Ring of Fear

8

I'd no notion when we finally went to sleep. Who thought of wristwatches? But the morning sun slanting over the top of the windowsill through the beeches woke me. I had been so deeply asleep that for a moment I couldn't recall my whereabouts.

"Thank God tomorrow's Sunday," Rafe said close to my ear. His toes brushed mine as he arched his back in a joint-popping stretch.

"What difference does Sunday make?" I wondered. "Sun rises same as ever."

"I ignore the sun until noon on the Sabbath." Rafe threw back the covers-off me, too-and bounced to his feet. He looked down at me, a little reminiscent smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "I feel like ignoring the sun right now." He looked about to dive on top of me. I giggled. "Shameless hussy!" He didn't dive, but he had me in his arms again, his warm flesh exciting against me. But, as our chests touched, I winced. My breasts were tender. He put me from him with an oath, and there was absolutely no desire in the penitent kiss he placed on my cheek.

"Rafe?"

"We can wait. It's not going somewhere else."

With that cryptic remark he hauled me out of the bed, swatted me on the buttocks, and pushed me toward the shower.

"We gotta ride, and then I want to take you to the Locust Valley meet this afternoon at Charlie's place. That is, if you'd like to go."

"Is that where the Eldicotts are going?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to see them again especially."

"Thought you would. Old friends of my father's, and good friends of mine." Then he was off down the hall.

I showered quickly without steam effects, pleased I'd see the Eldicotts again and also watch a meet I didn't have to compete in for a change. I'd been going steady on that routine ever since Florida. But I'd plenty of points accumulated for the big trophies.

I have a tendency to forget time in a shower: I get pensive from the mesmeric beat of water on my shoulders. God knows the last few days-few days?-had given me a lot to think about. Incredible! I'd met Rafe only last Saturday, and yet, in some aspects of our days together, I felt I'd known him a great deal longer. Could I actually have met him when he jockeyed for Dad? And simply not singled him out of the gaggle of short men who drifted in and out of the Du Maurier paddocks? I shivered with erotic memories of last night. Unlikely that I'd have met Rafe and not remembered. No, now, Nialla, you'd've been twelve? Thirteen? You weren't noticing boys in that way… only horses.

I was also a little nonplussed that Rafe hadn't taken me again this morning. He certainly looked like he wanted to. I wouldn't have minded the hurting: it was perversely stimulating, I'd discovered. But if Rafe was considerate of me, he hadn't married me just for that. (I couldn't any longer use the contemptuous vulgar words with which I was used to referring to the sex act-not after being pleasured by Rafael Clery. "Pleasured"-that was exactly the right word, too.)

I ruthlessly turned on the cold tap. The sharp needles of water stung my breasts, and I turned my back on that. Neither Maisie or Sadie was I. Speaking of whom…

I was losing time ruminating again, and just as I stepped from the stall shower, there was a discreet tapping on the door. He was leaning against the jamb, a wistful expression on his face.

"I'm so sorry, Rafe. I get started thinking under a shower and lose all track of time."

"So long as you think of me," he said, pushing himself erect and speaking with an exaggeration that put me instantly in mind of a Rudolph Valentino movie.

"Of you, my lord, of you and no other," I replied with matching extravagance, and flourishing my hand to my brow, pretended to swoon.

"I have you in my power, my proud beauty! Must I be valet as well as lover?" quoth he, bending me back until my head nearly touched the floor. "But I won't have much power if I don't get my Cheerios!" he added petulantly, pulling me up and letting me go so suddenly I nearly fell. He steadied me, his eyes merry with our fooling.

We were both laughing as we went downstairs. I thought of last night's harrowing scenes and decided to forget them completely.

But there were too many reminders. Jerry, sleepy and disgusted, sipping coffee in the kitchen, waited to report that not a damned thing had happened last night. It was his opinion the blackmailer was just talking. Rafe reminded him that a slit girth, a blearing horn, and a barn fire couldn't be classed as "talk," and perhaps the absence of activity was designed to relax our vigilance.

"Ask Dennis to take over if these late hours are getting you down," Rafe suggested half-jokingly.

"His Sue Jan's baby-sitting this week for the Perdues," Mrs. Garrison said, turning from the pancakes she was watching.

Jerry grumbled something about a boy taking a man's job and said he'd sleep on it. I tried not to giggle, and heard Rafe clearing his throat, but Jerry wandered off, yawning, oblivious to the play on words.

After Rafe finished nine pancakes-and Mrs. Garrison's were not the chintzy restaurant size-I slyly suggested Cheerios and meekly endured her lecture on empty calorie foods and starving on a full stomach of such blown-up garbage. Rafe had to assure her I was teasing, and we both insisted that she sit down for coffee.

"Well, I could just tell something was going to happen last night, Mr. Rafe," she said, "and I was that scared it might be trouble for you and Miss Nialla."

Inadvertently my eyes met Rafe's.

"I don't mean to sound unfeeling about Mr. Marchmount-who's holding his own, I heard-but I guess it could have been worse. It's her's not well today."

Rafe's eyebrows rose in polite inquiry.

