“The observation room.”
“So you can have your own private shows?”
“In a manner of speaking. Would you like to go down there?”
“Oh, yes!”
Inside the arena, Rorie saw that it was much bigger than it had appeared from above. They’d been walking around for several minutes when Clay checked his watch and frowned. “I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got a meeting in town. Normally I wouldn’t leave company.”
“Oh, please,” she said hurriedly, “don’t worry about it. I mean, it’s not as though I was expected or anything. I hardly consider myself company.”
Still Clay seemed regretful. “I’ll walk you back to the house.”
He left in the pickup a couple of minutes later. The place was quiet; Mary had apparently finished in the kitchen and retired to her own quarters, a cottage not far from the main house. Skip, who had returned from helping his friend, was busy talking on the phone. He smiled when he saw Rorie, without interrupting his conversation.
Rorie moved into the living room and idly picked up a magazine, leafing through it. Restless and bored, she read a heated article on the pros and cons of a new medication used for equine worming, although she couldn’t have described what it said.
When Skip was finished on the phone, he suggested they play cribbage. Not until after ten did Rorie realize she was unconsciously waiting for Clay’s return. But she wasn’t quite sure why.
Skip yawned rather pointedly and Rorie took the hint.
“I suppose I should think about heading up to bed,” she said, putting down the deck of playing cards.
“Yeah, it seems to be that time,” he answered, yawning again.
“I didn’t intend to keep you up so late.”
“Oh, that’s no problem. It’s just that we start our days early around here. But you sleep in. We don’t expect you to get up before the sun just because we do.”
By Rorie’s rough calculation, getting up before the sun meant Clay and Skip started their workday between four-thirty and five in the morning.
Skip must have read the look in her eyes, because he chuckled and said, “You get used to it.”
Rorie followed him up the stairs, and they said their good-nights. But even after a warm bath, she couldn’t sleep. Wearing her flower-sprigged cotton pajamas, she sat on the bed with the light still on and thought about how different everything was from what she’d planned. She was supposed to be in Seattle now, at a cocktail party arranged for the first night of the conference; she’d hoped to talk to several of the authors there. But she’d missed that, and the likelihood of attending even one workshop was dim. Instead she’d made an unscheduled detour onto a stud farm and stumbled upon a handsome rancher.
She grinned. Things could be worse. Much worse.
An hour later, Rorie heard a noise outside, behind the house. Clay must be home. She smiled, oddly pleased that he was back. Yawning, she reached for the lamp on the bedside table and turned it off.
The discordant noise came again.
Rorie frowned. This time, whatever was making the racket didn’t sound the least bit like a pickup truck parking, or anything else she could readily identify. The dog was barking intermittently.
Grabbing her housecoat from the foot of the bed and tucking her feet into fuzzy slippers, Rorie went downstairs to investigate.
As she stood in the kitchen, she could tell that the clamor was coming from the barn. A problem with the horses?
Not knowing what else to do, she scrambled up the stairs and hurried from room to room until she found Skip’s bedroom.
The teenager lay sprawled across his bed, snoring loudly.
“Skip,” she cried, “something’s wrong with the horses!”
He continued to snore.
“Skip,” she cried, louder this time. “Wake up!”
He remained deep in sleep.
“Skip, please, oh, please, wake up!” Rorie pleaded, shaking him so hard he’d probably have bruises in the morning. “I’m from the city. Remember? I don’t know what to do.”
The thumps and bangs coming from the barn were growing fiercer and Blue’s barking more frantic. Perhaps there was a fire. Oh, dear Lord, she prayed, not that. Rorie raced halfway down the stairs, paused and then reversed her direction.
“Skip,” she yelled. “Skip!” Rorie heard the panic in her own voice. “Someone’s got to do something!”
No one else seemed to think so.
Nearly frantic now, Rorie dashed back down the stairs and across the yard. Trembling, she entered the barn. A lone electric light shone from the ceiling, dimly illuminating the area.