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“You’ve got plenty of time to watch the riders.”

Jake’s voice pulled Ellie out of the past and back to the moment.

“Pay close attention to Whitfield.

These spread jumps are his meat and potatoes.

Unless I miss my guess, he’ll make that oxer look easy.”

Whitfield.

Always it was Clayton Whitfield.

“Thanks, Jake.

I know how busy you are.”

She’d watch Clay Whitfield, all right.

There was nobody better.

But God, what a conceited, self-centered ass! She’d once had a crush on him—when she was younger and dumber.

She was a whole lot smarter now. Besides, Whitfield barely knew she existed.

She flicked a last glance at Jake.

“Keep your fingers crossed for me, will you?”

He smiled.

“Good luck, Ellie.”

She watched Jake’s retreating figure as he headed toward a group of riders near the edge of the staging area.

For the past few days, he’d seemed distracted.

But Ellie’s own nerves were stretched to the breaking point.

Everything she’d trained for, everything she’d dreamed of, rested on this competition.

She’d done so poorly in the last set of trials she’d have no chance at all if she made a bad showing today.

On the other hand, she’d put in an outstanding performance at Phoenix and again at Rancho Murrieta.

Maybe that would help.

Clamping down on her anxiety, Ellie listened as the speaker announced the start of the event.

Denny Beeson, a top competitor, had drawn the number one slot.

The rules were simple: horse and rider had to complete the course in the time allotted or receive time faults.

For every fence knocked down, two points were lost.

If the horse refused a jump, three points were lost.

Three refusals were a disqualification. Riders who went clear in the time allotted went into a second-round jump-off over a revised course, shorter, but often more difficult.

This being an Olympic selection event, the fences had been set for the highest degree of difficulty.

To Ellie it looked insurmountable.

Denny must have been having similar thoughts.

He clipped the first fence, a tall red and white vertical, knocking the rail from its cup.

The second fence went no better.

Then his horse, Windsong, seemed to settle down—until the gelding reached the triple combination in the middle of the course. Three refusals and Denny and Windsong left the arena in head-hanging defeat.

Ellie’s heart hammered.

How in God’s name would she and Jubil get through it?

The next four riders made an equally poor showing, and Ellie began to worry the course was insurmountable.

It didn’t happen often and wasn’t the objective of the course designer, who wanted to challenge.

The fifth rider to enter the arena was Clay Whitfield—more appropriately, Clayton Whitfield III.

She’d been watching him ride since she’d first been able to see, been reading about him since long before that.

Her father had spoken of him often, his skill with the horses, his rowdy escapades, and when he thought she wasn’t within earshot, Clay’s expertise with women.

The latter, Ellie could easily understand.

Riding his second entry of the day, Whitfield cantered around the arena on a big black stallion named Warrior, looking like the hero in every girl’s fantasy.

Tanned and handsome, he had thick dark brown hair, a powerful build with a vee-shaped torso, and long, muscular legs.

A pair of dimples flashed whenever he smiled, making the women drool.

“He’s entered two horses,”

her father said as he walked up beside her.

“This one’s green as it gets—it’s Warrior’s first Grand Prix.

The stallion’s got good blood, but he’s too hot.

Not much chance Whitfield can hold him down enough for a win.”

“If anyone can, he can,”

Ellie said grudgingly.

“He certainly isn’t worried about impressing the judges.”

“He’s bound to be selected.”

“You’d think he could at least pretend a little humility.”

Her father chuckled.

“Clay may be a lot of things, but humble isn’t one of them.”

She watched as Whitfield touched the bill of his cap to signal the start of his round.

At first it appeared her father’s prediction would prove true.

The stallion pranced and pulled at the bit and began to lather even before the tone signaled the start.

But Whitfield held him easily, controlling him with seemingly little effort, soothing him with a gentle pat or an undistinguishable word.

As the horse broke into a canter, it strained with bottled-up energy.

The stallion rushed the first fence, over-jumping it, using more power than needed.

The second was almost a disaster, the animal cutting the curve too close, then landing wrong.

It seemed they were bound to err, but at the middle of the course, Clay’s ride remained faultless.

The difficult triple combination, a five-foot-wide double oxer, followed by a Liverpool water jump, and ending with another tough oxer, waited two fences ahead.

The triple was painted brown, difficult for the horses to see, the fences close together, allowing the animal only two short strides in between.

Clay took the eighth and ninth fences, setting himself up for the triple.

The stallion had settled into a graceful, second-eating gate while still clearing the jumps with inches to spare.

By now the pair moved with such precision it seemed as if each knew what the other wanted and was determined to achieve it.

Though Whitfield was taller than most of the riders and more powerfully built, his height and weight were no disadvantage to the big black horse.

With perfect timing, Clay used his size in precisely the right manner to help the animal, not hinder him, guiding him and rewarding his trust.

Clay cleared the triple, leaving the crowd gasping and cheering.

The round went faultless.

Ellie released a rush of air and realized she had been holding her breath.

God, he was magnificent.

Then the thought occurred—now she would have to go clear just to face Whitfield in the jump off.

As her round drew near, Ellie walked back toward the staging area to begin final preparations and take a few practice fences.

Passing Clay Whitfield, still mounted, along the way, it was impossible not to admire the easy grace with which he sat his horse.