"Yes. Mamzelle said she was in a fine state of hysterics, carrying on about being disgraced and ruined all because Dr. Bauman insisted on taking Mr. Marchmount to Nassau County Hospital and making that Wellesley child go, too, and what would the Wellesleys think of her when they heard he'd been taken ill in her house. Taken ill!" Mrs. Garrison snorted contemptuously at the euphemism. "As if his people wouldn't know what that young feller's been doing, the way he dresses and all. As if they didn't know what she does now and again. My lands, how can people fool themselves… That photographer had left by then, hadn't he?"

We nodded.

"That's a mercy. And young Dennis had gone, too. I'm just as glad of that."

"And you think Dennis doesn't know about grass?" I asked before I stopped to think.

Mrs. Garrison looked at me, her lips firm with disapproval. "I expect he does, Miss Nialla, but he's got more sense than to use it. Grass is for horses to eat, not people to smoke."

I wondered if she had failed to catch an essential difference, but I wasn't the one and this wasn't the time to explain.

"I expect," Rafe said, grinning at me, "Dennis agrees with you, Garry."

"I should hope so. He's a nice boy. I know he was kept up pretty late bartending, but he was here right on time this morning. Oh, and Mr. Rafe, about those race types, Mrs. Palchi said there haven't been any at the house."

"Phone calls?'

"I told you about that, Mr. Rafe. Sam's to say Mr. Marchmount's not there, same as before."

"To work, to work," Rafe said, clapping his hands together. "We'll put the string through a quick workout and then run over to Locust Valley. Garry, can you put lunch forward to about one, one-thirty?"

"Of course, Mr. Rafe. It's going to be a scorcher, according to the weatherman"-and she wasn't too certain about his ability-"so I'd planned something cool and light, Miss Nialla. Doesn't pay to eat too heavy in hot weather."

"That sounds fine," I murmured, and Rafe and I left.

"While you were lost in that shower," Rafe said as we walked briskly through the still-cool morning air, "I called the hospital. Spoke to Urscoll and told him about your extortion call. His bosses can't fault him if Marchmount's involved, sidereally, as it were, and Marchmount, if he lives through this relapse, can't say they abrogated his confidence. But I'm not having my wife threatened, even as a fringe benefit for some ex-racetrack-tout. Meanwhile, back at the ranch"-and his arm tightened around my waist-"let's you and me concentrate on some steeds."

"Going to be a scorcher," Dennis said in greeting. He'd just finished grooming Orfeo in the passageway. Dice was watching, yawning sleepily. "He had a hard night, that one."

Rafe loosened the halter rope and led the gelding out into the sun, his hide gleaming with dark rosettes.

"He's stepping out well," Rafe remarked. "Dennis, move him about."

We stood and watched as Dennis ran with the gelding, but he was still, just a little, favoring the off-hind. Rafe took the lead from Dennis and gestured for me to look at the hoof. It was almost healed, the char all but gone from the sole and barely noticeable where the cinder had burned into the frog a little.

"He'll be as good as new in a few days," I allowed.

Rafe was communing with Orfeo; he didn't even seem aware I'd spoken. There was excitement in Rafe's eyes, and the hands that caressed my black gelding were as possessive and gentle as his hands on me. I felt a surge of conflicting emotions: jealousy, regret (Orfeo was my accomplishment), envy, irritation, impatience, unworthy feelings; I suppressed them. Orfeo was no less mine if Rafe rode and won on him, and I damned well couldn't chase him.

"Rafe, would you ride Phi Bete this morning for me? She needs some exercise, and I'd like you to try her," I heard myself saying.

Orfeo tossed his head, and I didn't see Rafe's expression.

"Well, since you ask me so nicely, I don't mind if I do," was what he said, and there was an odd ripple in his voice. And a kind of pleased smile on his face when Orfeo moved back.

Rocking Lady worked better for me this morning, though she seemed very spooky. Maybe it was me, for I was constantly craning my neck to see if Phi Bete was performing properly. (I mean, you can get awful silly about a horse you've trained, who's had only you on her back, to the point where it's absurd.)

"You ride that damned bay," Rafe muttered under his breath as we were walking the jumpers after a steady round, "and let me ride your precious darling." The deep smile on his face belied the words. He reached over impulsively and kissed me on the lips, right in front of the delighted Dennis. He patted Phi Bete's curved neck, too. "She's as beautifully trained a jumper as I've ever sat, Nialla. You can be proud of her. And stop worrying. I need you to take the rough edges off that bay bitch."

"You're sure… "

"Stop frowning. I goddamn well don't put the Clery seal of approval on any spavined ring-boned blown hack simply because I married her owner." What he didn't say-"It's Orfeo I want your permission to ride"-hung as clearly to me in the silence as if he had spoken the words. And, for the life of me, I couldn't see why I had any hesitation in offering.

We worked the grays next, until all four of us were sweating heavily. The weatherman had been right, and by eleven the sun scorched hot through the heavy humid air.

"Let's call it a day, Nialla. I feel stewed in my own juices. And the jumping will be hot at Locust Valley. We ought to go watch awhile. You may be riding against some of the winners later on."

