Jake glanced back out the window. The beige Chevy remained some distance behind, but the man at the wheel didn’t really care if Jake spotted him. In fact, theywantedhim to know they were there. For eight months they’d kept him on edge, giving him no explanations, only veiled threats and vague innuendos.
But Jake was no stranger to the kind of pressure these men were using. He’d been raised on it.
He’d just been foolish enough to believe that in this country he’d be safe.
Leaning back against the deep leather seat, he forced himself to relax. On his plane ride home, he’d come to a decision. Whatever these men had planned, he would be told when they were ready for him to know.
They had successfully destroyed his relationship with Maggie, but his job as head coach was another matter entirely. He had obligations to fulfill, duties, responsibilities. He couldn’t simply resign.
That much had been made clear.
In the meantime, the only option he had was to do the best job he could, and that meant helping select the finest team of show jumpers the United States of America could produce.
With that goal in mind, Jake pushed his thoughts away from his troubles and mulled over the competition he’d seen in Los Angeles and the other selection trials he’d attended across the country.
Clayton Whitfield was the nation’s top rider. But his personal life was in shambles. He’d be chosen, Jake had no doubt. Clay would be his usual pain in the ass, but he’d give the American team their best shot at the gold.
Jake ran through the list of other possible contenders: Denny Beeson had made a poor showing in L.A. but done well at other shows. Shep Singleton and Prissy Knowles would be high on the list as well as Peter Grayson, Flex McGrath, and Jack Dillon.
Then there was Ellen Fletcher.
Though she’d taken only a third in Los Angeles, her performance had been outstanding. Considering the short time she had actively been competing, her progress was incredible. She was definitely Olympic caliber—if the others on the selection committee were willing to give her the chance.
Jake had coached her for a while right after her eye surgery. She’d been a gem to work with, willing to tackle any task, fearless in the extreme, always finding joy in the sport and in her accomplishments.
Ellie’s years of partial blindness had caused her to live inside herself more than most of the people he knew, a feeling of isolation Jake could relate to. Neither of them seemed to have the courage to reach out and grasp the intimacy others offered.
Ellie’s mother and father had both been nationally acclaimed riders. Jake guessed being a winner in the sport was Ellie’s way of dealing with the insecurity she felt in other areas. She had little experience with people and often felt out of place. The truth was, even after her vision problems were corrected, Ellen Fletcher had never come out of her shell.
“Should I take you to Gladstone or your house in Peapack?” the driver asked, breaking into Jake’s thoughts.
He checked his watch. “Looks like we’ve got plenty of time. You can let me off at the house. I’ll drive on over from there.”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
Whatever you say. Jake wished the members of the selection committee would be as easy to convince.
CHAPTER THREE
Gladstone, New Jersey
May 1988
Clayton Whitfield drove his shiny red Ferrari faster than he should have along the lane leading to the Gladstone training compound.
Verdant and rolling, the New Jersey countryside blossomed with bright spring flowers though the air remained brisk. Tiny white snowdrops lined white-washed fences, and apricot and peach trees rained pink and white blossoms on the ground.
Clay rode with the top down. He loved the feel of the sun and wind on his face, the stereo vibrating with a new Tchaikovsky compact disc. Turning through the gates, he roared up in front of the two-story wood-frame building that housed the main offices and stepped on the brake. The Ferrari skidded to a halt, stirring up dust and gravel and turning several hunt-capped heads in his direction.
Yesterday Clay had received his official notification of selection as an Olympic team member, but the letter made no mention of the other four riders, one of whom would serve as an alternate. Clay had come to Gladstone to find out who else would be making the trip to Europe for the summer competitions, then going on to Seoul for the Olympic games.
Still wearing his riding clothes after the morning’s exercises, Clay opened the Ferrari door and swung his boots to the ground. He rounded the car, took the steps to the porch two at a time and walked in, taking the place by storm, as he always did.
“Hey, pretty Patty.” Leaning across the counter, he smiled at the girl behind the desk. “Jake around?”
The leggy blonde blushed and toyed self-consciously with her spiky bangs. “He’s out at the training ring.”
Clay winked and grinned, flashing his dimples and eliciting a smile in return. “You’d better start eating again. You’re getting too skinny.”
