Contents

The Will
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
EPILOGUE
 Dascha Lane stood outside the attorney's office tapping her foot
impatiently. She smoothed her cream pencil skirt, and checked her watch
for a third time. Her older brother, Wyatt, was late. As usual. Dascha paced
before the door to the office.
Wyatt finally came jogging down the hall, breathless; his dark, floppy
hair askew from the run. "I'm not late. I'm not," he insisted.
Dascha crossed her arms and pursed her lips, unamused. "You could
have been late any other day. But this? This is not okay, Wy."
Wyatt held his hands up before him defensively. "I know. I'm sorry,
but there was this really cute-- "
Before he could finish, the door swung open. "Mister Hanverian
wants to know if you're quite ready now?" the attorney's assistant asked.
Dascha squinted at Wyatt. When he offered an apologetic grin, she
rolled her eyes and huffed, entering the room.
Mister Hanverian motioned to a couple of seats at a private, polished
office desk. After Dascha and Wyatt sat, he took his own place in a high-
back leather chair that made a "puft" sound when he dropped into it.
"Mister and Miss Lane, we are here to review your father's last will and
testament as customary in the state of New York. Shall we proceed?"
Dascha nodded solemnly. Wyatt already looked bored.
Mister Hanverian read from a file, before swiveling his computer
monitor toward them. Dascha elbowed her brother to wake him up. He
jumped and leaned forward as though he'd been enraptured the entire time.
A picture of their father came on the screen, he was at one of his
beloved polo matches in his favorite stone-blue suit, then a click of the play
button brought his picture to life. "If you're watching this my loves, I'm
dead."
Dascha tucked her lip, gripping the arms of her chair as though her
father's arm was still there to hang on to. She shut her eyes, momentarily
blinded by the memories of being close to him at that very place. The smell
of his cologne mixed with fresh cut grass in the background and horses and
men roaring at one another as the polo match ensued. The sound of
applause warmed her.
This time it was Wyatt's elbow in her ribs that caught her off guard.
She shook her head, refocusing on the video.
"...And that is why I want you to go down to Florida and liquidate my
assets. You are to reinvest the funds into my trust account for charity
purposes."
"Florida?" Dascha's brow knit. "What assets does he have down
there?"
Mister Hanverian rose, closing the file, and returning his monitor to
its proper angle. He passed a paper to Wyatt who took it and shrugged. He
tilted it toward Dascha. "It's just an address."
"Look up Oliver Way," Mister Hanverian advised. "He'll help you
with the liquidation. I've been informed he's very knowledgeable."
Wyatt smiled. "Well, that should make it easy." He reached to shake
the attorney's hand while Dascha stared at the paper, still confused. She
should have been paying attention.
Mister Hanverian offered his hand to her, and she took it like a
handkerchief, shaking it weakly. The attorney left the office. "I'll give you a
moment. Feel free to call Miss Atkins if you need a glass of water or
anything. I understand these things can be hard to process."
Already Dascha was back at the polo field of her memory, standing in
the shade of the clubhouse. Closer to the pitch, Wyatt was decked out in his
own polo gear, waiting for his match. She couldn't help notice the way he
watched the players and teased any gentleman nearby. He flashed a perfect
smile over his shoulder at her, wiggling his eyebrows, and hiking a thumb
in the direction of a young man passing.
She jumped to attention again when the door of the office closed,
leaving her alone with her brother and the finality of their father's death.
Wyatt turned to his sister. "Would this be a bad time to tell you I'm gay?"
Dascha dropped her head into her hands, sighing exasperatedly.
"Wy..." she groaned.
"Because we're living in a modern age where--"
Dascha shook her head. "Why would you drop a bombshell like that at
this very moment? You couldn't have told me, I don't know..." She glared at
him. "Years ago?"
He placed a hand to his heart as if rebuffed. "You knew?"
She rose slowly. "I suspected. Did Dad?"
Wyatt straightened his tie, and squared his shoulders, clearing his
throat. "So. Florida, huh? Sounds fun."
Dascha brushed past him. "Let's find this Oliver guy and get things
over with."
 *

Oliver Way chucked a bucket of water onto the grass outside of the
breezeway of his racing stable at Gulfstream Park. The muggy air embraced
him, warning of a storm on the way. Big, fat thunderheads gathered across
the gray sky. He worked as quickly as he could to batten down the hatches
for the night. Things would be easier if he could afford a couple of grooms.
His racing string was shrinking, and Walter Lane hadn't sent him a
paycheck in a month.
Oliver ground his teeth as he filled the bucket with fresh water. The
next time he saw that overbearing, obese walking money bag, Oliver would
give him a piece of his mind. He hung the bucket in the stall of Walter's pet,
a chestnut mare that couldn't run a lick. Oliver sighed and smoothed over
her forelock. He leaned his forehead against hers. He loved her anyway.
Coveted her even.
Not every horse was cut out to race. In fact, Oliver was sure Fools
Rush In, or Faith as she was known around the barn, would make a better
pony-- a lead horse-- to calm younger racers on the track. She had a very
laid back personality, which is probably why she had only won a handful of
races. Better horses had more fire and drive in them. However, Mr. Lane
had insisted on pouring money into her. She was his slush fund, his rainy
day play date. Something frivolous that made the old fart happy. When was
the last time he visited her anyway?
"He'll be back," Oliver said quietly. He listened to Faith's even
breathing, a calming cathartic rhythm. A rush of wind outside made her
buck her head, and push him away, snorting. Oliver patted her side and left
her stall. He had other charges to take care of. It would go a lot faster with
some hired help, though, but that took money-- something he didn't have at
the moment. It hadn't stopped him from posting flyers at the track cafeteria
that morning, however. He'd find a way to pay them, somehow.
*
Dascha stepped from the car, her nose wrinkling at the mixed smell of
manure and earth after rain. The address had taken them right to Gulfstream
Park in Hallandale Beach, Florida. She was glad they'd gotten to the hotel
before the storm last night. She couldn't bear thinking of what a nightmare
the flight could have been in that nasty business. It had taken her a couple
of drinks to relax in the midst of the thunder; the way it had shaken the
hotel tower had been unnerving. Now she pinched the bridge of her nose,
wincing behind dark glasses. "How do you suppose we find Oliver?" she
asked Wyatt.
The place was buzzing with horses getting bathed and walked. There
were so many people, she couldn't tell who was in charge.
Wyatt smiled, patting her back hard enough her shades popped to the
end of her nose. "Relax, sis." He strode toward one of the workers, looking
like he owned the place. He was definitely overdressed in his pressed new
business suit. Come to think of it, so was she. Dascha realized as she
glanced down at her slacks and flats. She squinted hard against the sunlight
and pushed her sunglasses to the top of her brow where they sat neatly,
brushing her light locks from her forehead.
She followed after Wyatt, who was completely unafraid to talk to
anyone he could get to listen to him. By the time she caught up, he'd already
asked five people if they knew an Oliver Way. One of them pointed in the
direction of another shedrow.
Wyatt took Dascha by the elbow. "Come on."
"That was easy."
Wyatt shrugged as he strode quickly in the direction he'd been given.
"Half of them spoke Mexican."
"You mean Spanish."
"Oh, so sorry your majesty," he reeled. "I'm only a Jersey boy in a
Wall Street world. What do I know?"
Dascha glanced skyward. "Forgive him, Father, for he knows not what
an idiot he is."
They continued walking, feeling more and more lost. All the barns
looked the same to Dascha.
"Here we are," Wyatt announced. "Barn five. I think." He glanced,
scratching his chin.
Dascha noticed a man about her age down the aisle. He was bent over
a hay bale, cutting orange twine. She marched up to him. "Excuse me?"
"You here about the job?" he asked. He lifted half the bale and shoved
it into her arms. "Make yourself useful before I change my mind."
Dascha stumbled backward, landing in a pile of wet. The hay prickled
into her blouse, poking her skin. A horse behind her squealed. She scowled
at the man who was already coasting around the corner with another part of
the bale. Wyatt trotted over to help Dascha up. "What in the world?"
 Dascha dusted herself off. "I know, right?"
He gave her a look that asked if she was okay. When she nodded,
Wyatt shuffled off after the man. "I'll talk to him."
A horse behind Dascha whinnied. She whirled on her heel, stumbling
again and caught herself on a beam. Dascha narrowed her eyes at the
offender. The chestnut horse tossed its head and wiggled its lip at Dascha.
Dascha noted the empty hay net and the pile on the ground. She pointed. "I
suppose that's yours?"
The horse gazed at her reproachfully, as if to say, Yes, please.
Dascha scooped up the pile and awkwardly stuffed it into the blue hay
net. The horse snorted, sending Dascha jumping back. She squinted at the
horse. They were all the same: hay burning money pits. Why did her father
insist on a hobby that literally ate his funds away? They were all the same,
too. Even the fancy polo ponies he had so adored. Prancing around in their
flashy leather, and bright leg wraps. Snorting and foaming like Saint
Bernards.
Wyatt returned with the man who had shoved her full of hay like one
of the horses. Dascha watched them walk down the lane toward her. The
man beside Wyatt was shorter than her brother, with dark sandy hair, and
chiseled biceps. Her eyebrow arched. She kicked forward from the beam,
heading toward them. She extended her hand. "I'm Dascha Lane. Walter
was my father."
Biceps and Hair wiped his hands on his jeans, not that it made them
any cleaner. His grip was strong and gentle at the same time. "Oliver Way."
He yanked her close, like some crazy scene in a romance movie. His voice
was hushed as he lowered his head to hers. Oliver's breath brushed against
her lips. Dascha trembled.
Oliver held her there, bound for a moment, before whispering,
"Where's my money?"
 Dascha extricated her hand from Oliver's grip. "Excuse me?"
"Your father's overdue on my trainer fees, and the upkeep of his
horses. I assume you've come to take care of that." The hardened look on
his face made him even more rugged.
"Our father's dead," Wyatt said.
Oliver's expression softened. He turned to Wyatt. "Sorry?"
"You're right that we've come to take care of things on his behalf,"
Dascha murmured. "But our father has passed away. We're here to liquidate
his assets, whatever they might be."
Oliver rubbed his neck. "My condolences."
Dascha clasped her hands in front of her. "I'm sure we can come to a
settlement we can all agree on, Mister Way. Our attorney said you could
help us take care of the business here."
Oliver nodded. "Of course. What did you have in mind?"
Wyatt crossed to Dascha. "We were instructed to sell his string. The
money will go to charity."
"Well, he only had three horses. None of them are worth much, but we
can probably get what he paid for them."
"Not to seem like idiots, Mister Way, but you'll have to guide us
through the process," Dascha said.
Wyatt smirked. "We're noobs."
"We've mostly been around Polo ponies, so we're initiates to the
racing world."
"Alright. I think we have some clear options here. I can put out some
feelers to see if there are any interested buyers," Oliver said. "We could also
run them in claiming races to see if anyone picks them up at a reasonable
price." He walked down the aisle toward Fools Rush In, trying not to seem
like she mattered to him. "Or we could wait until the Ocala Mixed Sale this
winter."
"Winter?" Wyatt asked, his face widening with surprise.
"Too long?" Oliver asked. He rubbed Fools Rush In's blaze. "I
understand. It's a gamble, too, if you ask me. No guarantee they'll go for a
good price. If you ask me..."
Dascha and Wyatt leaned in, looking interested.
"The claiming races are the surest best," Oliver finished.
"A guaranteed price," Wyatt inferred.
Oliver nodded.
 Wyatt looked at Dascha. "What do you think sis?"
She turned away, headed back to the car. "Do what you have to,
Mister Way."
*
Oliver smiled internally. What a stroke of luck. Not only had money
shown up, but his boss's ignorant children. It had been work enough helping
naive Walter Lane find horses he liked, but now Oliver could wash his
hands of him-- and possibly keep Fools Rush In in the process. He turned to
the mare. "What do you think, Faith?"
She nosed him out of the way to get to the hay net that Lane girl had
so awkwardly stuffed. Most of it was on the ground. Oliver sighed, picking
it up. He'd get fresh food for his girl. No one loved him like that mare did.
At least she'd never try to run off on him. He grimaced, stalking away from
her.
When he turned back, carrying enough food to properly fill the net, he
jumped. Walter's son was standing right in front of him. Had he followed
Oliver? Oliver squinted at him. He could just make out what Walter
would've looked like as a young man. Then he shook off the vision and
pushed past him. "Scuze me."
Lane Junior grinned. "Of course."
He was following Oliver like a scent hound. "Do you like what you
do?"
Oliver filled Faith's net. "Of course I do. I wouldn't do it for nothing if
I didn't."
Lane Junior leaned against a beam. "What do you mean for nothing? I
thought people paid you to work for them."
Oliver frowned. "Occasionally. People like your father, for instance."
"People like Dascha and I," Lane Junior inferred.
Oliver stared at the mare, watching her eat. He couldn't help but feel
the guy's gaze on him. It made the hairs on the back of Oliver's neck stand
at attention.
"Do you think she's pretty?" Lane Junior asked.
Oliver spun on his heel. "What?"
"Dascha, my sister, she's pretty right?"
Oliver's mouth floundered like a fish on land. If he confessed her good
looks hadn't gone unnoticed, what then? He swallowed. "I guess."
 When an awkward moment passed between them in silence, Oliver
offered, "I think your sister's waiting for you."
Lane Junior flashed a boyish grin. "I look forward to working with
you, Mister Way."
Oliver was still at a loss for words. "Uh, yeah. Likewise-- what did
you say your name was?"
"Wyatt. Wyatt Lane."
*
"What kept you?" Dascha asked as Wyatt's door slammed.
Wyatt buckled his seat belt. "Oh, you know." He puffed out his chest,
his voice deepening, "Man to man talk."
Dascha rolled her eyes. She leaned her head back against the seat as
Wyatt drove away from the backside. She couldn't wait to get away from
this place, and that rude Oliver fellow. Who cared if he was semi-good
looking? How could anyone pull a stranger in like that and then demand
money? Who did that? Thugs did, she noted. She closed her eyes, sliding
her shades down to the bridge of her nose. The memory of her father's voice
trickled into her head.
"Now, Wyatt," he said in a hushed tone, "This is man to man talk. We
need to make sure Dascha is taken care of. We've got to step up and fill in
for your mother."
Dascha had stood in the shadows as a girl, peeking into her father's
study. Her mother was terribly ill. The doctors said she'd never get better.
Young Wyatt nodded solemnly.
To this day, Wyatt was the only one willing to run to the store for
Dascha for all the lady needs. And he always got it right, she had to give
him that. He was still a good big brother, despite his flaws. Much nicer than
that Oliver man, anyway-- Who reminded her of her father in the worst
way. He only seemed interested in the horses.
Ever since her mother passed, Dascha had been paraded around on her
father's arm like some jewel to be sold to the highest bidder. He wanted to
make sure she was taken care of, for sure, but not in the ways she needed.
She was happy on his arm at all the social events and polo matches but
resented the effect. All those young men chasing after her. It was
embarrassing.
"Home sweet home," Wyatt announced as he pulled up to their hotel's
valet.
 Dascha opened her eyes. When was the last time she'd really felt at
home?
 Oliver poured over the Gulfstream Park Horsemens’ Condition Book
for the next few weeks. There had to be some decent claiming races coming
up. They started at six thousand dollars and went all the way up to fifty
thousand.
Oliver rubbed his stubbled chin. He didn’t think anyone would pick
up Lane’s horses for anything as high as fifty thousand, but he might be
able to swing twenty-five. All three of the racers might go for that much,
maybe even thirty-- tops. He sighed. It would pay off his bills and satisfy
Junior and his sister.
But when he came across a claiming race at the lowest rung,
specifically for fillies and mares exactly at Faith’s favorite distance...
something clicked inside. Oliver was nigh dead-broke. If anyone held him
at gun point and demanded his PIN, Oliver would probably laugh and give
it to them. The only thing that would come flying out of an ATM is a bunch
of IOUs. Which is exactly why that six thousand dollar claimer for Faith
would be perfect.
The notion was crazy, and downright dishonest. Faith was worth much
more than six thousand, but the impulse to acquire her so cheap was too
strong. He put his pen to the paper, ready to mark it, when Dascha’s face
popped into his mind. Oliver shook his head, as though to shake her from it,
but she slid in again. He grit his teeth. He was getting Faith, and Dascha
was a means to an end. This was business. She’d never be anything more to
him. He finally circled the race.
Later that day, Oliver was busy looking after his charges. Lane had
owned not only Fools Rush In, but a dark bay colt named Bitter Creek, and
a gray gelding called Plastic Thunder. They were both good looking and
winners, probably worth more than Faith anyway. Oliver vowed he’d justify
claiming the filly for next to nothing by getting decent prices on the other
two. And even though they were leaving him for someone else, at least he
knew they’d had a good relationship while it lasted. He loved them, and
they seemed to love him back-- unconditionally. Or maybe it was only
because he brought them food.
Oliver noogied the bay colt’s forehead with a chuckle. “There ya go,
ol’hayburner.”
When he was free of them, Oliver would settle up his debts and
hopefully break even at last. His work was everything, and he threw himself
against it like a sailboat in a storm. If only to forget...
 *
“Are you sure you won’t come down with me?” Wyatt asked,
arranging his tie.
Dascha folded her legs on the chaise in front of the TV, flicking it on.
“I refuse to deal with that man after how he treated me.”
Wyatt smirked, glancing at her reflection. “Are you saying you’re a
widdle embawassed?” he teased.
Dascha puckered, turning pink. She cranked the volume on the TV up.
Wyatt hummed to himself, bemused at his sister. “You’ll have to meet
him at some point. What if I arrange a lunch date?”
“There will be no dates.”
He cleared his throat, trying again. “Lunch meeting. As in two
business-minded people discussing the bones of things.”
Dascha poured herself a glass of gin, tipped her head back to drown it,
then placed the glass down on the coffee table harder than she probably
meant it. “Fine.”
He was about to say something more, when she added, “As long as he
behaves like a human being this time.”
Wyatt thought Oliver had behaved fine when they met him. Dascha
was taking it too personally. He headed for the door. “I’ll see what I can
do.”
When he reached barn five, he found Oliver tending to the horses.
Wyatt smiled. At least the man was easy to find-- and consistent.
Wyatt got out of the car, not caring if some water and debris got on his
leather loafers. He waved to Oliver, but went unnoticed. Wyatt walked
toward him, clearing his voice.
“Afternoon, Mister Way.”
Oliver glanced over his shoulder. “Hello.”
“Any progress on the sale situation?”
“Maybe.”
Wyatt slid his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels
briefly. “Want to fill me in?”
Oliver took a bucket full of water and shoved it at Wyatt.
Wyatt’s eyes widened, but he didn’t complain. He followed behind
Oliver, his eyes trailing to the man’s well-defined buttocks. Wyatt got a
little goofy smile on his face, before Oliver whipped around, hiking a
thumb at the stall. “This one.”
 Wyatt stepped up and hung the water bucket. A dark bay swung his
head out, nosing him.
“Afternoon to you too,” Wyatt greeted him, scratching the horse’s
cheek.
“I found races for all of them,” Oliver said, folding his arms. “I think
you’ll be satisfied with the arrangement.”
“I’m sure Dascha would love to hear about it.”
A low groan escaped Oliver.
Wyatt glanced at him. “She’s not all bad.” Oliver really was good
looking, but Wyatt put himself in check. It wasn’t right to mix business with
pleasure. And he didn’t want to lose Dascha in the process. He was already
treading a thin line for being such a playboy. Dascha was the last link he
had to his family.
"Let me be the go-between for you two." Wyatt leaned toward him,
brushing his shoulder with his own. "Your liaison."
Oliver sighed. "I suppose. What did you have in mind?"
"Allow me to arrange a lunch meeting. You two can see where the
other stands, and discuss the logistics of this horse business."
The corner of Oliver's mouth tilted wryly. "I suppose."
Wyatt clapped him on the back. “I like you.”
They both blushed rather awkwardly.
 "Thank you for meeting me," Dascha said as she spread her linen
napkin over her lap.
Oliver nodded. "Yeah, sure." He still sounded so guarded. "Thank
your brother."
Dascha took a sip of her water. "So. Tell me Mister Way--"
"Oliver, please," he said uncomfortably.
Dascha offered a smile. It was the first attractive thing Oliver noticed
about her. It wasn't just straight and white, a mouth paid for in porcelain,
but there was something else to it, something warm and human.
"Oliver," she conceded. "Tell me about yourself."
He leaned back in his chair, relaxing a little. "What do you want to
know?"
"Anything really. Where are you from? Did you go to school? That
sort of thing."
"I didn't think you were the type for small talk."
Dascha's brow lifted. "Really?"
Oliver toyed with his silverware, pushing the ends up so they
matched. "You seem the straight to business type."
"I'm sorry if I've given you that impression." Her eyes turned down.
Was she blushing?
Maybe Oliver was the straight to business type. She was getting
prettier the more he actually looked at her, and he didn't want to do
anything more than notice. "Let's not beat around the bush, Miss Lane." He
pointed his finger against the table. "Brass tacks."
"Have you had any interested buyers?"
"Yes, one." He narrowed his gaze on her, focusing the business at
hand. "Me."
"What would you possibly want with my father's horses?"
"Just one; Fools Rush In. I'll buy her from you after the other two are
sold."
"How does that work? You get a finder's commission from the other
two. Letting you buy one would be like you giving us our own money. Like
giving you a free horse."
So he was lowballing her. So what? She didn't know their worth
anyway. "Really, I'm doing you a favor. You wanted to sell them quickly,
correct?"
"Yes."
 "So I'm making an offer."
Dascha folded her arms over her chest. The expression on her face
said she wasn't buying in. "Tell me about yourself."
Oliver's brow kneaded. He looked confused. "We're back to that."
She nodded. "I want to know what sort of man I'm dealing with, and I
deserve to." She sat like some sort of boss-lady air.
"Fine. Born and bred in the South. Grew up around horses. I know
what I'm doing. Your turn."
She looked offended. "That's it?"
Oliver sipped his water. "That's it." Or, at least, all she was getting.
"I grew up in New England. I've been around horses most of my life,
but only on a spectator capacity. My father enjoyed trotting me around at
polo matches he'd sponsor."
Those New Englanders with their old money. Oliver pursed his lips.
At least she gave him the courtesy of sounding disdainful about her
position.
She took another sip of her water. For whatever reason, Oliver felt like
he was stuck in a chess match. He ran his finger around the edge of his
glass's rim until it sang.
"I'm still not interested in your offer," Dascha concluded.
"Shame. Faith would be in good hands."
"Faith?"
"Fools Rush In. Faith's her barn name."
"You mean the horse you want."
"She's not just 'the horse'. She has a name, and it's Faith."
"You talk about her like she's a person."
"More of a person than you're acting like."
That got under her skin. Her face crunched.
"Who comes fifteen hundred miles to sell horses and turns down a
deal?" he asked.
"It's a bad deal!" Dascha defended herself. "And horses aren't people."
Oliver's heart was racing. This argument got his blood going in a way
that made him grin and tingle. "She'd make a better girlfriend than you ever
would," he blurted.
Her exquisite jaw flexed, signaling she was probably biting back
words. She was kind of cute when her face got pinched up like that.
 She kind of intimidated him, but in a way, he liked it. Having
something unnerve him made him feel alive for the first time in years.
A big bowl of salad came for them to share. Normally, Oliver would
have resented that it was only round one of an uncomfortable situation, but
this was thrilling.
Dascha distracted herself by plating some of the salad. “The answer’s
no.”
Oliver pulled some of the salad onto his own plate. "Twenty-five."
She didn’t even look at him. "That's less than half."
So she did know what they were worth. Oliver offered his hands
plaintively. "Come on...."
"Thirty-five, and that's my final offer," she said firmly.
He stared at her over the salad bowl. She looked like the type of
person who was used to getting her way. His stubborness was a challenge to
her.