Dennis appeared to take the sweating horses from us, listening carefully to Rafe's instructions about cooling them.

I seemed to have spent a good portion of the last week in a shower-far better than a pail in the ladies'-but this time I made a conscious effort to stick to cleaning and rinsing, without deviation.

I'd have to improve if I wanted to beat Rafe, for he was tapping at the bathroom door, black hair still wet but sleekly combed. He also looked disgustingly cool in a tissue-thin blue jersey pullover and elegant walk shorts, twirling ebony-framed sunglasses in one hand. He presented me with a matching pair.

"Reduce the glare. Charlie's place usually has a nice breeze, but there's not much air stirring on the island today."

Charlie's place happened to be one of those huge estates that still boast ten-foot, glass-topped concrete walls. Only a discreet sign in gay-nineties printing, "Horse Show," gave any hint of the doings those walls hid.

We turned obliquely left, before the drive that led to a gorgeous Georgian brick mansion, past an elaborate swimming pool glimpsed through screening rose arbors, around the estate's stable complex, before we came to the open fields with the usual appointments of horse trailers, cars, people, horses, temporary rings, children, and even a mobile sandwich truck.

Some events were already in progress as Rafe stopped at the improvised box office of card table and elderly gatekeeper. The loudspeaker was urging Numbers 18, 23, 36, and 72 to come to Ring Number Four, if you please!

"Nice to see you holding up after last winter, Willie," Rafe said, handing over money and accepting two programs.

"Hot weather's good for me, Mr. Clery. It's the cold bothers my chest."

"Ought to be hot enough today."

"Just right. Just right," the old man agreed, mopping his brow.

As the Austin-Healey made its low, slow way over the rough ground, I suddenly wished I were on horseback among all these strangers. Rafe's chuckle, pure devilment, distracted me.

"This'll be good. George's here."

"George?"

"Uh-huh. One of the top jump trainers in the world. Look at him! Flaunting enough ribbons to set up a shop!"

I followed his gesture to the big blue horse van whose side doors had been rigged with a line on which hung an impressive array of reds, blues, and damned few lesser shades. Two youngsters were sitting in the camp chairs, bootless legs stretched out, fanning themselves. Four pink hunting jackets and several plain linen ones hung on a bar across the back of the van.

"George runs one of the best jump clinics on the East Coast. He's got young hopefuls from all over, saying yes-sir and no-sir, ready to swallow their pride and their fathers' almighty dollars to qualify for Madison Square or Chagrin Valley. God, there are some people who'll make a racket out of anything."

"George?"

"No!" Rafe seemed almost annoyed, not realizing that his aspersion was ambiguous. "The prestige-seekers, the status-claimers. 'My kid won a blue jumping at Broken Tooth.' Takes all the joy 'out of it."

The one clump of shade by the larger of the two iron-picketed rings had been preempted by the show officials. They had even moved the equipment from the loudspeaker truck, which would have been a glass-walled steam bath.

Four separate rings were in operation, I realized, looking over my program as Rafe parked the car on the far side of the ring and began to study his. There was a small ring beyond the main field for the pony classes, a huge meadow with five substantial hunt-class jumps, and the one permanent ring, set under some magnificent oaks, where flat riding was being judged. One could see the dust clouds, at any rate, and the spectators were standing well back from the railing. I wondered that the judges could see a thing in such smog.

"Ray just informed me," the announcer informed the county, "that unless 18, 36, and 72 are at Ring Number One gate in one minute, Class 23 will be closed. What's that? Oh, well, we'll give her one more minute to change tack." Then, sort of off-mike, "We're not giving them enough time between classes, Ray."

Just as Rafe suggested that we drift around, someone hailed him. I was delighted to see the Eldicotts coming over. They were such a handsome couple, bearing gracefully the years which Iona Farnham and Wendy Madison tried to deny.

"Anne, you sneaked away far too soon last night," Rafe said, kissing her hand and then shaking Steve Eldicott's.

"Just as well, I gather," Steve replied in a dry voice.

"Oh?"

Anne Eldicott smiled reassuringly and patted Rafe's hand, for he hadn't released hers. "The show is a gossip kettle, Rafe. They'd make soup from a stone. They'd have it that the Herrington estate was raided by narcotics agents last night, and half a dozen people were rushed to the hospital. That's the worst you'll hear. Ran into Ted McCormack, and he told us that Lou had a mild seizure."

Rafe gave her a long look. "Lou's heart is bad, and he did have a seizure last night, and Bauman rushed him to Nassau County. He's holding his own."

"Bob Wellesley has heart trouble, too?" Steve asked, his expression very bland.

Rafe began to chuckle. "Bob, you might say, has heart trouble, too. Faith."

"Hope and Charity," mocked Steve.

"We really were sorry we couldn't stay longer last night," Anne told me, without seeming to change the subject. "Rafe's one of our favorite people, so very much like his father."

"And all the time I thought it was my winning personality."

"Ha!" said Steve with a disparaging snort, then addressed me. "Pure self-interest on Anne's part. She's an inveterate gambler, and used to treble her betting fun every time Rafe rode."

