Sylvie's Cowboy Read online

  “I can’t stop thinking about what you said at the match the other day about shooting that sweet polo pony. You didn’t really shoot him, did you?” Her tone said she was certain Dan was too good-hearted to harm any furry friend.

  She was wrong about Dan, of course, but he refrained from remarking that if he had not murdered that useless animal, it was only for lack of convenient opportunity. Instead, he steered the conversation onto a tangent. “Oh, that’s right! You wanted to sell me a horse, if I recall correctly.” He delivered the line in a manner calculated to make Sylvie think he had waited all his life for the chance to pay her large sums of money for whatever she chose to offer.

  Sylvie winked at Walt and cranked up her salesmanship performance for his benefit. “Well, Danny, I do think you could always use another one, especially a good one—and we breed some beauties out here at our ranch.”

  Walt mimed, We?

  Sylvie waved him off. “When can I show you our fabulous thoroughbreds, Danny? You’ll be happy with any horse you get from us; we guarantee it.”

  Walt mimed, No WE don’t!

  Dan decided if the way to Sylvie’s heart was through her ponies, he might as well take a shot. “Why don’t you bring your best pony out to the Polo Club next time you come. Let me look him over. Maybe we can make a deal.”

  “Super!” she said, aiming a look of triumph in Walt’s direction. “I’ll do it. You won’t be sorry. See you next weekend.”

  “I look forward to it,” Dan said in what he thought was his seductive voice. “ ‘Bye.”

  “ ‘Bye.” Sylvie hung up the phone and leaned back, reveling in the foot massage.

  Walt’s hands slid across her ankle began to knead the muscles of her lower leg. “Why do you keep on with this horse trading nonsense? Let me handle ranch business. You have a job now.”

  “Do you realize that if I really apply myself to that job, even become a partner with Clarice someday, I’ll be able to afford a penthouse apartment, and a car like I used to have,2 in only three thousand years?”

  “Is that what’s important?”

  “You got something against selling horses, McGurk? I thought that’s what you did here.”

  “I live here,” he said. “Or I had a life here up to now. I had friends. I had clean air and sunshine, food and shelter, things I enjoyed doing. People I could help and people who’d help me if I needed it. God blessed me with things I never coulda paid for. Can you understand that?”

  He stopped kneading, took his hands off her legs, and drew back to look at her. “Y’know, when Helen died, Harry finally realized that making money ain’t the most important thing in the world. He learned it the hard way. Then he tried to teach it to you, but I guess after all those years of boarding schools and living like strangers, it was too late for him to tell you anything.”

  “And it’s definitely too late for him to teach anybody anything now, isn’t it,” Sylvie said coldly. “Tell me this: If he was so smart about making money, what happened to it? If it was so important to him to make it that he deprived me of a father when he was living, wouldn’t it be fair for me to at least get the money after he was dead? But no, I lose both times.”

  Walt stood up, leaving her alone on the sofa. “You ain’t heard a word I been sayin’. You’re here now. Start fresh. For your own good, I’m telling you: Forget that old life. Forget Harry’s money.”

  “No. I’m going back someday. Harry made it. I’ll make it, too.”

  “Have it your own way. You always did.” Walt left her in the living room, retreated to his bedroom, and shut the door.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - THE TRADER

  The following weekend found Sylvie at the Polo Club in her diaphanous best dress, standing near Walt’s pickup truck and a one-horse trailer. Maude sat beside her in a rhinestone-encrusted collar, tethered to Sylvie’s arm by a hot pink leash.

  At the rear of the trailer, Dan Stern examined a mahogany-colored, glossy polo pony.

  Sylvie was making her sales pitch. “He’s Florida born and bred—and you know that means strong bones and healthy muscle from all the minerals in the soil and grass. He’s smart, too.” She searched for something more to say. “And such a pretty color! You don’t have one that color, do you, Danny?”

  Dan was saved from having to respond to that when Maude suddenly barked and zipped away, taking the leash with her.

