“I know what you mean.”
All in all, there were fourteen jumps, some of them doubles and triples, making a total of seventeen fences. A taxing course, to say the least. Ellie was thankful the weather was cooperating. Wispy white clouds drifted overhead while a gentle breeze rippled the red-and-gold ribbons hanging on the arena fence.
Ellie fiddled nervously with the piece of string that tied her number to the back of her red team jacket. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Clay pacing off the distance between the first and second fences. Squaring her shoulders, she hurried to keep up with Flex.
Once more outside the arena, she spotted Prissy, who had already finished. “Looks awful, doesn’t it?” Prissy said.
“Worse than awful. Poor Jube.”
“Poor Jube?” Prissy teased. “I think Jubilee will rise to the challenge. That horse seems to jump a little higher every week. He’s eating the whole thing up. Poor little Caesar will be frightened out of his wits.”
Ellie laughed. “We’re all going to do just fine.”
Prissy glanced up and Ellie followed the line of her gaze. Clay strode by without a glance, his mind apparently lost in thoughts of the competition. Ellie watched his broad back, the lean hips and muscular thighs outlined by his tight cream riding breeches.
Thinking how handsome he looked, she smiled and felt a tug at her heart. She missed him, she realized, the thought coming swift and hard and completely unwanted. Damn it to hell, she wished they could have at least remained friends.
She watched him till he rounded the corner of the timer’s box out of sight.
“That bad, is it?”
“I’m just another casualty, Prissy. I’ll get over it. Right now, the most important thing I have to think about is my riding.”
Prissy opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something but didn’t.
“Look, the first rider’s coming on,” Ellie said, pointing toward the ring.
The British rider on a horse named Admiral Horatio circled the arena at a posting trot. The tone sounded. Nearing the eye of the timer, the rider touched the brim of his cap and started the round, his big dun horse, a Hanoverian, approaching the first fence, a vertical five feet high, sailing over it with ease. Unfortunately, the gelding landed a little too far ahead, throwing off his stride for the next jump, a red and white oxer bordered by white chrysanthemums.
Admiral Horatio knocked down the top rail with his forelegs and the crowd groaned, Ellie and Prissy along with them. Things went downhill from there.
At the third jump, a tricky combination difficult for both horse or rider to judge, the animal downed all three fences. He refused the fourth jump twice, but finally made it over. With a defeated expression, the British rider finished his round.
“Looks like this is going to be just as tough as we thought,” Prissy said.
“Think positive, lady. We’re here to win.”
Prissy nodded but didn’t seem convinced.
Rider after rider approached the awesome course and left it with double digit faults. Flex was the first American rider to enter the ring. He did better than Ellie expected, clearing the course with just two rails down and one time fault, which put them in the lead.
Now the riders knew the course was at least manageable. Ellie and Prissy studied each jump, trying to find the best approach. Prissy’s turn came up.
“Good luck,” Ellie said.
Disheartened by the twelve faults she stacked up, Prissy returned a few minutes later, all of them hoping the other team members would do better and her low score could be thrown out.
Gerry brought Jube around before the next rider took the course. Ellie wanted to make some practice jumps before she rode the course. While she worked with Jube in a different arena, Gerry would carefully watch the competition for any tips he might discover.
Excited by the crowd, Jube was feeling high, responding to her every command. Ellie returned to the main arena just before Clay took the course. He entered the ring looking relaxed and confident, Max prancing beneath him. A medieval knight in a jousting competition—or at least some Hollywood version of one.
Despite her attempts to wish him the worst, Ellie found herself rooting for him.Only in the interest of the team,she told herself. As she watched him clear jump after difficult jump, his movements so in tune with Max they seemed one creature instead of two, she thought he had never ridden better.
The crowd was on its feet by the time he approached the last two fences: a Liverpool water jump that had dampened its share of victims in the pond and a vertical that deluded the horses into believing it was easy when it wasn’t.
Ellie held her breath. “Come on, Clay,” she whispered, “you can do it.” And he did, clearing the jumps as if they weren’t there.
Max was blowing and prancing, Clay smiling triumphantly as he headed out of the show ring. For a brief instant, their eyes locked. He seemed surprised by her smile. For an instant, his gaze softened—or maybe she imagined it—then they both turned away.
