Triple Exposure

  Copyright © 1994 by Jackie Calhoun

  Bella Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 10543

  Tallahassee, FL 32302

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

  First Published by Naiad Press 1994

  First Bella Books Edition 2012

  Editor: Christine Cassidy

  Cover Designer: Sandy Knowles

  ISBN 13: 978-1-59493-349-3

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  To my longtime Indiana friend,

  Kay,

  who introduced me to the world of horses,

  and to my daughters,

  who shared it with me,

  and to Dick,

  a reluctant participant.

  About the Author

  Jackie Calhoun lives with her partner in Northeast Wisconsin. She is the author of twenty-three books. Look for her at www.jackiecalhoun.com or e-mail her at jackie@jackiecalhoun.com or friend her on Facebook.

  Chapter One

  The wind, blowing through the truck windows, offered Nicky no relief from the heat. Instead, it piled clouds into outlandish shapes and chased them across the sky, causing a few drops of rain to spatter against the dusty windshield. Nicky ran slender fingers through sweat-blackened hair plastered to her neck as the tires of the Ford F250 strummed across warning strips. Glancing at the gas gauge, she turned into the station at Wisconsin state highways 10 and 110.

  She had risen at dawn on this first Sunday in June and driven west in search of sandhill cranes to photograph. Instead of the cranes, which remained elusive, she had filmed lilac bushes growing in profusion around abandoned buildings and fields of wild mustard cut through by a trout stream.

  As she shoved the nozzle into the gas tank, her attention was drawn to the other side of the concrete island of pumps where a woman kicked at the rear tire of an aging Volkswagen Rabbit.

  “It’s too goddamn hot for this,” the woman quietly cursed.

  Admiring ash-blonde curls falling toward broad shoulders and long tan legs covered only by shorts, Nicky rested a hand against the super cab and asked hesitantly, “Something wrong?”

  The woman wrenched around, showing Nicky a face resembling the thunderclouds overhead—dark gray eyes, frowning brows, a pouting sensual mouth. Then she cleared away the anger with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, but it won’t start. I think the battery’s really dead this time, and now this tire’s going flat.” She pointed a toe at the offending tire she had just kicked. “Can you help me push it out of the way?”

  “Why don’t you have someone here put in a new battery?”

  “No one does service work at these convenience centers, but there’s a place just over the bridge in Fremont where they do.” The woman opened the driver’s door, leaned into the frame with one hand on the steering wheel, and looked expectantly at Nicky.

  After they pushed the Rabbit to the edge of the blacktop next to a field of young corn, Nicky straightened and brushed her hands together, then extended one. “Nicky Hennessey,” she said.

  “You look like an Irishwoman—dark hair, blue eyes. I’m Meg Klein.” The woman grinned, showing off deep dimples and white teeth.

  “Can I give you a lift?”

  “Yeah, sure. That service station across the river.”

  Nicky nodded and gestured toward the building. “Let me pay for the gas and get something to drink. Okay?”

  “I have to pay, too,” Meg remarked with a wry twist to her mouth.

  When they climbed into the Ford, Nicky said, “Have you had breakfast?” The ice-cold Pepsi she had just guzzled hadn’t quenched her thirst.

  “Nope, but I’m ready for lunch.”

  “Want to catch a bite with me while they work on your car? I think there’s a restaurant next to the station.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.”

  While Meg rode with the wrecker back to get her car, Nicky waited with the truck door open, her thighs sticking to the vinyl seat. The brief shower had stopped. She glanced at blue sky behind torn clouds and thought how hot it would be if the sun came out.

  The air-conditioned restaurant set her shivering. Sliding into a booth cushioned with red vinyl seats, Nicky pressed her bare arms close to her body—searching for some of the warmth she had just been complaining about. Hearing rain, she noticed water streaming down the windows, saw steam rising from the pavement.

  Meg’s gaze followed Nicky’s. “Looks like we got inside just in time. Am I keeping you from wherever you’re going?”

  “Home.” Nicky smiled briefly. Home on the range she couldn’t afford.

  “And where’s that?”

  “I’ve got a little place in the country near the Fox Cities.” It had been listed in the weekly Trader’s Guide as a “farmette for the handyman.” In actuality, it was an old house with dilapidated outbuildings on a few acres of weeds. The wiring had been bare in places, the floors grimy, the walls in need of paint. The barn had been and still was falling down. Beth had helped her with the necessary improvements, perhaps to appease Nicky for not leaving her husband, Mark. That had been two years ago.

  Meg returned the smile. “I live in town. I work at Fox Cities Med Center as a medical technician. I’ve been looking for another place to keep my horse.”

  Nicky watched Meg’s gray eyes brighten, the dimples deepen, and she wanted to capture the expressive face on film. “I’m a photographer. I work at the Art Barn to pay the bills, though.” Here it was June fifth and she hadn’t paid the mortgage. She never should have bought the place expecting Beth to move in.

  Meg eyed her speculatively. “Would you consider boarding a horse?”

  Caught by surprise, Nicky stammered, “I don’t know. There is a barn. It’s not in the best of shape, but I suppose it could be used. And the pasture’s fenced in.”