  “Maude!” Sylvie cried. “Maude, come back here!” To Dan she said, “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

  Maude raced through the crowd of grooms, wranglers, and players milling about on the sidelines of the polo grounds. Barking happily, Maude leaped upon the tight-fitting polo pants and sleek riding boots of Walt McGurk.

  Walt knelt down to greet her, and Maude licked his face. “Well, hello to you, too!” He picked up the trailing pink leash. “Shouldn’t there be somebody on the end of this?”

  “There certainly should!” said Sylvie, panting from the chase. “Maude, that was very naughty!”

  Walt gathered the puppy in his arms, stood, and handed her to Sylvie. “Y’see?” he said. “Some females find me irresistible.”

  “Maude’s a notoriously bad judge of men. She hates Danny Stern, for instance.”

  “Good dog!” said Walt.

  Sylvie looked back to where Dan was now leading the mahogany pony back into its trailer. “Speaking of Dan, I’ve got to get back. ‘Bidniss,’ as you say. Wish me luck.”

  “See ya after the match?”

  “Absolutely. You can help me count my money after I’ve sold this horse.”

  “I’ll help you get him loaded to take back home.”

  Sylvie poked her tongue out at Walt and hurried back to her horse and trailer.

  ...

  Mid-afternoon found the two teams on the field and the stands filled with spectators. A referee blew a silver whistle and a veddy, veddy British announcer boomed over the public address system as the players began leaving for the far sidelines.

  “That concludes the third chukker and the first half of this afternoon’s match. Ladies and gentlemen, you are invited onto the field for the traditional divot stomping. Children under twelve are invited to visit the wooden pony being set up at mid-field and try their hand at hitting the ball into the practice goal for prizes. We hope you are enjoying this beautiful afternoon at the Palm Beach Polo Club.”

  Sylvie and Maude were among the spectators who emptied the stands to move onto the field. Maude was only one of dozens of expensive dogs participating.

  While spectators stomped divots on the field, weary players and horses recuperated on the far sidelines. Dan Stern toweled off after dousing his head and face with cool water. A groom held the water bucket and extra towels while watching the children at mid-field lining up and taking turns on the wooden pony.

  When Leslye approached, wine glass in hand, Dan tossed a towel at the groom, dismissing him with a gesture. “Three to three at the half, Les. We’ll take them in the second.”

  Leslye raised her glass as if in salute to the children at the wooden pony. “Someone should teach them there’s more to the game than hitting a ball.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “Do you suppose the little tykes understand the profits to be made, Danny?”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Perhaps you could give a seminar on Wednesdays after school. Some of these children probably don’t even know what a bookie is, Danny.”

  “Shut up, Les. I said we’ll win this match, and we will. It’s a matter of personal honor.”

  “It’s a matter of personal safety, if I may say so. I no longer have the reserves to get you out of debt if you lose.”

  Among the crowd of divot stompers on the field, a spot of yellow caught Leslye’s attention. Windbreaker Man was stomping with the best of them. Leslye reacted. “It’s impossible! It can’t be! Look, Daniel! Look, there! It’s him!”

  Dan turned to scan the crowd where Leslye was looking, but Windbreaker Man had already disappeared. “Where
? Who is it? I don’t see anybody.”

  “He was there!” Leslye insisted. “He was right there, and now he’s ... he’s gone. But I was so sure. It’s impossible.”

  “Who was there? What’s impossible?”

  Leslye turned a pale face toward Dan. “I swear I just saw Harry Pace,” she whispered.

  “You are really drunk.” Dan dismissed her and walked away.

  ...

  By the end of the fifth chukker of the day’s match, the two teams were tied at four to four according to the scoreboard.

  The sixth and final chukker began.

  Dan Stern took the ball downfield, getting set to score a goal that would clinch his team’s victory.

  Walt McGurk came alongside to defend.

  Dan was determined not to lose another time to the cowboy. As their horses ran flank to flank, Dan pretended to swing at the ball and instead jabbed his mallet between the forelegs of Walt’s galloping pinto.

  “Not this time, Dogpatch,” Dan growled between gritted teeth.

  Walt’s pinto crashed end-over-end, taking his rider with him, churning the grassy turf into a furrow.