Dascha focused on regaining her composition. She had to keep control

of this situation, because the rest of her life was spinning out of control. She
focused hard on her salad, glistening with olive oil. Probably as slippery as
the position she was in. She knew Oliver’s eyes were on her, and a heat
buzzed through her that made her want to squirm.
“We’re selling all three of the horses. Whatever we can get from them
we’ll donate to charity,” she said frankly. She met his eyes briefly, but the
wild look and grin on him made her stare at her salad again. “You’ll get
what we owe you and not a penny more.”
He finally stopped pushing and they ate in silence. She was here on
business, she reminded herself. She couldn’t let some wheel’n’deal trainer
get under her skin. She was leaving behind the equestrian part of her life
and moving on.
As she sipped her water and gazed out the window beside their table,
Dascha knew she was spiraling. Her father was gone. Wyatt was running
around with who knows what. If she had control of anything, let it be this.
“You got my father into a bad situation when you convinced him to
buy those horses. What makes you so sure you’ll do the same to us?”
Dascha shook her head. “No, Mister Way, I’m afraid I’ll be the one
ensuring the Lanes never make a mistake like that again.”
 “It wasn’t a bad situation,” Oliver shot back. “He wanted horses. He
gave me a budget. I worked with it.”
“Still, you could have used the money more wisely to acquire a better
horse, rather than three.”
“Why would you put your money under a rock when you can put it in
a basket full of eggs?”
Dascha sighed, withstraining the urge to scream. “It was a bad
investment, and you’re a bad bet.”

Well as Oliver's father told him, handsome is as handsome does. She

may be rich, and pretty, but that wouldn't sway ol' Oliver.
Heat rushed up Oliver’s neck so fast, he swore steam would come out
of his ears. He wasn’t a bad bet. The Lanes were poor bettors.
“I’m buying Faith one way or another,” he asserted.
Her face did that pinchy thing again, and with a touch of fury, she was
even more beautiful. Oliver seriously hated the way his heart wracked his
ribs. “You’re bothered by the fact that I’m right,” he growled.
"And you're bothered by the fact that you can't control me, aren't
you?" Dascha stood up so quick, her chair tipped backward. Before Oliver
could shut his mouth, ice water smacked his face. Dascha stormed off,
leaving her glass rolling on the table.
Ugh, rich girls.
 Oliver meant to take his mind off things once he got to the barns, but
found Lane Junior skulking around. He’d listen to reason, wouldn’t he? But
reason is far from what came out of Oliver’s mouth. "Your sister is
infuriating!"
Lane Junior turned, not missing a beat. "Does that mean you like
her..." he asked hesitantly, "or just find her attractive?"
Oliver glared at him, but after a moment started laughing. He must be
losing his mind.

Wyatt broke into a grin. He couldn't get over how the laugh lines and
dimples accentuated Oliver's sun-beaten face. Something warmed in
Wyatt's heart.
"If you weren't her brother, I'd buy you a beer," Oliver said.
"Let's pretend I'm not," Wyatt offered. "I'm just the go-between guy,
remember?"
"I better not." Oliver shuffled off. "The horses need me."
Ah, I see. No time for relationships. Who got to that guy before? What
was eating him? He was so stoic and cynical about life, but once you got to
know him. Wyatt leaned against the wall behind him, staring at Oliver's
backside. Wyatt's head tilted as his eyes fixed on the muscular line running
between Oliver's shoulder blades down... down, down, down. He smirked.
Oliver was a good looking man. Wyatt had to make things right
between him and Dascha so the deal would go off smoothly. And, alright,
he admitted to himself, maybe more. Dascha had been so distant since their
father passed. She deserved to be happy, and Wyatt felt it was his
responsibility to make that happen for her. Even if it meant his own
happiness.
If anything would help her forgive him for his playboy ways in the
past, it was showing her he was capable of behaving himself and bringing
her an offering. It worked with tampons and chocolate-- usually-- why not
this? Wyatt kept his eyes fixed on Oliver shrinking in the distance and
smiled more. Dascha Lane, meet your Milky Way.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Dascha said.

Wyatt turned in surprise.
“Dont think I don’t know what’s going on between you two.” Dascha
mused. "Your gaydar's broken."
 They both looked toward Oliver in the distance.
"I don't care," Wyatt said. "Don't you find him attractive? Even a little
bit?"
She shrugged. "We're here to close out Father's estate, not fall in love.
Stay focused." She did this funny two finger eye point from her gaze to his.
"Eyes on the prize."
"It was." He sulked, thinking of Oliver's dimples when he laughed.
She took his arm and they strolled off together.
“How was the meeting?” he asked.
Dascha rolled her eyes with an exasperate sigh. “Oh, wonderful,” she
said, dripping with sarcasm. “He wants to buy one of the horses from us.”
“I don’t see how that’s a problem?” Wyatt whiffled.
“The problem is our directive is to sell the horses, give the money to
charity, and pay off any remaining debts.”
“But wouldn’t Oliver buying one of them be double payment? He
makes nothing off the deal. We’re selling. He’s buying...” Wyatt shrugged.
“We’d pay him from the other two, and he’d give us back the money.”
Dascha glared at him, her eyes narrowing. “Your. Gaydar. Is. B-r-o-k-
e-n.”
Wyatt chuckled.
“Don’t treat him like some charity case,” Dascha warned.
“I’m not, I’m not,” Wyatt said defensively. “He’s a nice guy who
needs a break. That’s all.”
Dascha rolled her eyes. “His break will be getting paid off, and-- ”
“Out of our lives forever,” Wyatt finished. “Sometimes, Dee, you’ve
got your eyes on the prize, but lose sight of what’s really important.” He
shook her off and strode ahead until Dascha lost sight of him.

*
When Wyatt returned to the stables the next morning, birds were
chirping in the tree tops, the sun was beating down, and a light breeze
shifted his hair. He flattened it out again.
Oliver was just coming in from the last training session of the day,
leading one of his racers. The rider helped strip the tack from the horse.
Wyatt stood back as they washed the horse down. Steam wafted from its
hide, lifting into god rays of sunlight.
 “Can I buy you a beer?” Wyatt called, standing back from the sluice
of water and soap.
Oliver laughed. “It’s ten in the morning, man.”
Wyatt grinned. “What’s your point?”
Oliver finished bathing the horse and asked that it be put away while
he talked to Wyatt. “Feeding time. Walk with me.”
Wyatt helped out with grain buckets. Oliver didn’t say much, but that
only endeared him to Wyatt more.
“Do they really eat this much all the time?”
“Yes, they do.” Oliver turned. “I thought you and your sisters have
been around horses?”
Wyatt fed another horse. “I played polo matches. She watched. That’s
the extent of our knowledge.”
“But you know their worth...”
Wyatt smoothed the forelock of one of the horses. “Oh, yeah. We
know the money side. That was first grade math for us. I promise you my
father wasn’t a terrible investor. There’s a reason we’re wealthy.”
“Then why don’t you buy the horses from your father’s estate?”
The men stared at one another. That thought hadn’t crossed Wyatt’s
mind. Oliver obviously enjoyed his work. The horses were well taken care
of. Why not?
“Because they’re bad investments!” Oliver stated the obvious. He
turned all broody. When Wyatt didn’t answer, Oliver grumbled, “I’ve made
my point.”
“But you picked them out for him,” Wyatt started toward Oliver.
“He picked them out himself. I only advised. He was dead set on these
three.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Showed what the Lanes really know
about good stock.”
“I know you’re good stock,” Wyatt said.
Oliver’s eyes widened.
Wyatt held his hands up. “Don’t take that the wrong way. I know
you’re a good guy. Under that cynical candy shell is a salty, soft center.” He
chucked him on the shoulder.
Oliver glanced down at where Wyatt had touched him, then back up at
Wyatt looking completely confused. Oliver stepped back awkwardly.
Wyatt cringed inside. He hadn’t meant anything suggestive. “For
cryin’ aloud,” he mutered under his breath. “I think you deserve a break!”
 Oliver seemed to ease.
Wyatt stuck his hands in his pocket, and did that little lean onto his
heels. “Tell you what. I’ll give you one of our horses if you date my sister.”
Oliver definitely looked like he wanted to bolt like a racehorse on a
bad day.
Wyatt ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “Wait. This isn’t
going the way I thought it would.”
Oliver paused.
Wyatt took a step toward him. “Can I ask you something personal?”
Oliver looked even more uncomfortable. “You’re already doing that.”
“Right.” Wyatt exhaled. “Do you...” his eyes wandered. “Do you like
women?”
Oliver’s eyes widened. “I’m straight as the stretch run, Junior.”
“That’s not what I meant!” Wyatt pulled at his hair. “It’s just that you
seem to run away from girls, and...” He cursed under his breath.
“What is this really about?” Oliver asked.
“I’m making you a business offer.”
“Does your sister know?”
Wyatt shook his head, taking one more step toward Oliver. He
touched Oliver’s shoulder. Oliver glanced at his hand, then back at him,
seeming confused, stunned. Wyatt offered his hand before it went too far.
“Shake on it?”
Oliver pulled away, leaving Wyatt disappointed and not sure where
either of them stood.
 FILL IN DASCHA TRIPPING
She was falling, but a split second before she was sure she’d have a
concussion, she stopped. Dascha looked into Oliver’s eyes. His fingers
pressed into her arm as he cradled her. They were rough, and strong, and all
too gentle. Her heart fluttered.
Dascha swallowed hard at. She wanted to fall all over again just so he
could catch her once more. She knew the words that would utter from her
lips would echo what she truly felt.
“Let me go.”
Oliver set her right, then rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
“Sorry.”
“You should have let me fall.”
He looked even more guilty. “Sorry.”
“Then I could have sued you and gotten out of this place.”
“Dascha Ramona Lane!” Wyatt scolded.
Oliver went from repentive to snorting. “Your middle name’s
Ramona?”
Dascha rounded on him, doing that face he loved.
“Like Ramona Quimby?” Oliver pushed. “You’re not so tough after
all. Trouble maker.”