Rafe cast a despairing look at Anne. "It wasn't my big blue eyes?"

"Sorry, chum," Anne said with an unpenitent grin. "Have you noticed that Korlin is still trying?"

Rafe looked around, spotted a tall, graying man warming up a chestnut. "He'll never make it on that bay. I keep telling him bargains in horseflesh aren't bargains if you're after jump trophies."

We walked along the rail, seeking a spot that gave us the best view of the set jumps. The entries were by now all assembled, and the first contestant did her round. The Eldicotts knew most of the entrants. There was a preponderance of younger riders in this open class, all hoping to win enough points to qualify for the events in the bigger regional horse shows, and finally Madison Square, come November. Some of the kids were good; certainly all were well-mounted.

"One of George's," Rafe said to me as a girl trotted by on a well-bred dark dappled gray with an uncommonly white mane and tail. "How can you tell?"

"Look at George." He pointed across the ring, where a man stood, arms on the top metal strap, intently taking the jumps with the contestant. When the girl made a flawless round, the man relaxed but did not smile.

Although Rafe and the Eldicotts chatted about mutual acquaintances and training troubles, I never felt left out, though I had few comments to offer. We were all interested in the class's progress. The judge's indecision between the two first-place contenders was exactly mine. He asked them to switch mounts. The gray moved out as well for the boy as for the girl. She had to keep the boy's mount well in hand, for the chestnut showed an inclination to refuse, which she thwarted with nice leg work. She took the blue. George's face seemed to indicate that there'd been no question at all in his mind. And then I saw the second-placer joining George's small knot of adherents. His rather flat voice carried across the ring as he discussed the class, gesturing from one rider to another as he remarked on the aggregate performance.

The announcer was calling another class, juniors sixteen or under, limit only. It was a large class, half the kids nervous and communicating it to their mounts. The raw-boned bay was almost on me before I recognized the colored Tomlinson headstall and saw Bess Tomlinson's daughter go by.

"I thought I'd find the bride and groom here," called a cheery voice. I whirled to see Bess herself bearing down on us. As usual she had one freckled arm loaded with bangles. They cut into my back as she embraced me warmly. She really did seem pleased, too, her grin threatening to split the biggest freckles on her cheeks. "By God, you look a thousand percent better already. If Rafe hadn't been taking good care of you…" Her threat trailed off. "Anne, you look disgustingly young; how's Jeffrey?"

Mention of this person seemed to dampen everyone's spirits.

"Jeff's just fine," Steve replied, but Anne's gentle smile and Steve's stock reply told me that "just fine" wasn't all

that good. "Your girl up on old Majority?"

"Yes. I try to keep her out of the game, but she's determined to compete with her old mother."

There was a kind of taut determination in the lumpy girl's straightly held shoulders.

"I used to think excitement followed Rafe," Bess was saying to me, "but you manage to gather a fair amount of it yourself. Recovered from the fire? How's that leaping fool of a Juggernaut?"

"Juggernaut? Thought he went to glue years ago," Steve said.

"No, as a matter of fact," Rafe said in the manner of someone who's held on to a surprise, "he's up at my place. Nialla is actually a white witch and worked a spell on him. On me, too. But she jumped him to a blue at Sunbury…"

"You were in that fire?" Anne exclaimed with concern. "Oh, your legs and arms." She could now admit she'd noticed them.

"The girl's a real heroine," Bess went on proudly, and launched into a reasonably accurate account of the fire and my part in it. All the time she had one eye on her daughter.

"Actually, if Rafe hadn't come to my aid, I'd never have got Orfeo out," I said, obliged to tone down her exaggerations.

"Rode the damned horse's head to keep the blanket on,"

Rafe added.

"Did you lose any stock?"

"No horses."

"But a lot of peanut butter," Rafe put in with a straight face. "And all her clothes and tack. I got me a bride with only tatters to cover her…"

"I'd've thought you'd remedy that," Bess said outrageously. I didn't dare look around. "However, Rafe Clery, you did get Juggernaut and that sweet-moving sorrel mare. Say, they haven't discovered who killed old Pete, have they? And what's all this about Lou Marchmount taking an overdose of drugs? I saw him with Wendy in charge at the Marshalls'." Bess grimaced. "She was put out…" Bess broke off, her eyes flicking to mine, and she flushed. "Oh, good girl!"

We all concentrated very intently on the jumping.

"She is still letting him crowd his fences," Bess said with a dismal groan. "And she wobbled all over the saddle on the hurdle jump. If she'd lose ten pounds, she'd be able to get her thighs into the saddle properly. But that doesn't get you off the hook, Clerys," she continued, jabbing Rafe in the shoulder with a bony forefinger. "Girth cut, horn blaring, barn burning… not to mention old Pete with his head broken. I don't believe that hogwash about spontaneous combustion, either."

"Bess, you're a love, and I promise not to compete against your string all summer, but I can't give you answers I don't have," Rafe said, his expression grim.

Bess looked at his arm around my waist and raised her sun-bleached eyebrows.

"Well, I see you're intent on guarding your own interests and counsel. Just remember, I stood up for this girl, and I dislike having my arrangements broken."