  Dan yanked his horse away and feigned dismay at the terrible accident.

  The crowd moaned. Women shrieked. Officials and wranglers rushed onto the field to assist. The players of both teams backed off to the far end of the field and waited.

  Walt lay motionless in the grass where he had been thrown. A few yards away, his beloved horse thrashed about, unable to rise from the ground.

  The Brit announcer spoke solemnly. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is one of those unfortunate accidents that make polo the world’s most dangerous sport. The doctor and officials are quick to respond, however, and emergency medical technicians are standing by at the end of the field should their assistance be required. Let us maintain quiet for a moment until the doctor can determine the gravity of the situation. Rules require that if a player loses consciousness, he may not resume play in this match.”

  The doctor and two officials knelt beside Walt, who was indeed unconscious. Momentarily, he revived, and they helped him to sit up. The crowd cheered.

  Three grooms surrounded the injured animal. One of them left the horse, walked to Walt’s side, and said something solemnly.

  Walt nodded slowly. With help, he stood and limped to where the pinto struggled, unable to stand. Walt gestured to someone on the far sidelines. The doctor and officials left the field, and the referee spoke into a field-side telephone. Walt knelt beside the fallen horse, held its head, and stroked its neck comfortingly. He seemed to be talking softly, trying to calm the animal.

  Sylvie was frozen in her seat, clutching Maude as if life depended upon it. She didn’t even know she was crying. If asked, she wouldn’t have been able to say whether her tears were for the man or the animal. She only knew her stomach cramped, her throat was congested, and her eyes were inexorably fixed on the fallen horse and rider.

  The announcer broke the stunned silence that had settled over the stands. “Ladies and gentlemen, the player is, fortunately, not seriously injured. However, the doctor has invoked the loss-of-consciousness rule, and Walter McGurk will not play the remainder of this match. The loss of a nine-goaler like McGurk is critical in a match as close as this one, and it appears—”

  He stopped abruptly as an official returned from the far sidelines with a pistol. Walt took it from the man.

  The announcer continued, in hushed tones. “Oh, how unfortunate, ladies and gentlemen. This valiant polo pony has been seriously injured in the fall. Please maintain quiet a moment longer while we wait for further word on his condition.”

  Utter stillness covered the crowd. The flags atop the grandstand seemed to thunder against the unnatural silence as they flapped in the wind. The faces of all the players on the field had turned to stone. Sylvie Pace had stopped breathing.

  Walt gently placed the animal’s head down on the grass and stood. He pointed the pistol, trembled, then steadied himself. A gunshot resounded across the field. Echoes of the pistol shot gradually died away until only the flapping of the windblown flags atop the grandstand could be heard.

  Walt, dejected and in physical pain, was helped from the field by two men. Quickly, a team of grooms maneuvered a truck with a lift gate onto the field and removed the dead horse.

  In short order, a substitute rider had taken Walt’s place on the field, and the two teams faced off, prepared to resume play. Daniel Stern could not keep a mild look of triumph off his face.

  In the stands, Sylvie began breathing again with a sob. The crowd around her had taken their seats soon after the initial shock of the accident. Sylvie realized she alone remained standing. She sat down, clutching Maude and staring with tear-blurred eyes at the player who limped toward the team locker rooms without looking back.

  Distantly, she heard the announcer say, “Ladies and gentlemen, play is resumed.”

  …

  Inside the team locker room, a man was waiting beside a massage table when Walt limped through the door, supported by a groom. Walt clutched his left side as the groom assisted him onto the padded table.

  “That’s all right,” the waiting man told the groom. “I’ll take it from here. Thank you.”

  Walt didn’t even look up. He heard the groom leave the room and the other man close the door. The man wore a yellow windbreaker, and when he began removing Walt’s polo shirt, Walt finally looked at his face. “What are you doing here?”

  Harry Pace answered him without stopping his ministrations. “Right now I’m counting your ribs, if you have any left. How could you let Stern pull a stunt like that?”

  Walt gasped in pain when the polo shirt was wrenched over his head. “I’d have taught him a stunt or two of my own if they had let me back in that match.”