Before she could sock him, Wyatt stepped in between. The fire
between Dascha and Oliver was so obvious, he felt it radiate from them like
a couple of old wood stoves; nostalgic and timeless. For a second, Wyatt
had to swallow back a little bit of jealousy.
“Now listen here, Sparky,” Wyatt said, glancing at both of them in
turn. “We want this deal to go down smoothly, but you’re both being a
couple of twats to one another. I want everyone to walk away happy, so can
we please,” he begged, “act like grown ups for five minutes.”
Dascha scowled at Oliver, then stuck her tongue out at him, to which
he promptly shot back, “Don’t stick it where I can lick it, darlin’”
Dascha’s face went as wide as the ocean. She wheeled and marched
away.
Wyatt’s shoulders slumped. He really did want her to be happy. When
he turned back to Oliver, the trainer was doting over the chestnut mare from
Wyatt’s father’s string.
 Oliver cooed and preened her, as though she meant the world to him.
Wyatt knew, just from how Oliver acted around the horse, that he was
completely wrapped up in her. If it could tie a string, Oliver would be
wearing it on his finger. Wyatt also couldn’t help notice a completely
different personality oozing out of Oliver when he was around the horse. He
was such a softy.
Whatever Oliver had against Dascha was simply a wall he was putting
up. Something tragic had happened to Oliver, Wyatt knew it in his heart.
Just like Dascha was struggling with her own emotions. Wyatt knew he had
to get them together. In the end, he was sure it would heal all of them. And
he’d get to spend more time with Oliver.
Oliver worked hard, cared about what he did on a level of business
Wyatt rarely saw, and was loyal. That much was clear. When Oliver hadn’t
gotten paid, he could have neglected the Lane horses. But he didn’t. And
that said something about his character. Dascha could use someone like that
in her life.
Oliver hung around the horse a few more minutes, gradually warming
with a smile. Wyatt wanted to see him smile like that more often. He
wanted to make Oliver smile like that. Wyatt pushed the urge away and
approached Oliver.
“Meet with Dascha one more time.”
Oliver instantly tensed. “I thought you had gone.”
“Yeah it’s easy to make the world disappear when you’re doing what
you love, isn’t it.”
Oliver sighed.
“Hear her out. Hell, do what she asks just once,” Wyatt suggested.
“You might be surprised how accommodating she can be if you work with
her instead of against her.”
Oliver turned, looking completely unconvinced. “One last time, but
that’s it. After that, I’m finding a private broker to handle your business.”
“Fair enough.” Wyatt offered his hand, and Oliver shook it.
*
The afternoon races were buzzing with motion. Wyatt had pointed
Oliver toward millionaire’s row where Dascha said she’d be waiting for her
brother. Wyatt had been all too willing to share the text with Oliver.
“Can I, uh,” Oliver hesitated as he approached Dascha. She turned to
look at him. “Can I buy you a coffee?”
 Her brow knit, as though she weren’t sure what to make of the offer.
“I’d like to start over,” he said. “I haven’t exactly put my best foot
forward, so to speak.”
Dascha returned her attention to the track. The next race would start
soon. Horses and riders decked out in brilliant colors paraded down the
stretch, headed for the starting gate.
Oliver sat near her. “Or I could buy you a drink,” he offered.
Dascha drummed her manicured fingers on the table. Oliver wasn’t
sure if that meant she was irritable or what.
“Scotch. On the rocks,” she said.
Oliver flagged down a waiter and ordered for them.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Dascha looked at him. “Of what?”
He tilted his head toward the track, hinting at the races.
“It’s interesting,” she confessed. “I can see why people get wrapped
up in it. I haven’t placed any bets, however.” She shrugged. “I wouldn’t
know who to choose.”
“I could show you sometime, if you’d like that is.”
Her eyebrow cocked.
Oliver lost his nerve. She already thought he was terrible at picking
winners, given the track records of her father’s horses. Why would she learn
anything from him? Oliver leaned back in his seat.
“I love it. All of it,” he said. “The colors, the sounds, the adrenaline.
It’s an addiction.”
“Is that why you hardly have a dime to your name, Mister Way?”
Oliver shook his head. “No. I just need a good horse. A great one.” He
squinted to the backstretch where the horses were loading into the gate. “I
know if I had a truly great horse, I’d get my name on the map.”
“You seem to be struggling with the decent ones you already have.”
Oliver scratched at a spot on the table casually. “You see my
problem.” He felt her eyes gazing at him, but didn’t look up. “Who’s going
to give a guy with mediocre horses the chance to even try?”
“Someone who believes in you.” Their eyes met. Dascha shivered.
Not wanting to field the feelings rising in her, she turned her gaze back to
the track. “Just don’t make my brother that person.”
Oliver pressed his lips together. The starting bell rang, and the horses
charged into motion. He and Dascha watched in silence until the thunder of
hooves and popping of whips rattled the clubhouse. Unable to help himself,
Oliver jumped to his feet, cheering.
When the race was over, he sat back down, just in time for the drinks
to arrive.
He offered his glass up. “Cheers?”
Dascha touched hers to his, their fingers brushing. The glasses
clinked.
Oliver downed half of the copper liquid before setting down his glass.
“So, Mister Way.” Dascha shifted in her seat. “Any news of the plans
you have for the Lane horses?”
He twisted the glass around on the table, leaving a ring of
condensation. He needed to find a solution to this mess, but he didn’t want
to tell her how he’d figure out acquiring Fools Rush In. “I found some
claiming races,” he said finally.
“No buyers, then?”
“Well.” He cleared his throat. “I was thinking it might be beneficial to
see if we could get one more win under their girths. That would increase
their value to a buyer.”
Dascha still didn’t fully trust him, but couldn’t deny the way he made
her feel. She was only here to get the horses sold, she reminded herself.
Attraction was not part of thedeal. She sipped her drink. “Alright. When do
you propose we run them?”
He rattled the ice in his glass. “Oh, in the next week or two.”
“Good.” They watched another race together and finished their drinks.
Oliver rose at the same time she did, and offered his hand. “You can
trust me, Miss Lane. I’ll take care of everything.” He offered a smile,
hoping it would win her over.
She extended her hand, hesitantly, as though he might bite. Finally
they met, skin to skin. Her breath hitched at his touch, remembering the day
he had caught her. She had been too harsh on him. Maybe she should give
him a chance. He might prove worthy yet.
He didn’t let go at first. He seemed to be lost in the same moment, but
his eyes drank her in like the remaining drops of whiskey in his glass.
The shrill of the starting bell brought them back to reality. Oliver
pulled away. “Until next time, Miss Lane.”
Dascha’s hand hung in the air, as though it wanted to hang on to his.
She smoothed her dress, and sat back down, dismissing him.
 Dascha received an invitation to join Oliver for the morning workouts
at Gulfstream Park. As she struggled to shake her grogginess, she thought
only people out of their mind got up this early. She dressed anyway. If
Oliver invited her to the workouts, it must be important. Maybe he’d have
more to discuss about her father’s horses.
And one grande half-caff mocha latte Americano would have her
awake in no time.
She let Wyatt know she was headed out on her own, and he simply
gave her a thumbs up. She was surprised at his laxity. She thought he might
want to go with.
Dascha made her way to Gulfstream and found Oliver down at the
rail. Trainers lined the white-washed metal, looking like a murder of
hunched crows in the dim morning light.
Dascha sidled up to Oliver, passing him a black coffee. “Wasn’t sure
what you liked.”
He took a sip, wrinkling his nose. He almost choked. “This is fine.”
She smiled. “A peace offering, if you will.”
He nodded, rubbing his throat. “Thanks.”
“You asked to see me.” Dascha sipped her coffee.
“I thought you might appreciate watching your horses work before
their race. I’ve got Faith out now.” He nodded in the direction of the
chestnut mare Dascha had seen.
“What am I looking at exactly?” Besides a rear-end, Dascha posed.
“She’s a good mover,” Oliver said. “But I think she would be better
suited for another sport.”
A little further down the track, the horse started running. Dascha
followed Oliver’s gaze. The only interesting thing was the way Oliver
seemed so enamored with the horse.
Dascha couldn’t help her self. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
Oliver seemed to choke on air. “Excuse me?”
She rolled the cup of coffee between her palms, warming her hands.
“Wife? Sister?”
He cleared his throat. “I have the horses, and that’s enough.”
“So you’re alone.”
His head whipped around. He scowled. “I just said I have the horses.”
She rolled her eyes. “Horses aren’t people, Mister Way.”
 “Would you drop the Mister Way stuff? It’s Oliver. Please.” He turned
his focus back to the horse.
Dascha smirked. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
“Hell yes,” he spat, looking at his timer.
She chortled. “Why are you so married to your career?”
Dascha watched Oliver’s jaw flex.
“Better than the alternative,” he grumbled.
Was he even interested in women? Dascha wondered. He seemed to
get along better with Wyatt. She drank her coffee, washing away the note of
jealousy, and brushed the notion off. Everyone got along with Wyatt.
The fact that even a spark of jealousy invaded her, caught her off
guard. “Why don’t we go to dinner before the race?” she suggested. “The
three of us.”
“Is Faith invited?” Oliver asked dryly.
He was funny. “Wyatt, You, and Myself.”
His attention was still so fixated on the horse. Dascha wondered even
more what had him so married to his work.
“I must ask,” she pressed.
He glanced at his stopwatch, then at the horse barreling around the far
turn. “Hmm?”
“Why do you feel like the horses make better companions?”
“Huh?”
“You said that horse would make a better girlfriend than I would, and
you don’t seem too keen on marriage, or women in general.”
He stiffened. Dascha still got a kick out of making him uncomfortable
for once.
She watched his knuckles brighten as he clutched the stopwatch.
Finally he huffed, “Would you leave me alone? I’m trying to work.”
“But you invited me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Dascha shrugged, sipping her coffee and started meandering away.
He turned, appearing as though he might want to say something, but
also looking guarded at the same time. “Self-preservation,” he said.
Dascha’s eyebrow arced.
“If I’m working, I’m not thinking about my past.”
“I would love to hear about that some time... Oliver.”
*
 Dascha and Wyatt shared a vanity mirror in their hotel room.
“What have you got against him?” Wyatt pressed.
“Nothing!” Dascha said, securing her earrings.
“You obviously like him.”
“I do not,” she protested.
Wyatt grinned. “Liar.”
Dascha perfumed herself, then squirted Wyatt. He winced, but
chuckled.
“You’re a terrible Poker player, Dasch.”
She moved to the edge of the bed to slip her shoes on, and sighed.
“Alright. I...” She really gave in. “I want the romance mom and dad had.
But I want love on my terms.”
“Dasch, love isn’t something you can control.” He stepped back,
motioning to himself, as though he were saying Prime example here. “Take
control of everything else in your life, but rush into love like a damn fool.
Surrender to it. You might surprise yourself.”
*
The dinner went off without a hitch. Finally it seemed they were going
to get along. The horses would race tomorrow. They’d all have a grand
time, and move on with their lives. Everyone was coming out a winner.
 Oliver tapped his foot impatiently as he waited to put in his claim
ticket on Fools Rush In at the Claims Office. The race was going off in a
little under an hour, and he wanted to make sure this was taken care of.
The clerk was taking her sweet time reviewing the paperwork. Oliver
needed to meet the Lanes in a few minutes. He didn’t want to be rude, but
he also wanted to shout would you hurry up!
A bile was rising in his throat with the knowledge of what he was
doing. He had no plans to tell the Lanes who claimed Faith. It had him a
little unnerved. What if they found out? He gripped the edge of the counter.
Everybody wins in this situation, he told himself. He got Faith. The Lanes
got their money. Oliver didn’t care if they had already told him no. It was a
good plan in his opinion.
The clerk finally finished with the paperwork and got Oliver situated
with his claim ticket. He shoved it into his pocket and skulked away.
The Lanes had made themselves comfortable in the clubhouse,
sharing a simple dinner and drinks. Oliver stood behind them.
“Greetings, Earthlings.” He couldn’t think of anything better to
describe them.
Junior wiped his mouth and smiled up at him. He stood and clapped
Oliver on the shoulder. “Ollie!”
Junior turned to his sister. “Dascha. Say hello to our friend.”
She took a sip of her drink and wiggled her fingers at him in a pseudo
wave.
Oliver grimaced. The other day she was all chipper and in his grill.
Today she was pretending he didn’t exist. Women.
“I can’t stay long,” Oliver said. “I have to bring Faith down for her
race. But I thought I’d say hello, and wish you the best.”
Junior grabbed his glass and raised it. “Here’s to winners!”
Oliver shook his hand. Butterflies scattered in his stomach, zapping
themselves on an imagined electric wire. Not because of the Lanes, but
what was going to go down. It left Oliver feeling completely sliced open
and readable. He was sure they’d find out. He could barely muster words.
“Thanks, uh... Wyatt.”
Wyatt grinned at him. “See you soon, boss.”
Oliver turned and headed to the barns. Faith peered over her mesh
stall guard, ears perked. She looked ready to go. Oliver took her out, gave
her a good brushing down, then walked her to the receiving area where she
was checked against her tattoo identification number under her lip, and a
small blood sample was taken. The vet in charge waved them on.
Oliver lead her to the saddling area. A valet assisted him with the
jockey’s tack and gear. Oliver worked quietly, grateful for this distraction.
He had to keep calm around Faith. Horses were too empathetic for their
own good. She’d pick up any little nerve he laid down.
He breathed a sigh of relief when the jockey showed up and mounted.
Faith was handed off to the track attendants. Oliver could rest easy for a
few minutes.
Returning to the Lanes, he asked if he could join them. Wyatt pulled
out a seat for him and offered to buy him dinner. Oliver declined politely.
His stomach was still threatening to belch admission.
Oliver noticed Dascha glance at him once or twice, and offered a
smile in return. She’d always turn away, looking uncomfortable. That only
made Oliver feel more guilty. Did he actually care about the Lanes? He
swallowed uneasily. Please, Lord, no. It would only make things worse!
Faith loaded into the starting gate with some minor fuss, but nothing
the gate crew and jockey couldn’t handle. For a moment, the world seemed
to stop. Oliver felt as though he were swimming underwater; unable to
breathe, unnaturally calm, and still drowning.
He closed his eyes, exhaling a breath he was holding. Just come home
safe, Faith.
The starting bell clanged and the field of horses surged forward. The
announcer’s voice was but an odd underwater echo for Oliver. He only had
eyes for Fools Rush In.
She settled midpack, and was moving well. The leaders were battling
it out in front. Faith moved up to fourth by the far turn. Her jockey swung
his whip out and flashed it by her eye. Faith dug in, pulling into third. The
leaders weren’t giving up. They were tough old brawlers, as many claiming
horses were. The Fight Club of the racing world. Never catching a break,
expected to work harder than anyone else for less.
Maybe that’s why Oliver loved Faith so much.
She bullied her way into second, and then it was a charge toward the
leader. He was a few lengths in front. As the wire drew closer, Oliver
slowly rose, believing in his horse with all of his heart. “C’mon Faith.”
Wyatt joined in. Within a few jumps, Dascha was into it too. They
were whooping and hollering. Fools Rush In was so close to the leader.
 “Come on Faith!” Oliver yelled.
The wire hit, and the horses finished as one.
Wyatt was laughing. “What a rush!”
Dascha pushed a few blonde strands from her face. Oliver couldn’t
help notice a slight glow about her. He went all puddly inside. Then sobered
up quickly. No, he told himself, cursing subconsciously. Just... NO.
He turned to Wyatt, shaking his hand. “Congratulations, Mister Lane.”
He reached for Dascha’s hand. She took it, and Oliver wanted to pull her
close. He wanted to squeeze her until his doubts went away, to feel her heart
against his. But when she didn’t meet him, it quickly reminded him what
was really at stake.
“I’ll go collect your paycheck, and take care of Faith.”
Wyatt, as usual, was quick with the touchy-feelies. Once again, he
placed his hand on Oliver’s shoulder, beaming. “Thank you. I’m looking
forward to the other races.”
Oliver nodded, with one last glance to Dascha. She took a sip of her
drink, and deep down he felt she was pretending to ignore him. He sighed
and left.

She hoped he hadn’t noticed, but every time Oliver looked at her with
those big hazel eyes, Dascha’s skin went to goosebumps. She was only
relieved when he left, because then she wouldn’t have to feel him so close
to her. She couldn’t help remembering when he had caught her when she
fell. The way he made her feel when he looked at her sent her all fiery
inside. Nobody had done that to her before. So she drank to numb the
feeling, that it would make it easier to ignore.
“Should we see her off?” Wyatt asked. “Make sure she goes to a good
home.”
Dascha finished her drink, and took her brother’s arm. They wound
their way down to the crowd, cautiously following Faith to her presumed
new stable. Wyatt chatted merrily, and Dascha listened. She supposed they
were both in a good mood. She, for sure, felt some measure of relief
knowing one horse was crossed off the list.
Dascha wished she could tell her father about it. He’d probably impart
some wisdom about dealing with the remaining two horses and chuckle
over her stubborness toward Oliver. He was always good at reading subtext.
She sighed.
 “Everything alright?” Wyatt asked, squeezing her hand on his arm.
“I miss Dad.”
She wasn’t really paying attention to where they were going, but when
she looked up, she definitely didn’t expect what she saw.
Oliver was putting the horse back in its stall. In his barn.
Her fingers dug into Wyatt’s arm. He squirmed.
“Dee...” His fingers burrowed under hers, desperately trying to release
the claws. “You’re hurting me,” he gasped.
Dascha reeled off his arm, hurtling toward Oliver. “What do you think
you’re doing?”
Oliver swung round, his face going stark.
She jabbed a finger into his chest. “You’re the one that claimed her,
aren’t you?”
Oliver tried to step back, but bumped into the stable wall. “I can
explain.”
A zing was buzzing through Dascha like a cat with its hackles on end.
“We expressly told you not to claim her for yourself, you greedy, dishonest,
low--”
“You don’t care about her anyway!” Oliver cut her off.
“Guys,” Wyatt tried to intercede.
Dascha and Oliver ignored him.
“All you care about,” Oliver growled, “is unloading your father’s
horses, getting your money, and paying me off.”
“I wouldn’t even say that much,” Dascha spat.
“Guys,” Wyatt called.
Oliver seemed to be emboldened, he stepped forward, invading
Dascha’s space. “I did you both a favor.”
Dascha looked up at him defiantly, her heart hammering in her chest.
Oliver lowered his head, his heated breath close to Dascha’s. “I made
sure she had a good home,” he hissed. “You’ll get your money. Happy?”
He was close enough to kiss. Dascha swallowed hard. Oliver had
betrayed them. She was angry, to be sure, a little heartbroken even that he
would be so underhanded. And yet all she could do was wonder how his
stubble would feel against her cheek, how warm his lips would be.
“Guys!” Wyatt dropped his head into his hands, groaning. “Get a
room.”
 Dascha placed her hand on Oliver’s chest, wondering if his heart was
working overtime like hers was. She pushed him away, never breaking their
gaze.
“Let’s go,” she told Wyatt, leaving Oliver behind.