"Mrs.-Bess"-I corrected myself as she glared at me-"was my matron of honor," I told the Eldicotts, who were politely hoping for an explanation of something. "D'you know, she brought me her veil and flowers?"

"D'you blame me for rushing Nialla off her feet?" Rafe said, giving me a rather shameless leer.

"If she's got that black jumper, no. You always swore you only needed a chance at him to get him working properly," Steve said. "I admit I thought Brader would take your offer. Six thousand was a damned good price for that beast, considering his manners."

Six thousand? I'd paid forty dollars for Orfeo because that's all I had on me that day. And I expect that the farm who'd been holding Orfeo for the knackers considered that a bargain for taking a near corpse off his hands.

"Steve!" His wife regarded him with mock horror, then smiled at me. Had my face revealed something? "You'll make Nialla think Rafe's mercenary."

"As far as horseflesh is concerned, he is," Steve said in a succinct fashion, softening by the smile he gave me. "However, I think he's met his match on all points in Russ Donnelly's daughter." Steve frowned then, his eyes. going from my face to Rafe's, but whatever he thought, he said nothing, although from time to time he watched me intently.

I'd been genuinely glad to see Bess Tomlinson, but her questions, however well intentioned, only brought back the shadows which the show had briefly banished.

"Gawd, it's boiling here. C'mon, Nialla. Spot you to a Coke," Rafe said when the judges had announced their decisions.

Bess's girl had a fifth-place ribbon and looked rather put out. She'd had stiffer competition here, though, since it was a class in equitation rather than the horse's performance.

"That'll knock Madam's yarn," Rafe. chuckled as we got out of earshot of the Eldicotts and Bess. "Though why she wanted to be at the wedding is beyond me."

"She didn't go to the others?" The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. Rafe looked perversely pleased.

"No indeed. But then," he told me in a bland voice, "I've never been to any of hers." His arm linked through mine, and he matched my stride. "Bess is worried about you, dear heart. People do, you know, besides me. And the Eldicotts really like you, or they'd have stayed away from us today. They tend to keep to themselves."

"Why? Because of this Jeff?"

Rafe's glance was warmly approving. "Jeff's their only child. We used to go to the same school till I got 'asked to leave.' He's a paraplegic from Korea. I drop in now and again."

And that was all he wanted to say on that subject.

He stepped up to the counter of the mobile snack truck, greeting the older of the men working there, chatting as he waited for the Cokes to be found in the cooler. Rafe couldn't be as unconcerned over the rampant gossip about us as he appeared. I mean, it might not matter to the Eldicotts, who had problems of their own, or Bess Tomlinson that his wife was obviously connected to some fatal incidents. But this business-as-usual might be misconstrued as indifference. And last night's episode, while scarcely any fault of mine, made me feel a real Jonah.

"There's a time, Nialla, when you don't look for more problems," Rafe said, handing me the Coke with a flourish at variance with his serious advice. He tipped his bottle back for a long swallow. "Boy, that hits the spot. Hotter'n the hinges of hell here." We moved to the shadow cast by a big horse van. It wasn't any cooler, but the sun didn't bite my shoulders and arms.

"I should have known Bess would be here, and her usual games-mistress self. But nothing will affect her opinion of you." He chuckled, because he knew he'd read my mind a-right. "Dear heart, I know you, inside-out-side-hindside-nearside. And that’s why we're at a show today. It's the only thing will take your mind off what's bothering us both. Also"-and he glanced around us- "we're in a big, safe crowd. And if you think I'm going to leave your side for a moment, you're wrong."

I wasn't just imagining it: there was affection in the depths of those disconcertingly blue eyes. Damn the six thousand dollars. It wasn't because of Orfeo.

"So let's divert ourselves for another half-hour and then go home and eat. Unless you'd rather pick up a hot dog here. Garry won't mind."

I looked at the snack truck and then at the people milling around. Somehow this place seemed safer than the quiet Dower House for all the gates and the guard dogs.

"Of course, it's damned hot, and the house is air-conditioned. We can leave here anytime. You want to go swimming or something? Come to think of it"-and there was astonishingly enough a shade of apology in Rate's rueful admission-"I don't remember to ask what you'd like to do."

"You don't have to-mind-reader."

He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, and evidently the matter was settled, for he suggested that we see what the Hunter Class was doing, all gussied up in pink coats (they must be boiling), breeks, hunting boots, whip, gloves, hat, saddle accessories. They were waiting in the ruthless sun for the judges to check the appointments.

We managed to get some shade from the high hedges in the corner of the hunting meadow, Ring 4. And, watching the contestants stretching their horses over the ground between hurdles, I did manage to forget the omnipresent shadow of fear. I didn't connect the slowly approaching

police car with my involvement, even when it pulled up near us.

"Clery! Hey, Clery."

I didn't react to the name the first time, because I wasn't used to thinking of myself as a Clery.

"Well, if it isn't Bob Erskine," Rafe said, nodding pleasantly to the heavyset police officer who heaved himself out of the back of the sedan. His badge said "Sheriff," and that's how he was introduced to me.

"Sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Clery"-he must take lessons from my mother-in-law-"but I've a few questions to ask you."

"Thanks all the same, Bob. You don't need to assign a man to protect Nialla."

"Protect,.." Erskine floundered momentarily. "I'm talking to your wife, Mr. Clery. Are you Irene Nialla Donnelly, otherwise known as Nialla Dunn, and did you reside in San Fernando Valley at Merrymount Estate?…"

The noon-high sun could not thaw the chill that sprang from the pit of my stomach and spread rapidly to my hands and feet.

"I'm not sure I like your tone of voice, Erskine," Rafe said in a dangerously soft one.

I caught Rafe's hand, his fingers contracting around mine, instead of into a fist. I wouldn't let his hand go.

"I was Irene Nialla Donnelly, and I have used the name Nialla Dunn in the show ring," I said quickly. The cold receded rapidly before the anger I felt toward this paunchy bully, sweating in the hot sun. "I did reside in San Fernando. Why?" I felt Rafe relax at the crispness of my counter question.

"Seems like you left without notifying the authorities in charge of investigating a murder."

"I did leave California after my father's murder, that's true. But I also had been thoroughly interrogated by the police and left a signed statement with them. No one told me I couldn't leave the state, and so I'd no idea I was committing any kind of crime or misdemeanor."

"I didn't say you was-"

"You didn't say it," I replied, grabbing Rafe's hand again, and staring back at Erskine without wavering. "But your 'questions' imply it. I know that Detective Lieutenant Michaels has been in touch with you, so you must be aware of the facts."

"Now, there's no reason to get-"

"Isn't there?" I demanded, imbued with unexpected confidence and cool. This man was not one whit different from the disagreeable bullies who had harassed me in California. Only I wasn't a fool any longer. "When you accost me here, at a sports event? If you knew I was Mrs. Clery, then you knew the rest, Sheriff Erskine. Believe me, I am quite willing to cooperate with the authorities. Ask Detective Lieutenant Michaels. But I really do not think that this is the time or the place."

"Doesn't that about cover it, Erskine?" Rafe asked, using that soft dangerous tone. "Or should I ask Korlin to step over here a moment? He's right over there." And Rafe jerked his head back toward Ring 1, where the next class was lined up to enter. "You have more official questions? My wife will answer them, but since she has not broken any law by being the victim of planned accidents and an extortion attempt, the time will be convenient to her and her attorney. Now, good afternoon."

Rafe swung me back toward the ringside and began to comment on the form of the rider then approaching the stone fence in the far corner. I could feel fury in the shadow the Sheriff cast over us. It seemed an age before we heard the car door slam and the squawking of power steering as the auto backed around and bounced away over the rough ground.

"Rafe…"

"Nialla"-and for the first time he sounded impatient with me-"Bob Erskine is an officious oaf, hanging on to his office by the tips of his hairy fingers. Half his precinct is drug-ridden, from the college kids experimenting with electric punch to the upper-income brackets tripping on esoteric compounds. He can't touch the one because the campus goes up like a rocket. He can't touch the others because they consistently buy either him or the judge off. All the fervent puritans in the township and the narks in Mineola are breathing down his neck. But he can't pull that kind of a law-and-order arrogance with me-or you." Then he smiled at me. "You couldn't have answered him better."

"Those answers I have."

I'd felt unusually secure (for me) while I was actually confronting the Sheriff, but now, in reaction to the tension, I needed to find a ladies' room fast.

"The house isn't open," Rafe told me when I asked, "but I know there's a John in the stable. I'll show you."

We were halfway there when Rafe was hailed by the McCormacks. He urged me to go along to the stable-it was only a couple of hundred yards farther up the track.

I found a gay-nineties-style sign of a hand, the index finger pointed toward an open door at the back of the stable. The whimsy amused me. I entered a wide, cobbled passageway with six loose boxes along the right. On the left a double-barn door was barred from the inside, but at the end of the corridor was a second hand-sign pointing to the L of the stable. Two horses stuck their heads out of the stalls to investigate me: a rangy bay and a timorous gray. I made my duties to them, and they whiffled in response.

The John itself was a long narrow room, undoubtedly constructed for another use entirely but now serving as lavatory, kitchenette, and animal dispensary. The toilet was an original, same vintage as the hand signs, complete with upper water tank, pull chain, and golden oak trimmings. I had, as a matter of habit, thrown the bolt on the door, so when the handle rattled, I called out that I'd be only a minute. There was no reply, and I guiltily remembered monopolizing the one good toilet at Sunbury. I completed my use of the facilities and opened the door. To my chagrin, there was no one waiting in the passage way. It might have been a child with a far more urgent need…

Hands grabbed me from behind, fingers pressing into my windpipe with brutal strength, shaking me off my feet so that I fell to my knees, too startled to cry out with what breath remained, too terrified to do more than claw at the hands that were choking me.

"High and mighty, are you?" The words were no more than an anonymous hiss on a garlicky repellent breath. "Think you're safe with high gates and dogs? Too big, are you? Unless you pay up, you'll never be safe!"