  “I’d pay, of course,” Meg said excitedly, “and I can help with repairs.”

  Grinning, Nicky held up a hand against Meg’s enthusiasm. “Not so fast. I don’t know anything about horses.” She thought for a moment. “Why don’t you come see the place first, then we’ll talk seriously if you still want to.” Perhaps taking in this horse would bring in some easy money. She had been considering a roommate to help defray costs. A horse wouldn’t cramp her style, wouldn’t impose on her independence, would make no demands on her time.

  “All right,” Meg agreed. “I’ll come out tomorrow after work, if that’s okay.” She smiled broadly. “Now I’m glad my car broke down.”

  Nicky turned into her long driveway. It was early afternoon. The rain had stopped shortly after she left the restaurant. Bouncing through puddles, the truck sent muddy water flying toward the small, barking dog running alongside. For the first time in months she really noticed the rundown barn.

  The dog had appeared a couple weeks ago and so far had refused to leave. She had asked around at nearby houses and farms but no one had claimed him. He was cute, she had to admit. His black curling hair led her to believe that he carried poodle genes mixed with maybe cocker or schnauzer. His tail curved high over his back and his eyes lay hidden behind the tangle of hair.

  Slamming the truck door, she warned him, “Don’t you dare jump on me.” She saw a tiny gli
mmer of teeth before he followed her to the barn—so close on her heels, he sometimes touched her leg with his nose.

  She pushed open the sagging, resisting door and stepped inside. Dust rose from leftover moldering hay and straw and she sneezed. Stanchions for the former occupants filled the lower level. She could almost hear the lowing of cattle as she stood there on the concrete floor, the cement walls surrounding her, and the low-beamed ceiling overhead. To her right had been the milk room, the telltale vats still in place. Next to it was an empty room, to store grain maybe. The floor above, a large, open space with slippery footing, had once housed equipment. It was enclosed by boards with gaps between them that let in wind and rain, and accessed by huge tracked doors that flapped in the weather and were reached from a grassy incline. Not a safe place for a horse. The hay mow occupied the third floor. There were shuttered windows front and back that could be reached by hay elevators. A trap door in the floor and a ladder provided regular entry.

  Thinking that perhaps Meg would change her mind upon seeing what she was getting for her money, Nicky steeled herself against unexpected disappointment. She had thought she would, instead, feel relief.

  The old house greeted her with blank windows. Fancying she could still smell the years of neglect, she threw open all the first-floor windows that weren’t painted shut. Then she sat on the front porch and silently weighed the pros and cons of boarding a horse. She tried to ignore the dog, who stretched out on the stoop, occasionally scratching frantically at his matted coat.

  “I don’t want to love another dog,” she said to him, remembering her last dog with regret and a touch of guilt. She had let him run free only to end up under the wheels of a speeding car.

  ***

  The following evening after work, she and Meg stood in what Nicky assumed had been the feed room of the barn, next to the milk room, a wide door opening it to the outside. The night before she had asked Dan, the neighboring farmer, if he would help with the fencing.

  “So, this is it.” Nicky smiled apologetically. “We could put a fence out here to connect with the pasture fence. My neighbor, Dan, said he’d dig the postholes.”

  “Yeah, it might work,” Meg agreed, her lower lip caught between her teeth. She stooped to pat the dog who sniffed suspiciously at her hand.

  Nicky watched her carefully, getting those vibes she had gotten at their first meeting. Without knowing why, she was certain that Meg was gay and just as sure that Meg knew she was too—the unspoken communication between two people with the same sexual orientation.

  “It’s not much,” she apologized with a wave of her arm for what she had to offer—the decrepit condition of the barn and existing fences. “What do you think?” she continued, her heartbeat picking up speed at the thought of Meg possibly changing her mind. And not just because she needed the money, which she did, but also because it would be nice to have someone around on a regular basis.

  Meg looked at her. “How much?”

  Taken aback because she hadn’t thought about what she should charge, she said, “I don’t know. What sounds fair?”

  “Well, I’ll pay for his feed and stuff like the blacksmith and veterinarian, of course, and I’ll take care of him. I can probably swing a hundred a month.” Meg’s gray eyes smiled.

  Jubilant, Nicky let a slow, pleased smile stretch across her face. A hundred and she didn’t have to do diddly-squat! Except make things ready, of course. “What’s his name? What does he look like?”

  “I assume that means yes?” Meg questioned and Nicky nodded. “Brittle’s his name, Skippy’s Peanut Brittle. He’s sorrel with three white socks and a strip on his face.” Meg looked momentarily doleful. “He’s kind and friendly and a wonderful ride, but he costs an arm and a leg to keep.”

  “Dan said he could dig the postholes Saturday.” She watched Meg once more run a hand over the smelly little dog. Embarrassed by the animal’s filthy coat, she explained, “He’s not mine. He showed up here one day, and he won’t leave.”

  “We’ve got a cat,” Meg said, getting into her Rabbit. “I’ll be here bright and early Saturday. Thanks, Nicky.” She departed in a cloud of dust.

  Nicky watched her leave with misgivings. The arrangement seemed too easily made. There had to be a catch.