Back at their room, Wyatt wouldn’t shut up about justifying Oliver’s

actions. Dascha had to tolerate listening to him while she took off her
earrings, and changed into her pajamas. Even when she was in the
bathroom, Wyatt wouldn’t shut up.
“Yeah, I feel a little backstabbed too,” he confessed. “But it’s a good
thing he got her. She’s going to have a great home.”
Dascha rolled her eyes as she brushed her teeth. Wyatt was leaning
against the door.
“She’s in good hands. I’ve seen him with horses. He’s a great guy,
Dash. I wish you could see what I saw in him.” Wyatt sighed wistfully.
She’d heard that noise before when he’d had a crush. She ripped open the
door, her toothbrush still foaming in her cheek. “You hawv feewings for
him, don’chu?”
Wyatt went pink around the ears and smiled sheepishly. “You did say
my gaydar is broken.”
Dascha slammed the door, bracing against the sink. She yanked out
her toothbrush and spit into the basin. Something inside her was tearing
painfully, serrating her core like a papercut.
Why did Wyatt have to fall for every guy he met? She rinsed off her
toothbrush. Ugh, why did she care? It’s not like she had a crush on Oliver or
anything... did she?
She washed her face, denying it all. But then again, why would she
hurt if she wasn’t jealous? Why would she sting at Wyatt confessing he
loved Oliver?
Lust was one thing, but real, genuine feelings were an entirely other
creature. And she had them. On a leash.
 “Hey Faith.” Oliver noogied the filly’s blaze, and pecked her on the
nose. He was in a pretty good place emotionally. Faith was finally his. He
might race her a few more times, but after this year he’d retire her. She’d
make a good track pony for the rest of the horses in his string.
But the way Dascha and Wyatt had left... Oliver’s shoulders hung.
Dascha had such an injured look on her face. She wasn’t just angry with
him. There was more.
But his father had once told him sometimes you have to do a terrible
thing for the right reason. And Oliver felt he had done that.
He gave Faith some extra grain and scruffled her mane before moving
on to the next Lane horse, the dark bay colt Bitter Creek.
What did the Lanes expect would happen anyway? They were there to
sell the horses and succeeded. Everyone came out on top. Oliver just helped
them out a little sooner than expected.
He stood back, admiring the colt. He could be a good horse, but was
still young. But it was time to cut him loose, and the Lanes too.
He patted the colt’s shoulder as the horse tucked into its breakfast.
Can’t be too buddy buddy with the boss, Oliver reminded himself.
The colt slobbered all over Oliver and rubbed his head against the
trainer’s chest. Oliver chuckled. He really did love his horses, and the sport.
Knowing he was doing what he loved made him feel a little better.
Oliver jumped when he turned. Wyatt and Dascha were standing
there, arms folded, silent.
“When did you show up?”
“Perhaps you should ask why we showed up,” Dascha said.
Oliver turned to fill Plastic Thunder’s, the gray gelding, haynet.
“Shoot.”
“We’ve decided to leave the other two horses in your care and return
to Boston,” Wyatt said. “We still want you to sell them, but we feel we’ve
gotten too involved in the process.”
Oliver frowned. He’d been around plenty owners like them, but the
Lanes were different. He was beginning to see that. He didn’t want them to
go. They’d been the most interesting thing that had happened to him in a
long while. Things definitely hadn’t been boring around the barn.
Oliver wanted to make amends before they left. And strangely, they
remained quiet as if waiting for him to say something, as though they didn’t
want to leave either.
 He finished with Plastic Thunder and turned to Wyatt. “I’m sorry to
see you go,” Oliver murmured.
Wyatt pulled him in for a hug, and Oliver didn’t resist. Given the
choice, he’d keep Lane Junior around as a friend. He was the easiest person
to get along with that Oliver had met, and he was in no hurry to let him go.

Dascha hung back, watching them embrace. Her heart sank. Maybe
my gaydar’s broken. Was there any hope for her?
Obviously Oliver wasn’t interested in women. What they were doing
was way more than a bro-hug. She was silly to think there could have been
anything between her and Oliver.
When Wyatt released Oliver, Dascha stepped to Oliver’s side. She
battled back tears, still feeling torn and mixed up inside. Her breath caught
when Oliver took her hand. She gazed into his eyes and swallowed. His
smile was demure. Dascha stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his
cheek.
She lingered, inhaling his personal cologne of leather and earth and
horse. It was intoxicating. She wanted to implant it in her memory forever.
He didn’t push her away either.
“Goodbye,” she whispered, easing onto her soles.

His hand hung in the air as she pulled away, not wanting to let her go.
Her kiss seared his skin, sending him back into memory of a girl with dark
hair who had sent his heart soaring. Oliver touched the spot Dascha had
kissed, making sure it wasn’t actually on fire. His palm slid to his lips,
pulling at them. His feet almost launched him toward her, yearning to pull
her back.
And at the same time, he was still standing at the altar waiting for the
girl.
He shook his head, trying to free himself. He didn’t want to deal with
her. Not today. Not ever.
“Is there anything else you’d like to say for yourself, Mister Way?”
Wyatt asked.

“Last chance,” Dascha said, her back still to him. She wanted Oliver
to say something. Anything. She knew there was more to him than his pony,
but she didn’t know what he was holding back. And she had to be sure
before she walked away forever.
When he remained silent, her head dropped, along with her heart for
good.
Wyatt took her arm and lead her to the car.

Oliver watched them go. Inside he was screaming come back!

Outwardly, his feet were glued in place. There was a girl walking away
from him, and a friend. And it was worse than that one day... the one day
that was supposed to be his happiest, but she never arrived.
 Wyatt finished packing his clothes with a sigh. Had he ruined
Dascha’s chances at romance by being so forward with Oliver? She had
been acting extra distant and avoiding Wyatt since they got back to the hotel
yesterday.
And was Wyatt making the right choice by leading his sister home?
He had been the one to suggest getting out of Oliver’s way. Things really
were getting too personal. They were probably distracting him. Dascha
hadn’t leaned one way or the other. So why had she agreed to go home?
Wyatt zipped his suitcase and went to use the bathroom, but the door
was locked.
“Dash?” He knocked. “You in there.”
“No,” she sniffled.
He pressed his ear to the door. His brow wrinkled. “Are you crying?”
“No,” she mumbled.
“Well, sis, I gotta go.”
The door swung open, and he almost toppled onto Dascha. Her eyes
were red and puffy, and a kleenex was rumpled in her fist.
Wyatt put on a pouty face for her, trying to appear sympathetic. “Aw,
babe.”
Dascha slipped into his arms. Wyatt rested his chin on her head.
“I’ve made a real mess of things, haven’t I,” he said.
Dascha nodded, sulking.
He rubbed her back. “Why don’t we stay?”
She pulled back instantly, her face pinched. “Are you crazy?”
Wyatt’s eyes widened. “Maaaaybe,” he replied with hesitation. If she
was sad because they were leaving, why was she upset over staying?
Dascha marched away. “He clearly doesn’t want us in his life. Just the
horses. He was happier before we came.”
Wyatt entered the bathroom, pointing toward the chase in the suite.
“You go be angry and confused over there. I have to pee.”

Dascha sank onto the chaise, batting her eyes with the kleenex. She
didn’t understand her brother.
“Go,” she called. “Stay. Make up your mind!”
Either way it was beating her up inside. She listened to the sink gush
as Wyatt washed his hands. When he opened the door, he leaned in the door
frame, regarding her.
 “We’re staying.”
Dascha threw her head back with a groan.
“You can go home if you like,” he suggested. “You’ve still got a ticket
for this evening.”
Dascha dropped her hands into her lap, staring at the mascara-stained
kleenex. It might has well have been old newspaper by now with how gray
it had turned. She sniffed. And tried to compose herself. Finally she looked
up. “I’ll stay.”
Wyatt did a crazy touchdown dance. “Yes!”
She crossed to him, grabbing him by the chin to make sure they made
eye contact and he heard her clearly. “But only to keep you out of trouble.”
He did his pouty face. “Aw. But Trouble is my middle name.”
“It isn’t.” She pecked him quickly. “It’s George.”
Wyatt grinned as she walked away.
Even though he was celebrating, deep down inside Dascha was only
concerned was protecting Wyatt’s heart. Oliver had tortured hers enough.

Readjusting to Lane-less life was like picking up the pieces after a

hurricane. They had come and gone from Oliver’s life like a whirlwind,
with just as much chaos and excitement. Of course they had seemed like a
nuisance at first, but Oliver admitted he missed them now. Without them, he
was simply going through the motions. The stable seemed too quiet the last
few days.
So when he turned around after feeding the Lane’s grey gelding and
saw Dascha and Wyatt walking toward the barn, he was understandably
stunned.
“I,” he stammered, “I thought you were leaving?”
Wyatt grinned. “So did we.”
Dascha folded her hands and shrugged shyly.
Oliver’s heart ascended. “Admit it,” he teased, “You couldn’t keep
away from all this.” He motioned up and down himself.
Wyatt swatted him in the shoulder. “That hot mess? Please.”
Dascha rolled her eyes. “We couldn’t bare the thought of you without
us in your way,” she said, dripping with sarcasm.
Oliver’s nose wrinkled over his smile. “I’ve got some work to do.
Wyatt, would you help?” Oliver moved to Faith’s stall and clipped a lead
shank to her halter.
 Wyatt shrugged off his sports jacket, laying it across the brick wall
that separated the stalls from passerby. “Love to.” He looked at his sister.
“Dasch?”
“Alright, but don’t you boys ruin my dress.” She rolled her eyes again
with a half-smile, but seemed content to be included.

Oliver lead the chestnut horse into the yard, and asked Wyatt to get
the hose. Dascha knew this could only end badly.
Wyatt turned the hose on and pulled it over, passing it to Oliver. He
asked if he could hold the horse. Oliver gave him the lead shank and filled a
bucket with water and some soap.
Dascha decided she didn’t want to get any water on her, so she
stepped to Wyatt’s side and asked if she could take over. He obliged, giving
her the lead shank. The horse blinked at her, breathing softly. Dascha
smiled. It was a pretty animal.
Dascha heard laughing and knew antics had already begun. Oliver
tossed the sponge at Wyatt, telling him to make himself useful. The horse
stiffened briefly as the water and soap trickled over its body.
Wyatt dipped into the bucket, then scrubbed the horse’s back and belly
at Oliver’s instruction. Oliver rinsed. Once or twice, Wyatt got sprayed for
being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He chucked the sponge at
Oliver.
Oliver laughed and sprayed Wyatt.
The horse threw up her head, pulling on the chain. Dascha got pulled
with her, and asked them to stop. But the boys turned to her instead. Oliver
sprayed her.
Dascha squealed, and so did the horse. He took the shank from her,
calming his horse down. She was momentarily distracted when Wyatt ran
up behind Dascha. She noticed him last second. “Don’t you dare!”
He dumped the bucket of soapy water on her.
Both Dascha and the horse squealed.
“Wyatt,” Oliver chided. “That wasn’t nice.”
“No, but it was funny.”
Oliver turned to Dascha, looking entirely sympathetic. “I’ll get you a
towel.”
His horse had seemed to calm down, but Dascha missed how he did it.
Probably with sweet nothings he’d never share with her. She shivered.
 The horse looked at her with deep eyes that took Dascha to a different
place and time, almost reminding her of her mother. Her mother had gentle
eyes like that; deep brown, and soulful. She wanted to swim in them.
The horse stretched her neck and sniffed Dascha. Dascha reached to
stroke the horse’s cheek, and the horse whickered as though speaking to her.
“What’s her name again?” Dascha asked.
It seemed to catch Oliver off guard. “Uh, Fools Rush In... but I call
her Faith.”
Dascha stroked the back of her hand across the horse’s face. “Hello,
Faith.”
Oliver rubbed Faith’s mane, smiling. “I’ll go get you that towel.” He
lead Faith off, and Dascha made a note to start calling the horse by its name
more often.
Then she wheeled on Wyatt who instantly knew he was about to
experience death on threat level midnight.
He held his hands up plaintively and backed away. “Now, Sis.”
“Don’t you Sis me, Fancy Man.” She grabbed the hose.
Wyatt took off running, with Dascha laughing and spraying after him.

The next few days, Wyatt watched Oliver and Dascha slowly work
better together. There was a screaming chemistry between them that was so
obvious to him. Oliver was looking forward to the next race where they
would run the gray gelding. Everything seemed to be going smoothly at
last. He was glad he had stayed.
But watching them, and knowing how he felt about Oliver, put an
needle through Wyatt’s heart. He loved seeing their smiles, and he wanted
to help them do that more often. Even though it hurt, he challenged himself
to continue their relationship. Push it along any way possible. And maybe,
just maybe, he could use the thing that made him love Oliver, make Oliver
love Dascha.
But Wyatt reminded himself he shouldn’t have a physical relationship
with the guy he’s trying to hook his sister up with. And yet, putting moves
on Oliver might push him away the way Wyatt intended.
So he took him for drinks.
“Fancy car,” Oliver noted when Wyatt picked him up from the stable.
Wyatt honked the horn for kicks and giggles. Oliver laughed.
“Dascha wants a Bugatti,” Wyatt commented.
 Oliver’s brow went up as he buckled his seatbelt. “You don’t?”
Wyatt ran his hand over the leather steering wheel. “Nah. I’m a sedan
guy. Classic. Black.”
“Huh. I hadn’t pegged your sister as a car lover.”
“Apparently the Lanes love fast things.” Wyatt winked and put the car
into gear. The tires spun and they flew out of there.
Oliver cautioned Wyatt to slow down, and Wyatt heeded him, even
though he teased that Oliver was being a party pooper.
“There’s these things called speed limits, Wy,” Oliver said, clinging to
the door handle.
Wyatt laughed and wound his way through town, guided by the
onboard GPS. He made casual conversation with Oliver until they arrived at
the sports bar.
“You’ve been so patient with us,” Wyatt said, scooting into one side of
the booth they were lead to. “I’ll pick up the tab. Get anything you want.”
“Are you sure?” Oliver asked, grabbing a menu. “I don’t want to
impose.”
Wyatt turned. “Barkeep!”
The bartender looked at him.
“Drinks on the house!” Wyatt called. The bartender gave him a
thumbs up. Wyatt turned back to Oliver. “Convinced?”
Oliver laughed. “You’re crazy.” He opened his menu and started
browsing. “The Porterhouse looks so good...” he murmured, but he still
sounded like he was testing the waters.
“Get it!” Wyatt beamed. “I really do mean it.” He stretched his leg,
until his foot bumped into Oliver’s shin.
Oliver shifted, moving his leg out of the way and continued to browse
the menu.
Wyatt opened his own.
The waitress took their drink order and promptly brought them two
steins of beer.
Oliver closed his menu, having settled on his meal, and chugged the
beer unapologetically.
Equally unapologetic was Wyatt’s foot, inching up Oliver’s ankle.
Oliver put the stein down and squinted at Wyatt, but Wyatt pretended
not to notice.
“So I think I found the perfect race for your colt,” Oliver said.
 Wyatt leaned forward. “Really.”
Oliver nodded. “It’s still a claiming race, but the tag is pretty high.
He’s young, still green. I think he would make a good project for someone.”
“Someone like me?” Wyatt smiled. “I think I’d like to get into this
business.”
Oliver drank more of his beer, shaking his head. “Don’t make the
same mistake your father did.” He had one hand on the table, and Wyatt
reached for it.
“I’m not.”
Oliver looked down at their hands together, his brow knit and
confused, then looked up.
“I want to talk about us,” Wyatt said evenly. He was playing his card
exactly as he intended.
Oliver slowly pulled his hand out from under Wyatt’s.
“I really like you,” Wyatt said.
Oliver dropped his hands into his lap, along with his gaze. He shook
his head, as though trying to shake the embarassment and awkwardness that
was coming. “Look, Junior.” Oliver half-smiled, then laughed
uncomfortably. He looked up. “I think you’re great, and all. We’d make
great pals. But, I told you... I’m straight as an arrow, brother.”
Wyatt casually withdrew his hand.
“In fact,” Oliver continued. He folded his hands on the table, and
leaned forward with intent. “I’d like permission to date your sister.”
The waitress brought their food. Wyatt couldn’t wait to dig in, and he
thought making Oliver wait until they finished their meal would be great
fun. So he cut into his own steak and started eating, carrying on how the
baked potato was perfect, and probably-- after too much beer-- made a
parable of potatoes and relationships.
Oliver grew more and more uncomfortable over the course of the
meal, asking if he’d upset Wyatt or offended him.
Wyatt ignored him, offering him a piece of his steak.
Oliver declined. “Please, can I date Dascha?” he cried.
Wyatt smirked. Oliver’s honor made him love him more. “Lower your
voice.”
Oliver dropped his head into one hand, tangling his fingers in his hair.
He chewed methodically, looking about as hopeless as Dascha acted
sometimes.
 Wyatt paid for the meal, still smiling. “Yeah, of course. What did you
think I was going to say?”
Oliver sat up straight as a solider, his face shattering into brightness
and smiles.
 “Dascha, will you go out with me?”
No, no. That’s not it. Oliver paced the aisle of his barn.
“Dascha, I’d like to buy you dinner.”
He pulled at his hair. Who was he to buy a rich girl dinner? He could
barely afford his own food.
“Dascha, I like you.”
No. His horses were starting to pick up on his nerves. They nickered
and whinny.
“Hey, I know this great spot where we can picnic together.”
Maybe.
“Would you like to come watch the other horses train?”
Er, wrong. Been there. Done that. I screwed that up, too.
Oliver sighed. None of them sounded right. Wyatt had given him
permission, and he couldn’t even figure out how to ask her out. He felt like
a fourteen-year-old boy in school again, all anxious and rashy around the
cheeks, knowing full well that girl was way out of his league. She’d
probably laugh at him, too.
“What do you think, Faith?” Oliver asked his filly. She blinked at him
inquisitively and butted her head against his chest, as if to say, be afraid and
do it anyway. Oliver’s tough little claimers and allowance race runners lived
their whole lives that way.
Oliver sighed. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked Wyatt. This was crazy
getting involved with them on anything beyond business level.
Who did that?
Me, apparently. Oliver looked skyward. I’m a fool. Faith whickered at
him. He smiled a little, feeling consoled. Lane Senior had picked her name.
Maybe Oliver would tell Dascha some time.

