“There you are!” her father said. “You can finish working Lady later. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Ellie dismounted, handed the reins to a groom, and took her father’s hand to lead her out of the arena. The family owned five acres in the middle of Hope Ranch, an exclusive development on the Santa Barbara coast. From the house and grounds, Ellie could see the blue color that distinguished the ocean, though some days it was difficult to tell where sky left off and water began.
“Dr. Halstein, this is my daughter, Ellie.”
The doctor, a thin, stoop-shouldered man, extended a fine-boned hand. Ellie caught the movement and extended her own. The doctor adjusted his reach in order to connect.
“Dr. Halstein is here to talk to us about a new surgical procedure that might be able to help you,” her father said.
Ellie felt the familiar knot in the pit of her stomach. How many times had she been through this same routine?
“How new is it?” she asked, an unwanted edge to her voice.
The doctor just smiled. “Myopia surgery was introduced here five years ago. By then, doctors in Russia had been using the procedure for some time. It’s still considered experimental in this country, though I and dozens of others are convinced of its safety.”
“Surely my father told you I have astigmatism as well,” she said.
“I was coming to that.” Patiently he explained the procedure, a radial keratotomy. “If, after testing,” he finished, “we decide you’re a candidate, it’s possible for you to achieve completely normal vision.”
Shock ran through her. No promise so big had ever been made. If she agreed, she’d be setting herself up for another disappointment. But if it worked?
“I’ve seen the results myself,” her father said. “You’ve got to let him test you, honey.”
Ellie swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes,” was all she said.
CHAPTER TWO
“You’ve got plenty of time to watch the riders.” Jake’s voice pulled Ellie out of the past and back to the moment. “Pay close attention to Whitfield. These spread jumps are his meat and potatoes. Unless I miss my guess, he’ll make that oxer look easy.”
Whitfield. Always it was Clayton Whitfield. “Thanks, Jake. I know how busy you are.” She’d watch Clay Whitfield, all right. There was nobody better. But God, what a conceited, self-centered ass! She’d once had a crush on him—when she was younger and dumber. She was a whole lot smarter now. Besides, Whitfield barely knew she existed.
She flicked a last glance at Jake. “Keep your fingers crossed for me, will you?”
He smiled. “Good luck, Ellie.”
She watched Jake’s retreating figure as he headed toward a group of riders near the edge of the staging area. For the past few days, he’d seemed distracted. But Ellie’s own nerves were stretched to the breaking point.
Everything she’d trained for, everything she’d dreamed of, rested on this competition. She’d done so poorly in the last set of trials she’d have no chance at all if she made a bad showing today. On the other hand, she’d put in an outstanding performance at Phoenix and again at Rancho Murrieta. Maybe that would help.
Clamping down on her anxiety, Ellie listened as the speaker announced the start of the event. Denny Beeson, a top competitor, had drawn the number one slot.
The rules were simple: horse and rider had to complete the course in the time allotted or receive time faults. For every fence knocked down, two points were lost. If the horse refused a jump, three points were lost. Three refusals were a disqualification. Riders who went clear in the time allotted went into a second-round jump-off over a revised course, shorter, but often more difficult.
This being an Olympic selection event, the fences had been set for the highest degree of difficulty. To Ellie it looked insurmountable.
Denny must have been having similar thoughts. He clipped the first fence, a tall red and white vertical, knocking the rail from its cup. The second fence went no better. Then his horse, Windsong, seemed to settle down—until the gelding reached the triple combination in the middle of the course. Three refusals and Denny and Windsong left the arena in head-hanging defeat.
Ellie’s heart hammered. How in God’s name would she and Jubil get through it?
The next four riders made an equally poor showing, and Ellie began to worry the course was insurmountable. It didn’t happen often and wasn’t the objective of the course designer, who wanted to challenge.
The fifth rider to enter the arena was Clay Whitfield—more appropriately, Clayton Whitfield III. She’d been watching him ride since she’d first been able to see, been reading about him since long before that. Her father had spoken of him often, his skill with the horses, his rowdy escapades, and when he thought she wasn’t within earshot, Clay’s expertise with women.
The latter, Ellie could easily understand.
Riding his second entry of the day, Whitfield cantered around the arena on a big black stallion named Warrior, looking like the hero in every girl’s fantasy. Tanned and handsome, he had thick dark brown hair, a powerful build with a vee-shaped torso, and long, muscular legs. A pair of dimples flashed whenever he smiled, making the women drool.
“He’s entered two horses,” her father said as he walked up beside her. “This one’s green as it gets—it’s Warrior’s first Grand Prix. The stallion’s got good blood, but he’s too hot. Not much chance Whitfield can hold him down enough for a win.”