  The next day after work she drove to the lumberyard to pick up fencing and posts. Dan had advised woven fence over barbed wire. When she paid the clerk, it occurred to her that Brittle was costing her money even before she realized a profit on him. Oh well, she silently reasoned, to make money you usually have to spend some.

  ***

  Saturday dawned hot and clear. Mildly excited, Nicky stepped outside and stretched. She checked the fence post stakes, then looked up the road toward Dan’s place. He had promised to come over after milking.

  Meg’s arrival stirred up another dust bath. They’d had no rain since their meeting nearly a week ago. Meg slammed the door of the Rabbit and strode toward Nicky. She wore jeans and a T-shirt and tennis shoes.

  Meg’s breasts were bouncing slightly, her tanned face framed by sun-bleached curls, her gray eyes large and shining. Nicky steeled herself to resist any attraction.

  “Am I early enough?”

  “How about some coffee?”

  Sun streamed through the windows of the large kitchen, nourishing Nicky’s many plants hanging from the ceiling. Even though the joy had gone out of the place for her without Beth, the walls and linoleum looked bright and warm in the light and the white-painted cabinets appeared clean and appealing, as did the old countertops.

  “Nice,” Meg said, looking around the room.

  “It’s just an old farmhouse,” Nicky said deprecatingly, knowing its many shortcomings, especially the lack of storage and workspace. Once, as a proud owner, she might have pointed out the pantry and commented on the quiet nights. Now she couldn’t summon the enthusiasm.

  “I love old houses.”

  Nicky groaned under her breath. She wasn’t interested in meeting another woman who might break her heart with unkept promises. Over the barking of the dog she heard the sounds of a tractor.

  “That dog thinks he owns the place,” she grunted. Handing Meg her cup of coffee, she went for the door. “Dan’s here.”

  Over six feet tall and husky with dark, unruly hair and brown eyes set in a ruddy face, Dan was weathered from his many hours outside. Nicky had at first guessed him to be about her own age, thirty-five, and was surprised to learn that he was six years younger.

  It took less than half an hour to dig the holes. Although Nicky protested that she and Meg could finish off, Dan helped drop the posts into position, fill the holes, and stretch the fencing. “I owe you,” she said to him when the new fence met the old.

  “No, you don’t. You let me use this pasture last summer.”

  “True,” she said. He had fixed fence, replaced posts.

  When Dan left, she and Meg walked the perimeter of the pasture. Having chased the tractor off the property, the little dog bounded ahead of them through new grass already up to his belly. They came to the creek and Nicky was considering how to cross it.

  “I won’t even have to water Brittle,” Meg exclaimed, removing her tennis shoes and sticking a foot into the burbling, dark water. “Cold, icy,” she said, quickly crossing.

  Nicky found herself staring at the patches of sweat between and under Meg’s breasts and with an effort glanced away from the damp spots.

  When they returned to the barn, Meg said she had to go see to the horse. “I have to rent a truck and trailer if I’m going to bring him here tomorrow.” That was the time frame they had agreed to.

  “I could help. We could use my truck,” Nicky suggested without thought.

  “Hey, that would be great,” Meg said, standing with her weight on one leg—one hand on the car door, the other on her hip.

  ***

  The next morning started out cloudy and sticky, threatening rain. Nicky met Meg at the rental store where they picked up the
horse trailer. From there they drove to the barn where Meg had been boarding her horse. When Nicky parked in front of the fancy stable, she realized what a comedown it must be to both Meg and the horse to have to move to her place.

  She followed Meg into the stable to get Brittle, who nickered softly from behind the bars of his stall. Taking a halter from a hook next to the stall door, Meg slid the door open and slipped the halter over the large head.

  The size of the animal daunted Nicky. She hadn’t expected him to be so big, nearly sixteen hands, according to Meg. Nicky was glad she wouldn’t be the one providing care and handling. All she had to do was look at him from the other side of a fence.

  “Would you hold him? I have to get his stuff.” Meg thrust the lead rope at her.

  She quailed inside. “I don’t know how.” But Meg only smiled absently and walked away. Brittle stared at Nicky with large, sorrowful, brown eyes. He took a dump on the spotless aisle floor. Nicky moved a few steps away from the pile, and he followed her.

  A horse nickered from a nearby stall and Brittle tossed his head a little and answered. He moved sideways and Nicky, her heart hammering a fast tattoo against her ribs, hung onto the lead rope as if the horse were plotting to escape. Where the hell was Meg?

  Fifteen minutes passed before Meg returned and led the horse outside. Brittle clambered into the trailer as if walking into a dark, narrow box were commonplace for him. Did he do whatever was asked of him? Nicky wondered. All Meg had done was point him toward the open door and cluck a couple times, then close the tailgate behind him and fasten his head through the little window up front.

  Later, they stood by the fence as the sorrel horse investigated his new surroundings. His legs buckled under him and he rolled outside the barn, then struggled upright and, emitting a squeal punctuated by a string of startlingly loud farts, galloped across the pasture. Clumps of sod flew from his hooves. Barking, the little dog took a few running steps after him. Then, as if thinking better of it, he stopped and looked from Nicky to Meg and back again.