“Why don’t you meet me for our next horse’s race?”

“Okay!”
“And Oliver?”
He looked behind him.
“No funny business this time.”
He saluted her and strode off.

“The early game and mid-race is all about strategy. If the leaders out
front are pushing the time hard, it’s better to hang back and wait for them to
burn out. They might be rabbits.”
“Rabbits?”
“It’s a term for a horse that’s dropped into a race as a pacesetter for
another horse. They can tire out the field and set up a win for their
stablemate. If you’re dumb enough to get suckered in that is.”
“And they’re down at the wire, and it’s all adrenaline and
determination and who wants it the baddest. Gawd, I love it.”

She took his arm, and Oliver gulped. That staircase scene from Beauty
and the Beast flashed in his head. Even Beast knew Belle was out of his
league, but he was dancing with her anyway, gosh-darnit! And just like
Belle, Dascha surprised Oliver in the most tender of ways.
She looked at him with eyes so intense, he wondered if she saw
anything else but him. He knew he had her undivided attention.
“Faith, right?” Dascha asked.
Oliver nodded, pleased she had remembered.
Dascha hummed, greeting the filly with scritches.
“I’m starting to understand why people do this for a living.”

“I’ll...” Dascha backed away. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

Oliver’s brow creased. Where was she going? They were getting
along. Everything was going great. He swore she liked him, and then.
He turned to Wyatt. “She’s knows I’m not gay for you, right?”
Wyatt shrugged. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
Oliver groaned. She was into him, he could sense it. Maybe it was
time to start opening up about things.
“I could... help you woo her,” Wyatt said.
Oliver turned. Wyatt had his attention. From businessman to
wingman!
“Teach me, Yoda.”
 Oliver grinned, hands behind his back. “Pick.”
Dascha’s expression went skewed.
“Go on,” he urged.
She batted his left elbow.
Oliver presented her with a Kit-Kat chocolate bar.
She smiled. “What’s in the other hand?”
“You made your choice, and have to live with it,” he teased.
She rolled her eyes.
Oliver laughed and gave her flowers.
Dascha backed away, pressing her wrist to her nose. “I’m allergic.”
Oliver didn’t understand. Wyatt said...
“Once a month I’m allergic.”
What kind of cockamaney nonsense was that? “How does that work?”
“My olfactory is fickle,” she said. “Things I love the rest of the month
reek one week out of the month.”
She took the flowers anyway, eyes watering. “I appreciate the thought
though.”
He hung at the door, not sure if he should enter. He peeked inside to
watch her cross the room and situate the flowers. She sniffled and sounded
congested.
“Come in.”
He didn’t want to impose. “I’m good here.”
“No, really. I’m not feeling well today. It’s better if you come inside.”
He obeyed and shut the door quietly. “Where’s Wyatt?”
“At the track. You know you’ve gotten us both way too interested in
this sport.”
Oliver grinned. “Good. It’s a dying sport. It needs new blood.”
“The rich kind, I assume?”
Oliver shook his head. “Even a new generation of fans would be great.
Right now I feel like all we have is stuffy old money.” He glanced at her.
“No offense.”
She unwrapped the chocolate. “None taken.”

“They weren’t always rich. My dad worked his way up the corporate
ladder. He started as a mail boy and intern. Barely making ends meet when
he and my mom married. She was just a farm girl too. But they both had
dreams bigger than the both of themselves. And eventually, even with a
couple of setbacks named Dascha and Wyatt, they made them come true.
Dad was able to start investing. Got very smart about the market. He
seemed to have a knack for it even. And mom made a great manager. We’re
really not old money.”
Oliver was surprised. He just assumed Lane Senior was the type of
oil-grubbing tycoon or something. The well-to-do Rich Uncle Penny Bags
from the Monopoly Set.
“An as their assets increased, so did prospects for Wyatt and I. We
were swept into social circles and expected to adjust, even though our
parents had raised us as the type who preferred working. I guess that’s why
I’m not happy here in Florida. I’ve got nothing to do. Nothing to strive
toward. I want to get home and back to my job.”
She kept surprising him. He hadn’t expected her to be the office type.
Not with that manicure and perfect makeup.
“And then Mom got sick. When she passed, we all fell apart of course.
But we stuck together. We were miserable together. That’s what matters to
me. Sure, Wyatt chases after every guy he meets, but he’s not really happy
unless we’re on good terms. Same here, I guess. Family is everything. And
I missed my mother terribly. Even thought Wyatt and Dad were trying their
hardest... no one can replace your mom, you know?”
Oliver nodded solemnly. He barely remembered his own mother.
“So, not entirely sure what to do with a girl in the house, my father
started doing what every good father does, I suppose. He started parading
me off to all the rich boys at polo matches. Wanted to make sure I was taken
care of when he was gone some day. Never realizing...”
“You can take care of yourself,” Oliver finished for her. He took her
hand in his without thinking. Their eyes met.
She nodded, swallowing. “I want the love they had. But I don’t think
I’ll find it on a polo field. Maybe that’s why I’m so reluctant to follow you
into the racing world.”
He leaned forward, tilting his head. Her warm breath connected with
his, inches apart. Her eyes fluttered shut. He understood her. He knew how
she must feel. He was hesitant to really let her in after what had happened
to him. Their lips were almost touching when the door creaked open.
“Five hundred bucks, Dee!” Wyatt crowed.
Dascha and Oliver broke apart with a slight hiccup, both inhaling
sharply.
 “Wait, were you two...”
Dascha turned away, so did Oliver. Both blushing.
“Nope,” Oliver said, rubbing his neck.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dascha insisted.
Wyatt glared at the both of them. A devilish smile warmed his face. “I
am so playing poker with the both of you one night. You’re terrible liars!”
Oliver cleared his throat and got to his feet. “I should be going.”
Wyatt pouted. “Aw, Ollie. Staaaayyy.”
“I hope you feel better soon, Dascha,” Oliver said, squeaking past
Wyatt. Even though Wyatt practically squeezed him against the wall, too
playful for his own good.
“Are you twelve?” Oliver hissed to him.
“Fourteen. Perpetually,” Wyatt snickered.
Oliver rolled his eyes, playfully punching Wyatt in the shoulder.
“Goodbye, Junior.”
Wyatt waved the money in Oliver’s face. “I will take you for
everything you’re worth, Way.” He leaned in. “P-p-p-poker face.”
Little did Wyatt know, he already had.

Dascha managed to cajole herself out of bed before the sun was up a
few mornings later. She grabbed coffee on the way to Gulfstream, this time
the type Oliver liked. She sent him a sleepy text on the way, and got him
what he wanted. She was still bleary-eyed when she showed up at the rail
beside him. He was clocking the gray gelding her father had owned.
“Two down, one to go,” he breathed.
She passed him the coffee, and he sipped it before thanking her. He
raised his cup and bunted it against hers. “Cheers.”
Dascha tried to find the words for what had happened the other day
before Wyatt had burst in. It was nice of Oliver to bring her trinkets. She
had kept her distance from the flowers, but appreciated them all the same.
She had finally placed them in a perfect spot across her room where the
sunshine always struck them in such a way that the crystal vase she’d gotten
for them broken into a thousand prisms, and it was all rainbow and fire.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about their almost kiss either. In some
ways she was sorry for it, but others she wasn’t. Besides, it was him who
had tried to kiss her. And she was all wrong for letting him. He was with
Wyatt, wasn’t he? Who was she to steal him away? And now she had to
finally admit she really did have a crush on Oliver Way. And just as she
found the words to apologize, the gray gelding came off the track and
Oliver walked away with him.
She guess racing moved too fast for love.

Oliver understood Wyatt’s desire for Dascha to be happy. As Oliver

walked beside the gelding, he reflected on the kiss he and Dascha had
almost shared. Even though Wyatt was all for them getting together, Oliver
still couldn’t bring himself to fully committ. It was wrong. And he just
wasn’t the right guy for Dascha. She’d already left once with Wyatt. She
confessed she missed her job. What was going to make her stay? Certainly
not old Oliver Way.

He took her hand in his. They gazed down at their fingers intertwined.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. He looked into her eyes. “Sorry for the
way I first treated you. Sorry for the way your father treated you, and every
spoiled rich boy...”
She pressed her finger to his lips. “Shh... You had me at sorry.”
He stroked his thumb over her skin, still too unbelievably soft to have
worked a 9 to 5. “There’s this thing coming up. The track puts it on every
year....”
“The charity ball? I heard about it.”
He wasn’t sure how to ask her now that she knew about it.
She smiled coyly. “You can escort me.”
When she winked, he broke into laughter. Lord, when was the last
time someone had made him laugh so freely. So often?
 “You look distressed,” Wyatt said.
Oliver grimaced. “It’s the charity thing I invited Dascha to. It’s black
tie.”
“I heard.”
“I have one suit. It was my dad’s. It’s good for important race days,
but not so much for a ball.”
“Don’t worry, my friend.” Wyatt squeezed Oliver’s shoulder. “Ask
and ye shall be provided for.”
“I couldn’t.” Oliver shook his head.
“Of course you could.”
“No, really. Wyatt, you’re at least a foot taller than me.”
Wyatt shrugged sheepishly. “So we’ll get it hemmed.”
He dragged Oliver back to the hotel room he shared with Dascha and
opened up his closet. Wyatt encouraged Oliver to pick any of the four suits
he liked. Right after a fashion show.
Wyatt made Oliver try on each one, and gave him his opinion on
which one looked best on Oliver, but it was still up to Oliver to decide.
It’s not that Wyatt walked around in Tuxedos, but it was sure nicer
than the suit Oliver had.
“I still don’t feel comfortable doing this,” Oliver admitted.
Wyatt hung up the suits Oliver had passed on. “That’s it, then. We’re
going shaaaaw-piiiing!”
Oliver groaned. Wyatt sounded way too excited. Shopping was a girl
thing.
“I’ll make sure you look smashing for Sis,” Wyatt assured. “And,
while we’re at it. Keep the suit.”
Oliver was practically drowning in the beautiful periwinkle ensemble
he had on, but with a snip and a sew here and there it would look exquisite
on him. He sighed, sounding more reluctant than he felt. “Okay.”
Wyatt shooed him to the bathroom to change, and then whisked him
off to the best tux shop in town. “Dascha won’t know what hit her!”

Dascha wore a gold sequin dress with dark undersides. The kind that
if you brushed against them just right, they’d change from gold to black.
She looked like a mysterious mermaid. The front went up to her throat, and
the back dipped to the curve of her spine. Her dress contrasted perfectly
against Oliver’s neatly pressed tux, which Wyatt had generously purchased
for him.
Wyatt hung back, giving him an encouraging thumbs up as Oliver’s
hand gently slid to the middle of Dascha’s bare back.
She hung on Oliver’s arm like the perfect jewel accessory Oliver
needed. Oliver introduced her to some of his connections, not that he had
many.
Wyatt vowed to stay out of their way. Seeing them together was
bittersweet. They looked... happy. Something Wyatt wished for himself. He
still had feelings building for Oliver, but he knew he could never act on
them for fear of destroying their happiness. Dascha deserved to be happy.
After getting to know Oliver, him so much so.
Wyatt sighed and strode off to fetch himself a drink and mingle.
Maybe he’d meet someone too.

After an evening of drinking and dancing, Dascha was getting a little

bold. She wanted to go back to Oliver’s place. He did not.
Not that he didn’t want her, but that his quarters were nothing
compared to her own hotel room. He barely had a cot and a TV at the
Gulfstream Staff apartments. But Dascha’s words were starting to slur, and
Oliver thought it might be best to get her out of here before she made the
wrong kind of show of herself.
He was still so nervous when they got to his place. He unlocked the
door. It jammed anyway. He jiggled it, before Dascha took the opportunity
to straight up grab his face and kiss him.
Oliver’s eyes bugged-out. Was this really happening? She pulled him
against her, their weight freeing the door. They practically tumbled into the
one room apartment. Dascha immediately took to the small couch in the
middle of the room, leaving Oliver standing alone, admittedly shaken.
“This is...” She looked around. “Cozy.”
Oliver shut the door and tossed his keys on the counter, still
processing what had just happened. “Yeah.”
He intended to hang back. He should probably call Wyatt to come get
his sister. But Dascha patted the seat beside her.
Oliver blew out a breath and sat. He rested his hands between his
knees, leaning forward on his elbows. He hadn’t wanted their first kiss to be
like that. Cheapened by too much alcohol. He was torn inside.
 Dascha fell over into his lap with a contented sigh. “I like you, Ollie.”
Oliver raised his elbows to avoid bonking her on the head. He looked
like some cop was holding him at gunpoint.
“I...” he hesitated as she got comfortable. “Like you too, Dascha.”
She reached for his elbow, pulling it down until his arm hung over her
waist. “What happened to you?”
“Hmm?” He looked down at her awkwardly.
“You weren’t always a cynic. Nobody’s born that way.”
Oliver finally leaned back against the couch, thinking of the one that
got away. “There was this girl.”
He watched as Dascha intertwined his fingers with hers over her
stomach.
His whole body buzzed. He’d had a couple of drinks, but the fancy
stuff wasn’t really his thing, so he had laid off them. He couldn’t believe he
was seeing this side of Dascha; a side that was so casual and carefree. He
felt like she had told him a great secret. He’d protect it at all cost.
"I was so in love with her, and racing. But she wanted me to spend
fewer hours at the track and be more of a family man. I promised her I
could do all that and still be at the track. I loved racing too much. So she
gave me an ultimatum: her or racing. I thought she was joking. I mean why
would someone who says they love you ask you to sacrifice your passion?"
She squeezed his hand. "They wouldn't. They'd push you forward
instead."
"That's what I thought... until she never showed up at our wedding. I
was left standing there looking like an idiot in a tux I didn't own and friends
I didn't have. So I threw myself into racing, full force."
"I'm so sorry you had to go through that," she said, her eyelids
drooping.
"At least when horses leave you in the dust, you’ve got broken bones
to show for it. Love just leaves you wrecked inside with bruises no one can
see."
When she didn’t answer, Oliver looked at her. “Dascha?”
She snored. Loudly.

Wyatt looked down at his phone. It was getting late. Oliver had
invited him over, but didn’t say why. Gulfstream Apartments. I need you.
Come.
 Oliver swore up and down he was straight, but if he needed Wyatt...
Wyatt wasn’t about to hesitate taking up an invitation. There had been
plenty of drinking at the fundraiser with its open bar.
But when Wyatt finally got there, he had to squint in the darkness.
Was that...? "Dascha?"
She jumped, squealing. She spun around, the angriest look on her
face. "Wyatt!"
He started laughing. "Are you doing the walk of shame?"
She flung one of her shoes at him, which he caught. "Shut up."
She rushed down the stairs at him, putting a hand over his mouth to
stop his laughing.
"You've been drinking," he mumbled behind her hand. "You're drunk."
"You know I can't hold my liquor. I had like two glasses of
champagne."
"And my mother was Whitney Houston," he quipped. “You smell like
a sailor.”
Dascha finally let him go. "It's not what it looks like."
"Then what's it like?"
She balanced against him as she pulled her shoe back on, then took
the other one from him. "Nothing happened. He was a perfect gentleman. I
got tipsy, I passed out, and that's that."
Wyatt smirked. "Okay, sure sis."
He gently lead her to the car, got her back to the hotel and situated in
her bed. He was a little disappointed Oliver’s invitation wasn’t really for
him, but Dascha’s safety was important, so Wyatt didn’t mind. And, hey,
kudos to Oliver for once again being exactly the kind of guy Wyatt thought
he was.
“I bet that other girl can’t even shoot whiskey,” Dascha said, her
words still slurred.
Wyatt’s brow knit as he pulled the covers over her. “Other girl?”
Dascha nodded, already drifting off.
“Alright, whatever. You can tell me all about it in the morning, Miss
Featherweight.”
Dascha flipped him off as he finished tucking her in.
“...If you remember.”
 Dascha jumped at the sound of her phone blaring. The room was still
dark, until she realized the curtains remained closed. She looked at her
phone.
Her head was splitting. She had to squint at the screen just to read it.
The alarm said breakfast with Oliver.
Dascha groaned. Not because she didn’t want to spend time with
Oliver, but the fact that she didn’t want to get out of bed. What did she do
last night?
Wyatt snuck in with a mug of coffee and two aspirin. He also fished
through her purse and produced her sunglasses. “I’ll drive you.”
“Don’t yell,” she hissed.
Wyatt hissed back, “I wasn’t.”
She sipped the coffee, wincing. “Seemed like you were.”
Wyatt shrugged and went back to his room to change.
Dascha worked through the coffee, popping the aspirin, and hoping
she’d be presentable for Oliver.
She winced as she scanned her memory. There was the ball, and then
Wyatt took her home. That’s what she remembered.
Dascha dressed carefully, hypersensitive to every tactile sensation--
even her clothes sliding over her skin. She put the sunglasses on and fixed
her hair in a messy bun, then knocked on Wyatt’s door.
“Ready?” he asked.
She had an impulse to flip him off, but decided to be nice instead. She
followed him downstairs and passed him her phone so he could look up
directions to the cafe.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asked when he dropped her off.
She shut the door without answering.
Inside, she found Oliver fidgeting with his silverware, trying to make
the bottoms of the handles line up. But then the tops got out of joint, and
he’d start over again.
When he saw her, he leapt to his feet and tugged her close for a hug.
Lord he smelled good. He’d gone through the effort to shave and take
care of himself. His voice was as warm as his scent. Her internal attraction
barometer went through the roof. And it sucked because her splitting head
was ruining it all. It elevated everything.
“Morning,” he said. He let her go.
Dascha pulled out a chair.
 She nodded, secretly wincing behind the sunglasses. The waiter came
to take their order.
Her voice was raspy, “Orange juice, and an egg.”
“How would you like that cooked, miss?”
She waved her hand as though to shake off the notion. “No. Just bring
me an egg.”
The waiter shrugged and took Oliver’s order.
Oliver reached for Dascha’s hand. “I had a nice time last night.”
She didn’t pull away, but didn’t really acknowledge him either. She
glugged down her entire glass of water. Then immediately regretted it. She
pressed her fingers to her forehead, and started to cry.
Oliver leaned forward, concern on his face. “Are you alright.”
“Hangover,” she whimpered.
He frowned sympathetically. “Do you remember any of last night?”
The waiter brought their drinks. Dascha cracked the raw egg into her
orange juice and stirred with her butter knife. “We had a nice time at the
ball, didn’t we?”
Oliver swallowed, holding back his disgust. “What is that?”
“Hangover juice.” She lifted the glass to her lips and drank.
“But... why?”
She set the glass down, dabbing at her lip with her napkin. “Vitamins
help.” She blinked. “You’ve never had a hangover?”
“Years and years ago, but my dad just gave me coffee.” He gestured to
her glass. “That must be some rich girl thing.”
She didn’t have the willpower to be offended at the remark. “We
danced. You were lovely. Wyatt took me home.”
Oliver sank in his chair. “That’s all you remember?”
She drank the rest of her orange juice concoction. “Oh, and I had a
few drinks.”
He guffawed. “No, really?”
“You seem upset.”
“Well... yeah.” He shook his head incredulously. “You don’t
remember...?”
“What, Oliver? Remember what?” The tone of her voice sounded as
though it dared him to free her memory.
His shoulders slumped just as the waiter brought their breakfast.
“Nevermind.”
 Oliver tried to make idle chit chat while he worked on his omelette,
but Dascha didn’t say much in return. He looked as though someone had
deflated him. And it made Dascha wonder what she was missing.
She thought she’d go to Gulfstream with Oliver, but when Wyatt
showed up she looked at her date confused.
He still looked pretty stoic. “I’ll catch up with you later,” Oliver said.
Wyatt waved. “Should we go to the track?” he asked Dascha.
She shook her head. “Take me back to the room.”

