Puss 'N Cahoots

his two partners knew of his lucrative sideline supplying workers to horse farms. “Disrupted the show. I wasn’t riding that well anyway, but this,” he shrugged, “a bolt out of the blue.”
    “I can’t believe you’re admitting you had an off night.”
    “Once a decade.” He smiled down at her, intoxicated by her beauty, her closeness, her scent—Creed’s Green Irish Tweed, also once favored by Cary Grant and Marlene Dietrich.
    “Come on up to the house?” he politely asked.
    “Carry me to the back pastures where the yearlings are.”
    “Sure.”
    They walked up to the house, climbed into his truck, and bounced along the interior farm roads to the back where the yearlings grazed. Most horse breeders put the yearlings farther away from the main barns and drive to them, because they go through a gawky, ugly stage, just like human teenagers. By the time they’re two, Saddlebreds usually begin to look like real horses.
    Charly pulled alongside a white fence, painted every two years at a hideous expense. He cut the motor and Renata hopped out.
    Charly, soon beside her, glanced down at her white espadrilles. “Ruin your shoes.”
    “Bought four pair. Have another in the truck. They’re so cool in the summer but they still give some support. Too bad men don’t wear them.”
    “Maybe the ones who carry purses do.”
    She shrugged. “To each his own.” She looked at his feet. “Top-Siders.”
    “Summer.” He nodded. “I love summer.”
    “I do, too. But I miss fall, winter, and real spring when I’m in California. When I’m out of California I don’t miss it at all, except for the smell of eucalyptus trees in Montecito.”
    “I like that, too.” Charly had showed often in California, plus he’d visited Renata there. “Let me whistle them over. There’s still a lot of dew on the grass; you might have three other pair of espadrilles, but these will be green and your feet will be wet.” He put his fingers in his lips and let out a piercing whistle.
    The yearlings—geldings in one pasture on one side of the road, fillies on the other—lifted their heads. They stared, then slowly trotted toward the figures at the fence. Halfway there, they decided to make a race of it, youthful high spirits abundant.
    At the gate they skidded to a halt. Charly turned back to his truck and pulled out a big bag of carrots, which he always kept with him. He then handed some to Renata and she fed the boys. He walked across the dirt road to feed the girls, a fair amount of ear-flattening and nasty looks between them, since each girl wanted more than one carrot. The lower fillies on the totem pole skittered away, and Charly threw them carrots while hand-feeding the more dominant fillies. He made note each time he visited the yearlings as to pecking order. He wanted his workers to handle the animals daily. It made working with them so much easier when training really started.
    An animal could not be dominant in the herd yet be amazing in the ring. You never knew until you worked with them. He made note of that, too.
    Renata fed the boys one by one, shooing off the pushy ones after they’d received their carrot. “Who’s the almost-black fellow with the star on his forehead and a thin white stripe coming out of it, kinda like a fairy wand?”
    “Captain Hook.” He called the fellow by his barn name.
    “I think it looks like a star wand.”
    “Well, it does, but I couldn’t call him Tinker Bell.”
    “This is the foal I liked. Took me a minute. He’s grown. He’ll be sixteen hands.” She studied him. “He’s flashy. What do you want for him?”
    “Hadn’t thought about it.”
    “Liar.”
    “No, I really hadn’t.”
    “Start thinking.” She turned to the fillies. “The bright chestnut has quality.”
    “It’s a good crop, but she is the standout, isn’t she?”
    Renata said nothing but climbed back in the truck. They returned to the house. Charly, although full of coffee, made another pot. They sat on the back porch with their cups.
    “How much?”
    “No less than one hundred thousand.”
    “For a yearling? We’re not talking about Thoroughbreds here.”
    “I meant one hundred thousand for the colt and the filly.” He grinned, always the horse dealer.
    “Hmm.” She drank her coffee.
    “Ward hopes you’ll leave Kalarama and board with him,” Charly fished.
    “I never said that.”
    “What did you say?”
    “Exactly what you and I discussed. I’d bring him a few big clients, and