chorus of suggestions distracted us both. Someone was using the practice ring outside G-Barn. Phi Bete snorted a soft question, her ears working back and forth, but old Orfeo took no notice of the ruckus.

“Hey,” exclaimed Shorty, his eyes glinting oddly, “can anyone manage him now? I mean, I know I could step inside the stall, but you were at his head…”

“He’s perfectly manageable and trustworthy.”

That grin again, disarming me of my caustic mood.

“Even with me?”

“Yes!”

Without seeming to move with any speed, he was in the stall, telling Dice to get down, untying the halter rope, pressing against Orfeo’s chest to angle him into the far corner of the box so he could lead him out head first.

“No, you watch,” he told me, pointing to the window at the end of the cross-aisle. “It’ll be more fun to solo.” There was no answering twinkle of amusement in his eyes. He was dead serious and strangely grim.

Stepping jauntily, he led my gelding up the deserted corridor between the hot and empty stalls. As soon as he turned to the main door, I hurried to a dust-fogged window and rubbed a clear space. He must have recognized the voices, or the brand of curses, for the anger made the voices anonymous. But there was the putteed Colonel and Mrs. Flashy-Black up on an equally raw-boned hunter who was clearly dissatisfied with the exercise. Two other men leaned over the railings of the small ring, and an assorted number of fringe observers lounged in the shade of the oaks by F-Barn. Then, even the hunter seemed to freeze.

The Colonel, sensing that he’d a rival for everyone’s attention, cut off his directions and turned. The shock on his face quickly turned to tight-lipped anger. With puttees, how else would he reflect anger manfully? Mrs. Flashy-Black’s mouth dropped open, and she let up the savage hold on the hunter’s mouth. He took the opportunity to pull her half down his neck as he got the bit between his teeth. Of course, he wasn’t upset by Orfeo’s leisurely stroll to the watering trough, but every other witness was.

No one said a word as Shorty stood while Orfeo snuffed over the water. The horse wasn’t thirsty, but he stood, politely, switching at importunate flies with his beautiful full tail. You always knew what Orfeo was thinking by his tail movements. They were as good a gauge of his temper as Dice’s. Shorty looked nonchalantly around and then shrugged a “you-can-lead-a-horse-to-water-but…” and led Orfeo back in.

I could hear him suppressing his laughter all the way down the aisle. In fact, I wonder he didn’t choke on it, for his eyes were tearing when he slapped Orfeo’s rump affectionately as the gelding plodded back into his stall and resumed his chewing.

“Could you see their faces?” He was doubled up with an excess of mirth. “I’ll stand you a drink… Scotch, whiskey, champagne. Worth it. Worth it! Shut Colonel Melvin T. Kingsley up in the middle of Lecture Number Forty-two. And you did it…” Then he stopped, stared at me. “I don’t know your name. I haven’t picked up a program yet.”

“Nialla… Nialla Dunn.” I’d almost goofed.

“Nialla? A good tinker name for a horse-handling witch! C’mon.”

He clipped one warm, strong-fingered hand under my elbow, and I have never been more conscious of a square inch of my own flesh than that moment. As if he sensed my reaction, he removed his hand and gave me a quick searching look.

“It’s a cup of coffee, Miss Dunn, not an invitation to rape!” And though he spoke flippantly, there was a hint of defensiveness in his tone. “The name’s Rafe Clery… a fellow mick and horse-coper.” Evidently he could turn on the charisma-as he did now-instantly, and the flicker of deeper emotions was gone.

“I am thirsty,” I admitted, covering my embarrassment by nodding toward the gelding. Then I walked quickly up the aisle so he wouldn’t have an excuse to touch me again.

The main refreshment tent was scarcely conducive to any refreshment, for the canvas trapped the heat, and the heat trapped the people there in a sort of trance as they waited for watery franks, dry sandwiches, lukewarm beer, tepid soft drinks, and limp potato chips., Two cubes of ice withered in my container of coffee as I looked at them. The cardboard was hot in my hand. Before I could get it to my lips, Rafe had it out of my hand and was grinning at a harried counter girl. In moments it was back, crammed to the brim with ice. A turkey sandwich appeared before me, too, and because I was starving for something besides peanut butter, I didn’t mention that he’d suggested only a beverage.

“You’re brave, you know.”

“Hmmm?” The dry bread threatened to go down the wrong way.

“Brave to go the circuit alone. I assume you’ve just the two horses,” He looked somewhere over my head, concentrating. ‘That means, to make ends meet,” and suddenly that impish grin lurked in his eyes as he glanced at the turkey hanging out the end of the sandwich. He meant to pun “meet” for “meat.” “… You’ve got to place in all the competitions here, in every show, including the Jump Trophy at the Garden.”