And catch up with Oliver Wyatt did. The trainer seemed quick to air
all his grievances. Wyatt shifted gears without a hitch. Master Yoda in the
house.
“I don’t get it, Wy. She doesn’t remember.”
“What doesn’t she remember?”
Oliver gulped, cautiously putting it to Wyatt. “We kissed.”
Wyatt pressed his fingers to his chest as though it shocked him.
“Really?” he asked, exaggerating. Obviously.
His nonsense made Oliver chuckle.
“Was it squishy? Were there tongues?” Wyatt pressed. “Tell me all the
juicy details.”
Oliver shoved him like they were teenagers.
“What’s there to tell? She was drunk as a polecat on moonshine, and
doesn’t remember a thing. She fell asleep on my couch and I left her there
to ask you to pick her up.”
So Dascha was telling the truth. Wyatt sobered up himself. Looking at
Oliver, he saw the man he was inside and out. He fell a little more for him,
but his resolve grew deeper as well. Dascha was in the hands of a knight.
Chivalry wasn’t dead afterall.
Wyatt knew he had to walk away before he fell deeper for Oliver. He
had to walk away an let Dascha and Ollie find their own path together.
He clapped Oliver on the back, smiling. Then nodded, patted him
again, and walked off, never turning back.
It was too painful to be there with him. Wyatt loved both of them too
much. But he’d never be with Oliver.
 “Where you going? Did you fight?”
Wyatt had packed so suddenly, Dascha couldn’t understand.
“I’m leaving,” Wyatt said, shutting his suitcase with finality.
“What do you mean you’re leaving?”
Wyatt smiled subtly and kissed Dascha on the cheek. “I wish I could
say I’ll see you back home, but... I hope I don’t.”
She turned on her heel as he left, wanting to follow, but stuck.
What was she supposed to do now? She didn’t have a Wyatt to babysit
anymore. Then she remembered she had asked if he and Oliver fought. She
should probably make sure Oliver was okay.

Wyatt was kind enough to take a cab and leave the rental for Dascha.
She drove to Gulfstream, finally having the drive memorized after these last
four weeks, and thought only of Oliver and how he was doing. How was he
taking Wyatt’s departure? She hoped it hadn’t hit him too hard. They
seemed close.
When she arrived, Oliver was tending to Faith. Sometimes Dascha
wondered if he paid as much attention to the other horses in her stable. All
the ever seemed to talk about was the Lane horses. But she knew they were
all well cared for. Racing was everything Oliver was about.
She smoothed her dress, feeling nervous for some reason she couldn’t
pinpoint, and called to him. “Oliver!”
He turned and smiled at her, not looking too worse for wear.
Dascha exhaled and steeled herself. She was going to be his shoulder
to cry on. Wyatt had been there for them, now it was her turn to repay the
favor.
She took a bucket he was filling with water and carried it for him.
“I’m really sorry Wyatt had to leave.”
“Yeah, me too,” Oliver glumly replied.
“You know if you ever need anyone to talk to...” she implied.
He took the bucket from her, smiling gently. “Thanks.”
She stepped back to allow him to pass. “Soooo... when’s the grey’s
race?” She reached to scratch Faith who nibbled at her fingertips.
“Still working on it,” he said as he took another bucket to fill.
“You know I wouldn’t mind investing in a horse and trainer.”
Oliver’s eyebrow cocked. “Don’t make the same mistake your father
did.” He finished filling the bucket with water and carried it. “At least your
brother was smart enough to go home.”
Dascha tucked her lip. “Oh.”
So maybe Oliver didn’t want her around either. That stung a little. But
it made sense. When someone dumped you, did you really want to be
around their bossy little sister?
“I was actually referring to hiring you.”
“I know.”
So he really didn’t want her around. “I guess I’ll go. Call if you need
me.” She turned, ready to go back to the hotel or find some way to amuse
herself until the final horse was sold.
“Dascha wait,” Oliver called.
She paused, looking over her shoulder.
“I’d love your company this afternoon if you’ll meet me.”
A smile lightened Dascha’s face. “I’d like that. Very much.”
He asked for her phone, and put in the address for her. “Four o’clock
okay?”
She nodded. Maybe he did want her around. And maybe he’d open up
about Wyatt and she’d be able to be there for them.

Dascha didn’t expect to meet Oliver at a beach riding place, but she
had to admit she wasn’t surprised. In fact, it was sort of cute.
Oliver introduced her to a heavy man with fingers like sausages.
“This is Jerry. He owes me a favor,” Oliver said.
Jerry shook Dascha’s hand with a smile. “More like betting debts.”
Jerry lead them over to two sturdy, but scraggly looking horses. They
only had bridles on. Jerry gave Dascha and Oliver a run down of the rules
for safety on the beach. Dascha and Oliver couldn’t help continually
exchange glances.
When Jerry left them to the horses, Dascha got a little nervous.
Oliver swung up onto his mount without a hitch. “Problem?” he
asked, looking at Dascha still on the ground.
She twisted her palms together. “I’ve never actually been on a horse.”
“I thought you grew up around them?”
“I diiiiid, buuuuut... Just never rode one.”
Oliver bit his lip, looking as though he was trying not to laugh. He
turned his horse. “Jerry!” Oliver called. “My lady friend needs some help.”
 Jerry came back out and after sizing up the situation, pulled out a
mounting block to help Dascha onto her horse.
“Her name’s Secret,” Jerry said of the liver chestnut mare. The horse
had a flower woven into her mane. “You want to know why?”
Dascha clambored on the horse awkwardly, grunting, “Not really.
Why?”
“She has a secret,” Jerry confided. He helped Dascha sit up properly
and gather the reins.
“What’s her secret?” Dascha asked, a little flustered.
Jerry gave the mare a pop on the behind. “She’s a girl!”
The horses took off with Dascha and Oliver. Dascha screeched, which
only made her horse go faster. Oliver caught up and grabbed Secret’s reins
to slow her down until Dascha was comfortable.
“You okay?”
Dascha brushed some stray hairs from her face and did a mental once
over. “Yes, I think so.”
Secret snorted. She craned her neck and nipped at Oliver’s horse who
bared its teeth back with a squeal.
“Quit it,” Oliver commanded.
The horses tossed their manes like two reprimanded kids.
His knee brushed against Dascha’s and between the tingle he gave her
and the light tropical breeze, Dascha wasn’t sure where she stood with him.
The sun was starting to set, staging a glorious purple and gold bar
over the horizon. Waves crashed onto the beach. Oliver’s hand slid to hers
on the reins.
“Got her?”
Dascha nodded, but she didn’t want him to let go. Not because she
was afraid of the horse taking off, but the way his warmth and strong hands
felt on hers.
Even being this close to him was hard, knowing how he must feel
about Wyatt.
“So about you and Wyatt.”
Oliver shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about that.” He looked at
her. “Let’s talk about the future.”
What was left of it? The grey would race, and Dascha would go home
she supposed. She wasn’t sure if Oliver really wanted her around. It would
be so much easier if he simply told her how he felt about everything. Lay it
out for her. And she knew she was losing control, but she didn’t care. She
only wanted to stay with Oliver. He felt like more of an anchor every day.
He stared into her eyes, and the power of it made her gulp.
She couldn’t deny it any longer. She was in love. Signed, sealed,
delivered.
And it was all spiraling into panic from there.
She kicked secret into a canter and barreled down the beach.
 Not wanting to upset Dascha further, Oliver sent Jerry after her. Oliver
tried calling Wyatt to see if he could get any insight to Dascha’s behavior.
Had he done something wrong?
The phone rang and rang. Wyatt never picked up. Oliver sighed and
replaced the phone into the receiver on Jeff’s desk. He was on his own.
How would he win Dascha over? Why had she run off like that?
The phone rang. Without thinking, Oliver answered it. Maybe it was
Wyatt.
“Hullo?” Oliver said.
“She’s fine,” Jeff answered.
Oliver’s shoulders slumped. He was glad Dascha was okay, but
disappointed his wingman had flown the coop for sure. “Thanks. Should I
wait for her?”
Jeff took a moment to ask, and Oliver heard Dascha decline in the
background.
“She’ll take care of herself,” Jeff said.
Oliver said thank you and hung up. Back to the drawing board, and
back to his lonely apartment. At least he still had the horses.

FILL THIS IN
“What is going on, Dascha? Just tell me!”
Dascha bit her lip.
Oliver looked desperate. “Don’t you like me? Can’t we have an adult
conversation about how we feel?”
“Yes,” she huffed exasperately. “I like you.”
“Then what is the problem? Why do you keep pulling away?”
“I mean... you and Wyatt.”
Oliver’s eyes widened. “Wait. Me and Wyatt?”
“Well, yes. You were always touchy touchy and seemed so close, and-
-”
Oliver started laughing like it was a colossal joke.
Dascha’s face scrunched up in that way he loved.
“Your brother’s a great guy, but I’m not,” Oliver cleared his throat.
“We were never together.”
Dascha’s mouth opened slightly with an “oh.”
“How could you not know, Dascha?”
 “I...” she stammered, “I just assumed.”
He grasped her elbow gently. “Do you know your father’s favorite
song?”
“Sure it was Plastic Thunder by Bitter Creek.” Dascha paused and her
face went stark as she pieced the two together. “Oh my gawd!” Did her
father seriously do what she think he did? How had she not put the two
together until now!
Oliver chuckled. “Actually, he said it was Fool’s Rush In. He thought
it was perfect for Faith. He just fell in love with her and rushed in to buy
her.”
Dascha had a faint memory of being very small and young, peeking
into her father’s study and seeing her mother and father sway to the music.
“And...” He brushed her hair aside, murmuring, “I can’t help falling in
love with you.”
His arm slipped around her back, gently tugging her close. It was all
instinct from there; Dascha’s surrender, his lips tentatively brushing against
hers, her going on tiptoe to meet him partway. He deepened the kiss, tongue
flicking, teasing at her mouth. She inhaled sharply, swept away by the
moment. Tingles everywhere.
She didn’t want it to end.
She loved this man.

Oliver’s mouth followed hers as she broke away. Dascha pulled back
abruptly, with questions in her eyes. Oliver didn’t understand. Why did she
still look confused. She was tugging away from him, and all of a sudden he
was spiraling inside too. What was happening? Slow the world down!
“Don’t go,” he almost choked. He ached inside. She was leaving him
all over again.
Dascha paused with her back to him.
“I don’t want you to ever go,” he confessed. He took a step toward
her, sliding his hand into hers from behind. He lowered his head and
brushed his lips against the crook of her neck. Maybe she didn’t remember
what he had told her before, but he knew it was now or never.
“I thought the last girl I fell for was my forever girl,” he murmured. “I
was so in love with her and so in love with racing. But she didn’t
understand. She didn’t know how I could love two things equally.”
Dascha’s fingers tightened on his, but she didn’t pull away.
 “And she left me.” He inhaled, nuzzling the spot behind her ear. He
squeezed his eyes shut. “Please don’t leave me too.”
Like a bad dream, Dascha’s hand fell from his and she walked away.

Something deep down triggered inside. A drunken night where she’d

kissed him blatantly. Oliver woke it all up. She remembered him telling her
how his fiance had given him an ultimatum, and left him standing at the
altar.
So what was Dascha so hung up over now? He’d practically borne his
soul to her. Also, she could definitely outdrink that girl.
It wasn’t right, though. Something still wasn’t sitting right.
Maybe it wasn’t the right time in her life, or Maybe Wyatt was right
and she still wanted control over the way she loved. It wasn’t fair to Oliver
either way. She had to pull back. Dascha barely knew him. What did they
have in common? A couple of horses and a gay, eccentric comic relief...
who wasn’t even there anymore.
Dascha twisted her hands. The horses wouldn’t be there anymore
either.
Oliver needed to heal. The way he begged her to stay; she still heard
the hurt in his voice, the vulnerability. He wasn’t ready for a relationship.
Was Dascha?
And there she went again, trying to control the situation. She pushed
out Wyatt’s voice reminding her that love isn’t something you control.
That’s not love at all.
So was she in love or wasn’t she?
Time would tell.
But time, Dascha felt, was running out. Plastic Thunder’s race would
come up soon, and that would be the end of her deal. Her father’s will
would be done.
 So instead of being in his business and getting too personal, Dascha
decided to see how she could help him instead. While they had time left,
she’d learn how this racing thing worked.
She showed up at the rail for Plastic Thunder’s morning workout,
offering Oliver yet another coffee. She watched the gray gallop across the
track, rolling her own cup of joe between her hands. Maybe the warmth
would melt something in her; give her the courage she needed to make it
through until Plastic Thunder’s race.
Oliver took his cup and smiled. “Thanks.”
Dascha nodded.
They both trained their eyes on the grey.
Oliver sipped his coffee. “So... Is this a regular thing now?”
Dascha gazed at the steam escaping the spout of her lid.
“Maaaaaybe.”
Oliver smiled. “I’d like that,” he said without looking at her.
Dascha’s arm hair rose to attention, her skin going all goose pimply.
When Plastic Thunder returned to Oliver, his rider gave the trainer
feedback and Oliver took over. Plastic Thunder snorted, flicking his tail.
Dascha walked on the far side of oliver, safely away from the imposing
horse.
Her eyes darted to the gelding from time to time. He was older, and
his body showed for it. He was musclely and powerful; the arc of his neck
majestic. He had a look on his eye that was so intensely focused, Dascha
thought it might blaze a hole through her like a laser.
Oliver placed a steady hand on the gelding’s neck. They walked in
silence back to the barn. Dascha couldn’t help notice the connection
between them; a steady, lasting trust.
She wanted that touch.
When they reached Oliver’s stable, he asked Dascha if she’d like to
help bathe Plastic Thunder-- or at least hold him so Oliver could.
The old gelding seemed bomb-proof, so Dascha took his lead shank
and held him while Oliver rinsed the horse down.
Dascha carefully reached for Plastic Thunder’s face, placing a hand on
his brow. This soul-moving subtle vibration moved between them, an
energy she hadn’t known before. She smiled. As though to encourage her,
Plastic Thunder rubbed his face against her palm. She curled her nails into
his fur with a smile, gratifying his urge for a scratch.
 “You can call him Petey,” Oliver called from the gray’s damp rump.
“Hello Petey,” Dascha said to the gelding who blew out a breath in
response.
He stood perfectly still for the both of them, letting Oliver work,
unflinching.
Oliver dried him off and they lead him back to his stall. Dascha began
to note how steadfast the gelding was compared to Faith. Faith was laid
back, but Petey was a soldier waiting for a command. All business-- much
as Dascha had been.
He went willingly into his stall, ripping into his hay net. Oliver patted
him, then said hello to Faith. Bitter Creek swung his head over the stall
guard mesh, his tongue hanging out to the side like an oversized Great
Dane. He threw his head making his tongue flop around. Dascha couldn’t
help but laugh.
Oliver called him a weirdo and attention hog. “You’re such a goof,”
Oliver said. “Even when you run.” He playfully shoved the colt’s head back
into the stall.
“Do they all have personalities like this?” Dascha asked.
Oliver nodded. “Yup. They’re like people. Faith is laid back. Petey is
a hard working, straightforward guy. And this bozo here... well...”
Bitter Creek poked his head out again and Oliver noogied his
forelock. “They’re not just adrenaline on spindles.”
“Does it affect how they run?”
Oliver nodded. “Yeah, but sometimes even the most courageous horse
can’t outrun his pedigree. That’s Petey’s lot in life.”
“And what about you, Mister Way?” Dascha stepped closer to him.
“Do you think people can overcome their circumstances?”
He slipped his hand into hers so slowly, she had to look down. She felt
him trembling, as though he weren’t sure she’d accept him. His other hand
folded around theirs, lifting them up so she’d look him in the eye.
“If given the chance.”
His gaze alone asked it of her.
A shiver raced down her back. The kind that makes your toes curl and
your core warm. She didn’t want to let go, and yet she needed to her. Her
hand pulled from his and she turned away.
“Is there anything else you need from me today?” She asked.
 Oliver sighed so heavily she could almost see his shoulders falling
with it. “No.”
“Until tomorrow, Mister Way.” She didn’t look back as she walked
away, but she knew he was standing there rubbing his neck futilely.
“Yeah.”