  Harry prodded at Walt’s ribcage, where picturesque bruises were already blooming. “No dice, son. You were colder than a mackerel for a minute there. You don’t get to finish the match after you take a hit that puts your lights out like that.”

  Without warning, Harry pounded Walt on the back in a congratulatory manner, nearly knocking him off the table. “Nothing serious, kiddo. You’ll bruise up some. Better see Clarice on the way home, let her tape you up.”

  After that unexpected clout, Walt didn’t stop seeing stars until Harry was gone. “Thanks a million,” Walt said to the empty room.

  ...

  The two-hour drive from Palm Beach to Clewiston nearly killed Walt. Every dip in the road nauseated him with pain. The upside was that the bruised ribs kept him awake enough to drive when all he wanted to do was slump into oblivion and sleep for weeks.

  He took Harry’s advice and, instead of driving directly to the ranch, stopped outside the doublewide mobile home that belonged to Clarice.

  Through the window, he could see that she was watching Wheel of Fortune on her kitchen portable while shelling peas into a bowl. On her kitchen counter he saw jars of preserves and vegetables exactly like the ones in his own refrigerator. He knocked on her front door.

  “Come on in, it’s open!” Clarice called from the kitchen. She heard the door open and close. She heard footsteps approach through the living room. When he got to the kitchen door, she looked up. “Oh, lordy, he’s back.”

  Walt slumped into the nearest kitchen chair. “I sincerely hope you got somethin’ stronger than aspirin in the house.”

  “You look like an ugly old tomcat I had once. Always huntin’ a fight and comin’ home chewed up. Stupid cat.” She turned her eyes from him back to her peas and television. “Go take a shower. Then I’ll see what I can do.”

  Walt hauled himself out of the chair and off to the bathroom. He didn’t have to ask directions.

  …

  Walt came out of the bathroom wearing jeans and no shirt. Clarice was waiting for him and motioned for him to sit on the edge of the bed. Since she was fully dressed, and he would have to improve in order to die, there was no question of hanky pank
y in that bedroom this night.

  Walt settled himself on the edge of the bed, and Clarice began applying tape around his injured ribs. Walt explained what had happened on the polo field that day, leaving out his desire to murder Dan Stern if the opportunity presented itself.

  “Dang!” he said, partly because she had jostled a painful rib and partly on general principles. “It’s a crying shame to kill a smart, sweet pony like that one. Breaks my heart. But at least—Ah! Careful!—at least I guess I made Sylvie happy. I paid for the horse I shot.”

  Clarice looked at him in disbelief. “You paid her for a dead horse. And did anybody remind you that, incidentally, you owned that horse.”

  “Technically, I only owned half of it.”

  “Uh-huh. Do I have to tell you which end was yours?”

  “How about a little sym—Ouch! —sympathy, Clarice? I’ve been injured in the line of duty, after all.”

  “I thought you had better sense. Why don’t you let Harry Pace do his own dirty work? Why do you have to get yourself killed keeping an eye on her?”

  Walt kept his face blank and his voice neutral. “Haven’t you heard? Harry Pace is dead.”

  Clarice finished her taping and stood back to give him a look. “As we say in Spain, toro poopoo.”

  Walt stood and eased into a clean shirt she handed him from a nearby laundry basket. He took a stab at tucking the shirttail in, but quickly gave up the idea and left it hanging out. Maybe tomorrow. He limped to the front door.

  Clarice stopped him at the door and handed him a bottle of pills. “Here. These’ll take away the pain some, so you can get some sleep. I take ‘em, for my headaches ... can’t seem to get a good neck rub around here any more. You could call me sometime, y’know?”

  “I’m sorry. Really. I been yanked six ways from Sunday, lately. My life’s gone to ... manure. You know how it is.”

  “Honey, I know who it is. Worst part of it is, I like her. Makes it hard for me to stay mad at you.”

  Walt opened the door and started out, but he had an afterthought. “It’s crazy, ain’t it, Clarice? I mean, how people’s tastes can run so different. You don’t like slick talking city fellas like Dan Stern, and Sylvie don’t like cowboys like me.”