I nearly choked. He reached across the table and casually thudded me between the shoulder blades with such expertise that the bread descended.

“I left the crystal ball at home, but you’d be a fool not to try, with a leaper like Jug-Ooops, sorry-Orfeo. If I had one who could clear anything in sight, and I’ve seen him go over pickup trucks, I’d try for the big prize, too. Only I haven’t got an Orfeo, and I’d be three kinds of a fool to pit any horse in my stable against him. He does still jump like he used to, doesn’t he? Or did that go?”

My eyes were watering from coughing and choking, and I still couldn’t speak.

“Take a couple of deep breaths,” he suggested amiably.

I did. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Well?”

“He’ll jump anything.” And my voice was patchy. He handed me the coffee, and obediently I took a big swallow. The icy stuff was soothing. “You know, he’s awful fast, too.”

Rafe grinned sardonically. “I don’t think anyone ever bothered to find out. It was usually a question of staying up and holding back rather than urging him on.” He paused, his eyes unfocusing. “Though there’s a look of speed about him, for all that bulk.” Then he looked at me, blinked, and seemed to be measuring me against some unknown gauge. “No! You haven’t breezed him, have you?” And his eyes dropped to my hands. He covered his face with mock dismay. “Goddamn, you know,” and he was suddenly eager, “with his speed and stamina, he’d make one helluva steeplechaser.” He caught my look and began to shake his head emphatically. “Miss Dunn, you’d never get a man up on him, not with his reputation.”

“He’s changed!”

Rafe Clery gave a derisive guffaw. “I have to admit to witnessing a minor modern miracle, but his angelic disposition is going to take a lot of publicity before anyone else believes it. How did you do it?”

“I didn’t. Dice did.”

“That mountain lion?” He gave me a sideways look of pure skepticism. “Ah, c’mon. No feline could mesmerize that black piece of unadulterated-sorry-could make him as gentle as a kitten. Even one sired by that lion of yours.”

“Dice helped, but it was a case of winning his trust.”

Rafe snorted. “What’d you do? Hold his hoof to keep the ghosties away?”

That was far too close, but the ghosties had been mine, not Orfeo’s. “You should have seen his mouth. And his poor tongue. I don’t know what they crammed into his jaw, but it must have been something from an inquisition. And his head…” I shuddered.

“I don’t need the details. I’ve got a vivid imagination, and remember, I knew him ‘when.’ Oh, don’t glare at me, Miss Dunn. And don’t demand why I didn’t try to stop it. I did. But you ought to know that the ASPCA has only just started slapping wrists for ‘blistering’ walking horses. Some of these small-town judges don’t know when a horse has been ‘treated.’“ His face was grim and bleak. He had altered again. I’d hate to get on the wrong side of this small man. As abruptly, he was grinning again. “It restores my faith in humanity to see a good horse in good hands. Where’d you acquire the mare? She’s well bred.”

“Phi Bete’s been mine since she was foaled.”

“Yes, I thought she looked misused.”

“Fer chrissake, boss, I been looking all over…” said a voice behind me. Rafe Clery looked up, his face assuming the mask of another role.

“And now you’ve found me.”

“Hells’ bells… ah, excuse me, ma’am,” and a look from his employer made the lanky rawboned hostler touch his hat in the almost lost gesture of courtesy.

“Miss Dunn, my head stableman, Jerry MacCrate.”

“How do, miss. Bartells is at the steward’s office, boss. I know you wanted to see him. I’ve been combing the barns for you. And you know who I saw in G-Barn?”

“Yes, a black jumper named Orfeo.”

“Huh? That wasn’t…” The man was so astonished that I almost laughed outright.

“That was Orfeo, Jerry, no matter whom he resembles.” Rafe Clery’s voice was not raised one decibel, but his order was received, loud and clear. He rose, shoving silver under his sandwich plate. “You’re jumping the mare in Ladies’ Hunter Hack?”

I nodded.

“And Orfeo tomorrow?” He grinned a little absently. “See you.”

Then he strode away, the lanky groom following, obscuring his employer’s slighter figure. I watched as the two went across the paper-carton-littered grass toward the steward’s field office. No, Rafe Clery didn’t swagger or strut. He walked in quick strides, and Jerry MacCrate matched his step to his boss’s.

“You finished, miss?”

I was startled from my observations by a party of five hot and tired people, hopefully glancing at my table. Hastily I rose. If they hadn’t come, I’d’ve scooped up the unfinished sandwich from my host’s plate. Dice could have had turkey for dinner. He must be tired of mice. But I couldn’t with ten eyes watching me, so I regretfully departed. If you’re hungry, you shouldn’t be so proud, I told myself. But I was. And that’s all there is to it.