Oliver didn’t get it. He felt like they were getting closer, but then
she’d push away. It wasn’t exactly rejection. Something was holding
Dascha back. He shared his past with her-- the parts that hurt-- but she’d
stayed with the basics. What was her hang up?
Faith whickered to him.
Oliver turned around and regarded her. He rubbed her face. “What do
you think Faith? Got any girl tips for me?”
She head butted him, then rubbed her faced against his chest.
He hugged her neck. “Not much help, but thanks.”
Oliver was about to walk away to tend to his other steeds when he
stopped to consider how he had acquired her. Was Dascha still mad over his
underhandedness? Was it a trust issue? He stepped back. Faith blinked at
him. Oliver understood how trust could get in the way of things.
He nodded to himself. Hopefully Dascha would come back in the
morning.
 Dascha was already at the rail when Oliver stepped over to it. He had
just sent Bitter Creek out for a jog when he noticed her.
He elbowed her playfully. “Fancing seeing you here.”
She passed him his coffee wordlessly, her eyes fixated on the dark bay
colt moving into the morning mist.
Oliver took it, feeling awkward already. Now what? He cleared his
throat. “I’m glad you came.”
She sipped her coffee when Bitter Creek disappeared in the haze.
“What’s on the docket?”
Oliver shifted his weight to one foot, hitching the other. “Same ol’,
same ol’. Horses gotta eat. This guy’s gotta train.”
Dascha didn’t seem to acknowledge it.
Oliver stared down at his cup, wondering how to approach her with
his question.
She finally looked at him, and he made sure she was met with a
hopeful smile.
“Mind if I help out again this morning?” she asked.
He nodded firmly. “Please do.”
Bitter Creek finally emerged on the other side of the track where a
hash of god rays lit up his coat, burnishing him bright and burgundy. He
tugged at the reins, asking his rider to let him go faster, but settled when he
was held back. Except for the boing-boing crow hop of a toddler-like
tantrum.
Oliver shook his head. “Goober.”
Dascha actually smirked.
They waited for the colt to finish his workout, circling the track again
at a walk before he came back in.
Oliver took his reins, exchanging words with the rider. Bitter Creek’s
eyes were wide and wiley. He danced like blue electric across a wire,
snorting and prancing like a circus horse.
Oliver gave his reins a tug, asking him to settle down, but the the colt
was too full of himself. Oliver glanced over his shoulder to see if Dascha
was following, and she had-- well back. He got it. Bitter Creek had a big
personality. His energy was easily felt like the ripple that starts a tidal wave.
When the colt suddenly skirted to the side, Oliver’s attention was
instantly back on him, tugging on his reins again to get his attention. Bitter
Creek shook his head, half-rearing.
 “Now is not the time to put on a show, bud,” Oliver warned.
The colt came back down and settled into step beside him. Oliver
shook his own head, exasperatedly.
Dascha gave them a wide berth to meet Oliver’s stride away from the
horse. “He must be feeling his oats.”
Oliver sighed. “I wish it were that. I haven’t even fed him yet today.”
Dascha chortled, which made Oliver smile. It put him at ease, and that
tension release seemed to zap right up the lead shank to Battle Creek who
finally chilled the heck out.
“Go on ahead and fill a bucket with warm water, please,” Oliver
requested. “I’ll take care of him.”
She nodded and went on ahead, giving Oliver time to tilt his head and
admire her backside with great appreciation.
Dascha was like an hourglass, even in the new clothes she wore,
which were surprisingly dressed-down. She was finally in a pair of jeans,
and it was not wasted on Oliver to notice.
The corner of his cheek dimpled, making him forget about the impish
colt at the other end of the line. Bitter Creek bumped into him, then
squealed, as though he were laughing-- like he had done it on purpose.
Oliver shoved him back, grumbling.
If he were human, as goofy as he was, Bitter Creek would definitely
be that best-friend bromancer. Go get ‘er, son, he seemed to egg Oliver on.
When they reached the yard by Oliver’s stable, Dascha was waiting
with the bucket, and holding the hose in one hand. She stared at her nails
with a grimace.
“What’s wrong?” Oliver asked.
She showed him a nail that had snagged and broken. He grinned at
her. “Is that the first time you’ve broken one?”
She passed the hose to him with a pout. “No. Of course not.”
He took the bucket from her and proceeded to scrub Bitter Creek one-
handedly. Dascha hung back and watched the colt whirl in a circle like a kid
trying to get away from the tub. Oliver pursued him relentlessly, making it
seem like no big deal. They just kept going in circles until the job was done.
Dascha joined them on the way back to the stall. Once the colt was
safely put away, Oliver turned to her and took her hand unexpectedly.
“Let me see.”
 He went over her fingers with a studying eye, then reached into his
back pocket and pulled out a pocket knife. “You’re part of the crew now,
missy. Getting your hands dirty like that.” A couple of quick clips, and her
nails were even again.
Their eyes met, and he kissed her fingers tenderly. “All better.”

Gah, why did he have to do that? Dascha went all to pieces inside. She
wanted to kiss him. To push him up against the wall and pin him until he
had no choice but to surrender. Make him say that they shouldn’t be doing
this, but in reality giving her permission.
Her hand slipped from his. “I’ll help feed,” she said, walking away.
The sound Oliver made was the same as before. That shoulder-
drooping sigh. It made her heart snag painfully the same way her nail had.
“Is it Faith?” he asked.
She paused in the walkway. “What?”
“Every time I try to get close to you, you pull away. Is it the way I
claimed Fools Rush In? Did I ruin any chance I had with you then?”
She turned back to him. Why did he have to have that puppy dog look
every time he asked her things like this? She glanced at the chestnut filly
who was observing them complacently. Faith whickered at Oliver, and he
went to her to rub her neck.
Seeing the two of them together, the way Oliver treated the filly like
she was the entire world to him, made Dascha’s heart soften somehow. No,
there was no bitterness left over him claiming her. Watching them, Dascha
knew they belonged together now.
She wished she didn’t question where she fit in on that. Racing was
Oliver’s universe. Faith was like the sun he gravitated around. And what
was Dascha? A distant star, at best.
“No,” Dascha said. “I forgive you. We both let ambition get in the
way.” And I’m learning to let go...
 Dascha continued to show up for the morning workouts, wondering
when Plastic Thunder would race. She was enjoying Oliver allowing her to
help with his ten or so horses, but being near him was starting to get
painful.
He celebrated each broken nail, and her slow deterioration from one
track minded powerhouse, bent on running a business perfectly, to a country
girl with a business mind.
Oliver even started teaching her how to groom Faith and Petey, since
they were the quietest of the bunch.
Each time Dascha went in to Plastic Thunder’s stall, she smiled and
greeted him with, “Hey there, soldier.”
He always craned his head to look at her and blink with eyes so dark
and deep, they were an ocean of wisdom. If she weren’t falling for Oliver,
Dascha might admit she had a little pony crush on Petey. She began to
understand Oliver’s love for Faith. While Plastic Thunder could work like a
farm horse all day long, he was still so gentle and stoic. He almost
reminded her of her father.
Being together in this quiet, more laid back way was a nice change of
pace. Dascha was learning to be human again. As Oliver pointed out, you
couldn’t learn if you didn’t make mistakes.
And they had both made plenty.
Ruefully, Dascha thought about Petey and Oliver as her next mistakes.
It was tempting to retire the old gelding, the way Oliver had for Faith, and
give him a better life. But she had strict instructions from her father.
Everything must go.
And even though Oliver had changed her life for the better, Dascha
knew he was part of the liquidation. She wouldn’t be able to hold onto him
once everything was finalized. It wasn’t smart. Her life was back in Boston,
not here.
She sighed, followed by Petey’s sighing snort. She had to laugh. She
took his great head in her hands. “What do you think, old man? Should I
stay, or should I go?”
And part of Dascha, deep down inside, really did wish her father
would speak through this horse right now. Wyatt would say stay. Would her
father agree?
 Petey butted his head against her hard enough to shove her toward the
door. Dascha thought that was her answer, but when she turned around
Oliver was there hanging up the gelding’s hay net.
He smiled at her briefly, then focused on feeding the gelding.
Oliver’s smile was almost worth staying for.

The way Dascha smiled back at Oliver was almost involuntary. You
can tell that about people sometimes. Oliver thought back to his favorite
movie, Patch Adams, and the experiment young Patch did where he
randomly smiled at people to see if they would smile back. He was able to
tell when a smile was genuine or forced. And Dascha’s was definitely
genuine.
Oliver wanted to scream “Stay!”, but he also didn’t want her to know
he had heard her conversation with Petey. When he searched himself, he
knew he’d walk right to Boston with Dascha if she asked him. He’d find a
way to bring Faith, too. She’d fit in the passenger seat, right?
He imagined cruising down the freeway with a Thoroughbred perched
in the seat, possibly with their head out the window dog-style. That made
him grin.
And that made Dascha blush.
She folded her hands together in that coy way she had. “I’ll see you
tomorrow?”
And that old urge to call her to stay almost wrecked its way out of his
mouth. He wished he could grab her wrist and pull her to him, craving the
way she felt against him. The very thought made his chest hurt. Oliver
thought nothing outside of racing would ever make him feel this way again.
He was wrong.
He had to swallow to clear the emotion from his throat. “Sure,” he
squeaked, his voice betraying him. “Sorry.” Oliver fake-coughed, clearing
his throat when Dascha giggled. “Dust.”
He nodded. “See you tomorrow.”

Dascha was right there at the rail the next morning with Oliver’s
coffee. She scanned the track, looking for any of her father’s horses. She
didn’t see them, but she did see Oliver talking with one of the other trainers.
When he caught her eye, he brightened and waved. Two more words with
the man he was talking with, and he was all Dascha’s.
 He jogged over, eagerly taking the coffee from her and surprising her
with a peck on the cheek. Dascha wasn’t sure if a heat wave happened this
early in the morning or if her cheeks were as fiery as she felt inside, but
either way her face tingled. The corner of her mouth lifted as she rolled the
cup between her hands. “Morning.”
“How are you?” Oliver asked, sipping his coffee.
“Good. You?”
His face dimpled with a soft smile. “Better. Now that you’re here.”
They glanced at one another, and feelings happened.
He nudged into her shoulder. Man, was this coffee seeping into her
arms now? Because everything was getting a lot warmer.
“Nobody’s out today,” she said passively.
“Your horses are off,” he answered. “Even athletes need a rest day.
I’ve got another horse out there though. Would you like to get him fed after
his workout? I’ll take care of the bath and grooming.”
Dascha nodded. “Not a problem.”
They stood quietly, basking in both the sunrise and each other’s
company.
Oliver’s eyes remained trained on a dark horse on the other side of the
oval. He cleared his throat, sounding reluctant. “I found a race for Petey.”
Dascha’s brow knit. “Oh?”
“Yeah. There’s a great claimer coming up. Should be perfect for him.”
Suddenly their silence grew awkward. Dascha shifted, almost away
from Oliver. His hands tightened on his cup.
“When?” Dascha finally asked.
“Next week.”
She nodded again, this time feeling dismayed. Oliver’s horse was
rounding the turn from home, barreling down the stretch. He was a beauty.
“What does he need? Food-wise.”
“Just fill his net. I’ll take care of the grain.”
Dascha went on ahead, knowing the clock was officially ticking
down.

Oliver stared at the dirt spraying as his trainee swept by. Something
heavy and disappointed dragged on his heart. Oliver looked over his
shoulder as Dascha’s form grew smaller in the distance. He had hoped
they’d at least walk together. But even the mention of Petey’s race seemed
to put Dascha back in aloof mode.
Business as usual. Oliver returned his attention to the colt who pulled
up, blowing hard from his breeze. The horse’s shadow cast long over him,
ominous and powerful. It was a darkness Oliver loved, even the slobber and
pungent sweat on the animal, and he realized... this wasn’t Dascha’s world.
Standing around in the shadows all dirty, waiting for things to happen. As
much as Oliver wanted her here, maybe she was better off in Boston. He
would have to accept that.
The exercise rider was riddling Oliver with a long jargon of words,
but all Oliver could do was nod and feel like he was swimming underwater
where everything was muffled and slow-motion. He nodded robotic-ly and
took the colt, heading back to his barn.
 With the end of their business tryst in sight, Dascha knew she had a
decision to make. She couldn’t leave Oliver hanging. It seemed cruel now
to take away his horses, and part of his livelihood. She knew there was no
guarantee Plastic Thunder’s new owners would want him as a trainer.
Dascha wasn’t that person anymore. Something had happened inside. She
hadn’t softened. She’d just... changed. Oliver wasn’t only some nail in a
plank holding together the ship, he was a real person. He had feelings and
needs. So what did he need?
Dascha’s muscles tightened. The colt’s hay net was hung, and she was
almost through with filling it. She’d even gone as far as to bravely muck out
his stall-- another broken nail added to the roster, naturally. But she didn’t
care. It mattered more what happened after this. Did Oliver even talk to
Wyatt anymore?
Then Dascha realized what Oliver really needed. He didn’t need her
or Wyatt. He needed connections. Real ones that would actually give him a
shot at stepping up in the ranks. Give him a few stakes horses, or classier
ones for better, to play with. Dascha smiled, dreaming of what Oliver could
do with a horse like that. And again something inside of her changed. Her
heart swelled. Not for love, but a sense of pride. For Oliver. He needed a
shot like that.
Dascha knew important people, and she knew how to work those
people. Rich people. Money bags that were bored out of their minds and
needed something to throw it all at. Sometimes life was too easy when it
was all given to you. Mundane. Who wouldn’t want a thousand pounds of
adrenaline hurtling down to a line in their name? The ultimate competition.
Oh, yes. Dascha could find people like that.
So now she had a goal, and she had to make it happen within the next
week. Because when Petey was claimed, that was it. She didn’t know what
happened after that, but there was Boston and Wyatt, and the company their
father had left them. It still needed running. Her office was waiting. And
their lives needed to go on. So she had to make sure Oliver was taken care
of. And once he had the right connections, what would he need Dascha for?
It was better this way.

The colt jittered at the end of the lead shank, catching Oliver off
guard. He couldn’t focus. Time was a daze right now, and all he saw was
Dascha. A better trainer would’ve yanked the chain on the colt, but Oliver
knew it was his own fault. He was distracted. And his colt knew it. Dascha
distracted Oliver.
Here he was ready to give it all up, and now he was deciding she
distracted him. It was better to let her go so he could go back to living his
life, focusing on what mattered.
Or did it?
Why would he give it all up if it mattered?
Oliver swallowed a lump in his throat. Here he was at the precipice
again. That damn ultimatum. The girl or the track. Either way it was the
romance he dreamed of. Why couldn’t he have both? He wanted both!
He sighed, finishing up with his horse and leading him toward his
stall. Dascha had finished with the feed, already holding the grain scoop for
Oliver. He avoided her gaze.
She wasn’t even asking him to give it up. She wasn’t asking him to
choose. Even dopey, drunk Dascha had said anyone who loved you
wouldn’t make you do that.
He slid the halter from the colt’s face, and slung the lead rope over his
own shoulder. Did Dascha love him? Since she wasn’t asking him to choose
and all...
Oliver replaced the stall guard mesh, ready to ask her, but Dascha
wasn’t there. He looked around and patted the colt’s neck as the horse
reached for its hay.
“Dascha?”
She’d left the grain scoop for him on the low wall across from the
stall. He grabbed it, rubbing the back of his neck. Where had she gone?
He tried not to let his heart race, thinking of a life without her. As
though the moment were already here. Where he’d call for her and no one
would answer.
Oliver busied himself with getting the colt’s grain, then started
peeking into stalls. He found Dascha loving up Petey something fierce. She
had her arms wrapped around his neck and her cheek pressed against his
soft gray coat while the gelding dozed. Dascha’s hand smoothed over his
shoulder, and Oliver’s heart beat a little slower. Calmed. Almost like Petey
had. So zen.
And Oliver wanted that same touch.
“Dascha?”
“Hi,” she answered quietly.
 He rubbed the back of his neck again, trying to find the words.
“Where do you see yourself in a year?”
She hummed, as though amused by the question. “Where do you see
yourself in a year, Oliver?”
I’d like it to be with you, he thought, surrounded by a grandstand of
screaming fans and a horse with roses over its back. But I wouldn’t be a
winner because of that. I’d be a winner because of you.
He thought it. But it didn’t come out that way. “Here.”

Dascha turned her head so that she was looking at him, but her other
cheek rested against Petey. Oliver had a quizzical look on his face. Maybe
even pained. He looked like she felt; she didn’t have a clear image of where
she’d be. She didn’t know where she wanted to be. Dascha knew duty
called her, that was about it.
That and she totally loved this stupid horse.
Petey’s tail swished as though he heard that. He liked her too.
I want to say here, too. With you, and Faith, and Petey. Like an old
couple with their over-sized dogs. She pictured him reading the racing form
in a high-backed arm chair, and her curled up nearby with a book in front of
a fireplace.
Yup, he’d definitely changed her.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Oliver stated.
Dascha stepped reluctantly away from the gelding. The gray shifted
his weight and sighed.
She went right up to Oliver, practically nose to nose. The old Dascha
would hold him there, twist his imaginary guts out, and answer Boston.
This Dascha?
A wayward smile turned up the corner of her mouth. She shrugged.