I heard another voice, someone calling-calling me?-just as I passed out.

When I came to, I was propped in Bess Tomlinson's lap, her bracelets jangling in my face. Rafe was bending over me; he looked white and strained. My throat felt as if it was torn out, and hurt enough to make me wish it were. I couldn't swallow, and even air hurt in my throat, and I wanted to cry, and the air was stifling.

"Easy, darling." Rafe's fingers curled around my wrist, firm and gentle. "You'll be all right. Don't try to talk."

Which was fine by me. Bess Tomlinson's hand kept smoothing my hair back from my forehead, her charms jingling in an oddly comforting fashion. Her hand was very soft and cool. She used Ma Griffe perfume, and that reminded me of the sour-hay smell, the acrid odor of wool and sweat I'd smelled as my assailant was strangling me.

Someone came along the passageway at a run, followed by others moving with equal haste.

"The guy got away, Rafe," a man said, gasping for breath.

"Get a good look at him?" "At his back, yes, but nothing I could swear to." "Was he wearing a cap?" "Huh?"

"Think, man! Was he wearing a cap or a hat?"

"Hell, I didn't see. I was running!"

"Here, move away now. You, too, Rafe!" I stared up at Dr. Bauman's worried face. He was sweating under a patina, of tanning oil. His hands were considerably more gentle with me than they'd been with Lou Marchmount or Bob Wellesley.

"I've been summoned in many ways, but not by a Paul Revere before," he said wryly as he turned my head very carefully from side to side, running fingertips lightly along my neck. "It'll hurt, but can you swallow, Mrs. Clery?"

I could, but the effort brought tears to my eyes. He patted my shoulder.

"No obvious damage to the thorax that I can tell, Rafe, but she's going to have a sore, bruised throat for a few days. Let's get her out of here." He rose, and his shirttails extended down thin hairy legs. As he gestured people out of the way, I realized that he did have on a bathing suit, but the total effect gave me the urge to laugh, which hurt, and the tears just flowed down my cheeks. “Here," the doctor said, "you two muscle boys, give us a hand."

I grabbed for Rafe's hand, and he had me up in his arms before the doctor could finish organizing assistance.

"Here, now, just a moment. What's going on here?" the rasping voice of Sheriff Erskine demanded.

"Someone just tried to strangle Nialla Clery," Bess Tomlinson replied in a disgusted tone. She stepped forward, an arm outstretched to make room for Rafe and me, but the Sheriff blocked the way.

"Now, just a moment. Where are you taking her?"

"Home, you damned fool," Bess answered.

"Not before I hear what happened," Erskine said, taking a stance.

"Out of the way, Bob," Rafe said in that very quiet voice that made Erskine shift his feet.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Bob," Dr. Bauman exclaimed with exasperation. "Look at her throat? She's been strangled half to death. She damned well can't talk. Bess probably saw more than Mrs. Clery did, anyhow. Fellow grabbed her from behind…"

"Grabbed Mrs. Tomlinson?" the Sheriff asked.

*No, you idiot, Mrs. Clery! She's the one got strangled."

I clung to Rafe, burying my face in his neck.

"I had to use the loo," Bess said in a rapid voice, but she was furious with Erskine. "When I got inside, I heard odd scuffing, and someone choking, so I called out. Some of the kids eat too much junk from that snack truck. I thought someone was sick. Then I heard someone slamming through the other door, and by then I'd seen Nialla."

"And yelled bloody blue murder," a young man spoke up. "I was coming up the road, so I took off after him. Only I thought it was just a purse-snatcher or something. I'd've run faster if I'd known, but God, in this heat…"

"I'm taking Nialla home," Rafe said, and angling my feet past the Sheriff, carried me out of the stable, through the small crowd that had gathered.

"My car's here, Rafe," Bauman said.

"Fine by me," Rafe answered in a grim tone. "Keep your head down, Nialla," he added as he bent to slide into the front seat. It was a big car, so there wasn't much bending necessary.

It was also air-conditioned, for which I was intensely grateful. The cooled air was easier to breathe. I clutched Rafe, knowing a desperation I hadn't felt since the day after Dad had been killed and the police had ruthlessly questioned me, trying to find a motive and suggesting reasons, each more infamous than the last.

Would I ever live normally again? Could I ever be alone without being terrified-even in such a simple act as going to a John?

I felt Rafe's lips on my cheek; then he raised my hand to his mouth, the arm around my shoulders tightening reassuringly. What had he got himself in for when he married me? A lifetime job as a bodyguard?

The way the trees and telephone lines flashed by, the doctor must drive like an acid-head, but there was very little motion to be felt inside the big Lincoln, and the air-conditioning muffled exterior noise.

We were facing the gate in next to no time. The doctor cursed modern technology, and a blast of hot air hit me before the gate was swung open and the doctor had driven us inside. Safe! "Safe behind high gates and dogs?"

The sneering whisper made me squirm in Rafe's arms. He tightened his grip, and I relaxed. I was safe behind high gates and dogs. I was!