Oliver’s eyes fluttered shut. Her nose brushed against his. She had to
stand on tip toe to do that. She was toying with him. He exhaled, wanting
desperately to ask May I kiss you?
But he held back. “I’ve got some other horses to tend to.”
And he felt her warmth slip away. A distance open between them.
He looked at her, and she had stepped back.
“I’ve got some business too.”
 Oliver sighed the same way Petey had-- with the longing of her
presence, and moved on with his day.
 Dascha’s father wasn’t a superstitious man, but if he ever taught her
anything, it was this:
Make sure the last thing you say to someone is kind. Because you
don’t know when you’ll see them again. Oh, and never goodbye. That’s bad
luck.
So as Dascha put the final brush strokes against Petey’s coat before
his race, she tried not to think about goodbye, only see you soon. She’d see
him again in other races. He was a consistent money earner, and sound as
they come. There was no reason for his new owners to stop racing him. He
might even stay with Oliver, fingers crossed. Then she’d definitely see him
again. She’d come to visit, or... something.
Wyatt would probably laugh and call Oliver for her, and ask to put
Petey on the phone.
When Oliver wasn’t looking, Dascha squeezed the gelding’s neck,
accidentally ruffling his previously sleekly coiffed mane. She kissed him,
too. “I’ll miss you,” she whispered.
Oliver lead him down to the receiving area while Dascha went to
change her clothes to look more appropriate for the race.
It wasn’t a big race like the type of sporting event you get dolled up
for, but she still wanted to look appropriate as the role of estate executor or
quasi-owner. Whatever they called you. That much of her had stayed the
same. Show some decorum.
This time, she took a place down at the rail. Old Dascha would’ve
stayed up in the owners’ box with cocktail shrimp and wine, but for Petey--
this Dascha wanted to be right there for him. She even felt a little nervous,
and didn’t dare check him out in the walking ring. She didn’t want to jinx
him.
Not goodbye.
See you soon.
Dascha closed her eyes and breathed. She didn’t open them until a
strong, rough hand slid over hers. Oliver stood beside her with a similar
strained look on his face. She noticed his jaw flex as he watched Plastic
Thunder canter by with the lead pony to the gate.
Dascha tucked her lip, then turned her hand over to receive Oliver’s
and squeezed it. She looked up at him, hoping he’d look back.
 His fingers tangled with hers in a way she wished their bodies could.
But he didn’t meet her gaze.
The announcer’s voice took over.
“And they’re all in line.” A hush fell over the crowd, then the starting
bell clanged. It was different being down here on the ground, Dascha
noticed. An electricity she hadn’t felt in the grandstand. Her grip tightened
on Oliver’s fingers.
“Away they go,” the announcer said. He started his sing song call of
the race, a jumble of names and colors. Plastic Thunder rumbled along
behind the leaders, biding his time. He was in a perfect position to strike.
Dascha’s heart drummed to the rhythm of his gallop. A thrill went down her
spine.
The race was only a sprint, something that should’ve been easy and
light for ol’ Petey. And Dascha was ready to jump up and down when the
gelding made his move at the top of the stretch. He sprung forward,
overtaking the horse in third. But then he bobbled like a kayak in the rapids.
Something was wrong.
His jockey stood in the irons, and the pack slipped away. An
ambulance screeched down the clear side of the track. Petey’s jockey had
already pulled the gelding over, clear of the field, and dismounted. He held
the gray’s leg, begging him to stop moving.
Petey threw his head, his eyes wild and wide. Dascha’s old soldier
wasn’t acting like himself. He fought like a colt, refusing to accept defeat--
or help.
Oliver’s hand ripped from Dascha’s the way she feared their worlds
would. He swore under his breath and jumped the rail, sprinting toward his
limping horse.
Dascha pushed through the crowd. It was a blur of “scuze me”, and
“I’m the owner”.
The veterinary team put up a green hospital screen around the horse
and the ambulance. It could only mean one thing.
When Dascha reached them, it was a cacophony of chaos. Petey was
down on his side, pinned by Oliver. The gelding squealed in agony. Oliver
stroked his cheek.
Dascha could barely sort through the voices. The vet prepared a
syringe.
“What’s going on?” Dascha cried.
 “Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to leave,” an assistant took
her by the arm.
“No, you don’t understand,” Dascha replied, pushing back against
them. “I need to be with him.”
“Dascha, go,” Oliver’s voice rose over the din.
She couldn’t belive it “What?”
He looked over his shoulder. His face was pinched and red, his hair
askew. “Get out of here.”
“Ma’am, if you’ll--” the assistant tried again.
Dascha tore her arm away. “No. Petey!”
Oliver launched at her. “YOU DON’T BELONG HERE!”
Dascha staggered backwards, almost falling. As though his words
battered her to the ground. I don’t... I don’t belong here.
She wheeled, tears springing to her eyes.
Dascha didn’t belong here anymore. Not in Oliver’s life. Not in his
world. Maybe she never did.
She ran off like a young girl with the sting of having her heart broken
for the first time.
 Dascha’s phone rang as she packed her suitcase. She wiped her eyes
with the back of her hand before answering. “Hullo?”
“Hello, is this Miss Lane? I’m calling about the business offer...”
Dascha pressed her hand to her aching forehead. She’d been drinking
to quell the pain of last night’s tragedy, but it did nothing to numb her pain.
“Yes, this is she.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t get together sooner. I’m in Miami. Could we
meet for lunch?”
Dascha double checked her plane ticket on her phone quickly, flipping
between apps. She still had a few hours before she needed to be at the
airport. “That should be fine. Text me the address.”
“Sure thing!” the man said cheerfully.
Dascha hung up and looked forlornly around her gaudy suite. It was
more than she needed. More than she wanted anymore.
Her phone binged with the notification of a text. She opened the
message and put the address into GPS. She’d clean herself up and get over
to the meeting.
She could still do this. She’d do it for Oliver. I can still make it right.

When she arrived, she was met by a lovely red-haired woman about
Dascha’s mother’s age-- or what she would’ve been, and a handsome older
gentleman in a blue sports jacket. He had wavy blonde hair that faded to
silver and a smile that could sock the knox off the Yankees. He extended his
hand. “Miss Lane, I presume?”
She met him and shook firmly, like her father taught her.
“I’m Grover, and this is my wife Matilda.”
Rich enough? Eccentric names and fancy restaurant, check!
Matilda offered her hand as well. “Please, call me Mattie.”
Dascha offered them both a smile and took a seat.
Before she could start schmoozing, the seat beside Dascha’s yanked
out irritably. She almost jumped. Dascha turned to see Oliver easing down,
sunglasses hiding his eyes. Probably trying to look slick and worthy or
something.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Grover said. “But I invited Mister Way as
well.”
Dascha had to swallow back the sob that threatened to come. Her
voice was hoarse, “Not at all.” She smoothed the linen napkin in her lap.
 Mattie touched her husband’s arm. “We’re not much for small talk, so
let’s get down to business.”
Grover beamed. “We’ve been long time fans of racing, but we’ve
never really had an ‘in’. When your firm called us, we were eager to meet.”
Oliver’s head slowly craned toward Dascha. One finger slid the
shades a stitch down his nose as he glared at her. He must have caught on
quick.
The shadow of dark circles lay beneath his eyes. “What is this, some
kind of pity party?” His voice was low and gravelly.
Dascha leaned toward him, keeping quiet. “No, why would I--”
He shoved the shades back up his face, throwing his napkin onto the
table. “I was fine on my own, Dascha. I never...”
“Never what?”
Grover and Mattie stared at them. “Do you two need a moment?”
Both Dascha and Oliver glared at them, then rose. Dascha was the
polite one this time. “Excuse me.”
She turned to Oliver and smacked him.
The entire restaurant was looking at them now.
“This is your wake up call, Mister Way,” Dascha seethed.
His hand shot to his unshaven, offended cheek. “I’m not some kind of
helpless--”
“And I’m not your happy meal. So either you make nice with these
lovely folks who are giving you a g’damn chance, or leave. I’m not going to
be the one telling you where you belong.”
She sat down and smiled demurely as though nothing had happened.
“Where were we?”
Grover and Mattie had this look of overwhelmed haplessness as
Oliver stood there, contemplating his future.
After a minute or two, he finally sat down and proceeded with the
most uncomfortable lunch Dascha had ever sat through.
She stayed quiet most of the time, only speaking to vouch for Oliver’s
ways as a trainer. Reinstating what she firmly believed: he deserved the
chance, and he really was a wonderful man.
When it was finally over, she rose and left wordlessly.
Because you never said goodbye.
 Oliver hadn’t seen Dascha in a month. Grover and Matilda were great
patrons. And given his experience with Dascha, Oliver was used to the way
they worked. They actually knew bloodlines, having been fans of the sport,
but also knew business.
Oliver was headed toward his first big stakes race with an amazing
filly they had purchased. And Grover and Matilda had even introduced
them to some of their friends. Things were looking up. Oliver would soon
have everything he wanted.
But he wasn’t happy.
What had made him excited and passionate before just felt empty
these days. And he kept beating himself up for letting Dascha go the way
she did. He knew it had to end somewhere, but couldn’t he have been more
gracious about it?
Of course Dascha wouldn’t give him a free pass to success. He had
earned it like everyone else. How long had he been harping about needing a
chance? Dascha had given him that.
So why was he depressed?
The morning of the stakes race, Oliver’s new phone rang in his
pocket. He answered a number that looked familiar, but wasn’t in his
contacts.
“Hello?”
“It’s Wyatt.”
Oliver’s eyes widened. “Hey!”
“I wanted to congratulate you. I saw her in the racing form. Well
done.”
“Thank you.” Oliver hesitated. “How’s... how’s-- “
“Dascha?”
Oliver nodded, even though he knew Wyatt couldn’t see him.
“She’s fine.”
“I’m sorry for the way things ended,” Oliver admitted.
“They didn’t have to,” Wyatt said.
Oliver’s eyebrow arced.
“Dascha was a mess when she got home. She said you told her she
didn’t belong there.”
This time, Oliver’s brow knit. “What?”
“You screamed it at it her, bro.”
“That’s... That’s-- “
 There was a silence on the line. Oliver could just picture Wyatt
standing with his arms folded, waiting for an explanation. The Big Brother
pose.
Suddenly Petey’s euthanization came to Oliver. He remembered now.
Yelling at Dascha. A knot formed in his throat. “I never meant it like that.”
“Yeah, well. She took it like that. One more thing, Mister Way.”
Oh, this was serious. They were getting back to formality. That wasn’t
Wyatt’s way at all.
“She’s not the one who arranged the meeting with Grover and
Mattie.”
Oliver swallowed. “Okay...”
“She finally believed in you enough, like I did, to look through her
clientele. She suggested a few candidates, but I’m the one who made the
appointment. You’re welcome.”
The line went dead as Wyatt ended the call.
Oliver stood, staring into the distance, numb. He’d really screwed this
up.
That fact alone made him go into his stakes race like a zombie. This
was a moment he should be reveling in. He’d made it. But all he could think
about was how to make things right with Dascha.
He sent his filly off to the track and joined Grover and Mattie in the
owners box. They were bubbly and excited, and their filly finished second.
It was then that Oliver realized winning wasn’t everything.
He excused himself as quickly as possible, letting his new stable crew
take care of the filly.
Without realizing what he was doing, he rushed tot he airport and
slapped a credit card onto the counter before an airline worker. “Get me the
next plane to Logan International.”
Boston, he we come.

A knock fell on Dascha’s condo door. She had been in the middle of
eating some Chinese food that was unusually bland. The TV droned in the
background.
The knock fell again, more urgently.
Dascha shut the TV off, wiped her mouth, and went to the door. The
last person she expected to open to was Oliver Way.
 He leaned on the door jamb, his hair such a mess and five o’clock
shadow sloppy that he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“I can’t eat. I can’t sleep,” he said slowly, slurred.
Dascha’s brow wrinkled. “Have you been drinking?”
He pushed a finger to her lips. “It takes a lot of courage to say this.”
Dascha’s lips trembled behind his touch. He’d definitely been
drinking. Liquid courage.
“I thought getting a leg up would make me happy, but... Sorry, can I
come in?” Oliver sagged.
Dascha moved out of the way, motioning him in.
He flopped onto the nearest couch, hands resting between his knees.
“I’m not,” he stammered. “I’m not--” He glanced over his shoulder. “Do I
smell Chinese?”
Dascha folded her arms, drumming her fingers and tilting her head.
Oliver shook his head. “Sorry.” He looked at her earnestly. “I never
meant to scare you off. When Petey--” he paused as Dascha’s face strained
at the memory.
Oliver swallowed. “I didn’t want you to get hurt. That’s what I
meant.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well. I did.”
He looked at her apologetically, then patted the seat beside him.
“Please?”
She sighed and joined him, her chest aching a little. She sat with her
knees toward him so they could at least face one another.
Oliver reached for her hand. She gazed down, remembering how
perfectly they fit together.
“You belong wherever your heart says you do,” Oliver said softly.
“Where does yours belong, Mister Way?”
His fingers tangled with hers in a tight grasp that didn’t want to let go.
“I’d give up everything right now if you asked me to.”
Dascha met his eyes, and knew in her heart she felt the same. And the
longer she looked into his soul, the more she realized he was waiting. He
wanted her to ask him.
Instead, she slipped her arms around his shoulders, and pushed her
weight against his chest the way she had longed to for months. She hovered
over him, his strong body beneath her. Her hair draped their faces in
secrecy, she smiled and whispered before kissing him, “Never.”
 One year later...
Dascha stood behind Oliver, helping him with his tie. His hands were
shaking too much to finish it off.
“Don’t worry, you’ll do great.”
He reached for her hand when she was done and kissed it. Dascha
turned him in her arms and kissed him heatedly. Her hands went to his
head, fingers easing against his scalp. He started laughing and pulled away.
“You’re going to mess up my hair.”
“Now who’s the posh one?” she teased.
He grinned wryly, but with enough jitters that hid his dimples. Dascha
knew those would show up soon enough. She popped him in the butt. “Go
get ‘em, Tiger.”
He pecked her nose and headed out of the room, grabbing his lanyard
of credentials on the way out.
Dascha’s phone rang just then, and she answered. One of the jockey
agents she worked with needed her attention, and there was also a brief
agenda with some owners.
She managed it all and stride and made her way down to the track.
The Churchill Downs crowd was a swarm. The noise was deafening,
but at least the sky was bright and that blanket of roses was waiting for
Oliver and the filly he trained for Grover and Mattie. Their horse had grown
into a big, strapping, formidable foe, worthy of taking on the boys, and
Dascha couldn’t be prouder.
Her new life included managing a whole clientele of owners for
Oliver, and business was booming. Even though racing could eat you up
and spit you out at the drop of the hat, Dascha had a good feeling their
success would be limitless. Oliver was a natural, and Dascha fit right in.
Their two worlds had collided into one and it was balanced and beautiful.
She made her way to the rail. Dascha had grown to prefer it down
here where she could feel the earth shake as the horses thundered by, and
she’d be closer to Oliver too.
The crowd joined together to sing My Old Kentucky Home as the
horses went to the gate. Oliver met Dascha and gripped her hand, still
trembling. She squeezed it, and they smiled at one another.
His filly was a long shot, despite cleaning up the spring races. People
just didn’t bet a filly in a colt’s race. But Dascha knew they were holding
the ace.
 Breathlessly, Wyatt joined them too and they all exchanged grins right
as the horses loaded.
“They’re all in line for the Kentucky Derby!” the announcer said.
The crowd hushed, then roared with the clang of the bell. Ten three-
year-old Thoroughbreds surged from the gate. Oliver’s filly took the lead,
and he shook his head, gulping. “No, you idiot!”
Wyatt elbowed him. “Hey, that idiot is my boyfriend.”
Oliver shoved his head like a brother would, but his teeth were
clenched. “Too fast. Too fast!”
Wyatt grinned roguishly. “Tell me about it.”
Dascha laughed, but she felt for Oliver. Their filly should be back a
little further. Taking the lead was not part of the plan.
“Lightning fractions in the opening quarter...” the announcer said,
carrying on his call of the race.
Oliver groaned, pulling at his hair. “She’s going to burn out.”
Dascha took his arm, hugging it reassuringly, but Oliver covered his
face.
“I can’t watch.”
As the horses turned for home, she tugged on his arm, forcing him to.
His filly was fighting for all she was worth, hanging on to a narrow lead.
The colt beside her was breathing down her neck, but the filly wouldn’t
have any of it. One pop from her jockey’s whip and she dug down,
somehow finding another gear. She pulled ahead by a shoulder, then her
flank. And as Oliver realized what was happening, his voice went hollow.
“Jaysus, she’s going to do it.”
Wyatt and Dascha started screaming. The crowd was going a wild. A
filly was going to win the Kentucky Derby.
Oliver’s filly.
He looked like he was about to pass out. Oliver’s face went stark
white, and he swayed. Wyatt and Dascha both held him up. The filly hung
on to win.
There was a lot of screaming and jumping up and down, and Dascha
was pretty sure there were tongues going down throats even though Oliver
was too dazed to realize what was happening. They led him to the winners
circle where the roses were draped over the filly’s shoulders.
Wyatt and the jockey exchanged kissy faces. Dascha smeared her
lipstick all over Oliver’s face on national TV. And they were winners not
because of a horse, but because of each other. Because a bunch of fools
rushed in.