There was a minimum of protest from Garry after her initial outburst, but her face was very angry as she and Rafe bundled me into bed. Then the doctor was swabbing my arm, and I tried to protest. Because suddenly I didn't want to be asleep, unconscious, absolutely vulnerable behind high gates and with dogs!

"I'm not leaving this room," Rafe said, holding my free hand.

I started to shake my head, but it hurt. I tried releasing his grip. He mustn't feel he was tied to me. I was safe. I'd make myself believe I was safe, but whatever existed between us would sour if Rafe felt tied to me.

More coherent thought, not that I was thinking straight then, was impossible, for whatever the doctor had pumped into my arm worked with speed.

I woke, my throat parched, my tongue swollen, my neck a band of sore fire. There was a weight across my chest, and another at my feet. I cried out, or rather, a strangled sound left me. There was a grunt in my ear and a prrroww at my feet.

"What's wrong, Nialla?"

The weight across my chest moved, and Rafe propped himself up on his elbow, smoothing hair from my face.

"Thirsty." How he could understand that croak, I don't know. Perhaps it was only logical I'd be thirsty. At any rate, a sliver of ice was popped into my mouth.

"It'll hurt to swallow, love; let the ice melt in your mouth and trickle down your throat." He gently adjusted the pillow under my head so I was higher.

The lump across my feet stirred, and Dice's eyes glowed as he queried me again.

"Damned cat sat and pounded on the living-room window-with his nose, no less-until Garry heard and let him in. How in hell did he know?" Rafe's low voice was rippling with laughter. Another ice sliver was poked through my lips. The first had gone too fast to do any good, but the cool and the wet of the second began to relieve the awful desert of my mouth. Then a cold moist cloth was laid gently on my neck. I exclaimed at the contact, but held it there when Rafe tried to remove it. It felt good after the initial shock.

My eyes were used to the dark now, and I could see Rafe shaking his head, his lips in a grim line.

"Don't try to talk, Nialla. See, Dice? She's all right," he told the cat, who walked up to check anyhow, his cold nose touching my ear. He sniffled at my eyebrow (I never have figured out why my brows fascinate Dice), gave it a lick with his rough tongue, and sat down at my shoulder, purring like some mad motor. I tickled him under the chin, and the purr went up three decibels.

"You approve, sir?" Rafe asked, and snorted when Dice meowed, a raucous noise in the quiet of the room. "Damned cat all but speaks English."

I opened my mouth, but Rafe popped more ice in before I could get throat to work on making a sound.

"I told you, no talking, Nialla, that's an order." He gave the tip of my nose an admonitory push. "However, I can appreciate your thirst for information. No, we have not caught the assailant. Yes, you'll be all right in a day or two. Nothing in your throat broken, though I don't imagine you believe me." Then he chuckled, only it wasn't his usual amused chuckle: it was a nasty one. "You'll be interested to hear that Bob Erskine is furious that you could be attacked while he was still on the premises, so to speak. He had half a dozen men there in record time, searching the woods for the intruder. They didn't find anyone, of course." Rafe's voice conveyed contempt and anger. "Goddamnit." And he gave the mattress a closed-fist pound. "I'm right there, and you nearly get killed."

I shook him by the shoulder, and when he turned to me, pulled his head so I could whisper in his ear.

"Blackmailer. Wanted to scare me. Wants to be paid! I'm safe here, behind the fence, with the dogs."

I had to repeat some of it twice, but when Rafe did understand, he was madder than ever.

"Pay? He'll pay! He'll pay for every moment he's made you miserable. Just wait till I get my hands on him! We'll see who pays! It was Caps Galvano, wasn't it?"

"Who else could it be?" I whispered. "His breath was horrible!"

I wanted to laugh at Rafe's rejoinder, but I couldn't. Dice was rubbing his head into my cheek sympathetically, and then, prrrowwing earnestly, jumped down and made his way to the door, where he stopped and prrrowwed more quizzically.

"And you expect me to get up and let you out?" Rafe asked. "You've got one helluva lot of gall, cat."

Dice agreed affably, making an umbrella hook of his tail as he waited for action. His prrroww turned more acid, and his tail switched impatiently when Rafe refused to move.

"He wants to get back to Orfeo," I whispered, pushing at Rafe.

"I am not a cat butler," Rafe cried, even as his feet hit the floor. Dice bounced away, ahead of him, down the stairs. I heard the door slam as Rafe emphasized his disgruntlement with the exercise. His heels pounded on the bare floor as he stalked back to bed. But he was chuckling as he resettled himself beside me.

"Wish that damned cat did speak English. His conversation is more to the point than most people's. More ice, Nialla?"

I shook my head, and then he pulled me into the curve of his shoulder.

"Get some more sleep, dear heart; it's only two." A huge yawn interrupted him. "God, you're getting old, Clery," he told himself.

I tapped his chest to indicate disagreement, and felt the chuckle deep in his chest as he turned to look at me.

"I'm not getting old?" He kissed my fingers. "Not with you in my bed, at any rate." He shifted his body slightly and closed his eyes.

It wasn't very long, it seemed to me, before he was asleep, for the arm around me got heavy as the muscles relaxed completely, and his breathing was slow and shallow.