Ellie glanced up at him, but two female riders vying for his attention stepped in front of her and she couldn’t see if the look was returned.

The brunette asked for his autograph.

The other girl said something and smiled up at him.

Clay chuckled and winked at her.

Ellie kept on walking, but the sound of his voice and the look he’d flashed the girl stayed with her the rest of the day.

By the end of the afternoon, only six of the thirty-six competitors had earned a chance at the jump off.

Amazingly Ellie was one of them.

The course was shortened, but the fences were even higher.

Whitfield was number four, clearing the jumps without disturbing a single rail. Ellie made the round in the time allotted but took down two fences.

When the meet was finished, Clay had won the twenty-five-thousand-dollar purse and Ellie had finished third.

Considering the caliber of the competition, she still felt proud.

She’d done her best, almost all she expected of herself.

She just wished it had been enough to make the team.

Jake Sullivan stepped off the plane at the Newark Airport at two o’clock Monday afternoon.

Walking briskly, he headed for the baggage claim.

He’d have to hurry to make it from the airport to Gladstone, headquarters of the U.S.

Equestrian team and his four o’clock meeting with members of the Olympic selection committee.

Though it wasn’t more than an hour’s drive, he needed time to stop at the house he had leased in Peapack, a few miles from the training grounds.

He wanted to make some phone calls and change out of his flight-wrinkled clothes.

Rounding a corner as he hurried along, he reached the baggage claim to find a fair-haired man in a dark blue suit holding a sign with his name on it.

As usual, he was thankful for the efficiency of the Gladstone secretarial staff.

“I’m Jake Sullivan,”

he told the limo driver as he approached.

“Just point out your bags, Mr.

Sullivan, I’ll do the rest.”

Jake grabbed his suitcase and pointed to the hanging bag on the conveyor belt beside it.

Together he and the driver made their way through the crowded room, out through the wide glass doors that led onto the busy street in front of the terminal.

The New Jersey sky was clear, but the air was cool, with just the hint of a breeze.

A black Ford sedan waited at the curb.

The driver loaded Jake’s bags into the trunk.

As the car pulled into the bustling airport traffic, he made himself comfortable in the back seat for the forty-five-minute ride home.

Home.

He ran the word over his tongue.

Gladstone didn’t feel any more like home than it had when he’d moved there two years ago to coach the team.

Pleasant Hills was his home and always would be.

The first call he’d make when he reached his destination would be to the man who ran his breeding stables.

Then he’d check with his housekeeper, though he was certain to find everything in order.

Still, he missed being there.

Sometimes he wished he’d never accepted the job as coach.

If he hadn’t, maybe things wouldn’t have gotten so screwed up.

Thinking about it, Jake glanced out the rear window of the town car.

It took a minute to spot the plain beige Chevrolet following a few leagues distant.

But as the town car weaved in and out of traffic, a pattern began to develop and there was no mistaking that the car was being followed.

Damn them! Jake clenched his fists in frustration.

He ought to be used to it by now.

They hadn’t let him out of their sight for the past eight months.

Not since that first phone call—the reason he’d been forced to end his relationship with Maggie Delaine.

Maggie.

At one time the words home and Maggie had seemed destined to go together. But now?

Yesterday, when he’d found out she was on the show grounds, his stomach had balled into a hard tight knot.

By the end of the show, when he’d finally worked up the courage to face her, he discovered she was already gone.

He could still recall the profound relief he’d felt.

Thinking about Maggie and seeing her again were two far different things, though her position as assistant director insured it would happen sooner or later.

Jake glanced back out the window.

The beige Chevy remained some distance behind, but the man at the wheel didn’t really care if Jake spotted him.

In fact, they wanted him to know they were there.

For eight months they’d kept him on edge, giving him no explanations, only veiled threats and vague innuendos.

But Jake was no stranger to the kind of pressure these men were using.

He’d been raised on it.

He’d just been foolish enough to believe that in this country he’d be safe.

Leaning back against the deep leather seat, he forced himself to relax.

On his plane ride home, he’d come to a decision.

Whatever these men had planned, he would be told when they were ready for him to know.

They had successfully destroyed his relationship with Maggie, but his job as head coach was another matter entirely.

He had obligations to fulfill, duties, responsibilities.

He couldn’t simply resign.

That much had been made clear.

In the meantime, the only option he had was to do the best job he could, and that meant helping select the finest team of show jumpers the United States of America could produce.

With that goal in mind, Jake pushed his thoughts away from his troubles and mulled over the competition he’d seen in Los Angeles and the other selection trials he’d attended across the country.

Clayton Whitfield was the nation’s top rider.

But his personal life was in shambles.

He’d be chosen, Jake had no doubt.

Clay would be his usual pain in the ass, but he’d give the American team their best shot at the gold.

Jake ran through the list of other possible contenders: Denny Beeson had made a poor showing in L.A.

but done well at other shows.

Shep Singleton and Prissy Knowles would be high on the list as well as Peter Grayson, Flex McGrath, and Jack Dillon.

Then there was Ellen Fletcher.

Though she’d taken only a third in Los Angeles, her performance had been outstanding.

Considering the short time she had actively been competing, her progress was incredible.

She was definitely Olympic caliber—if the others on the selection committee were willing to give her the chance.

Jake had coached her for a while right after her eye surgery.

She’d been a gem to work with, willing to tackle any task, fearless in the extreme, always finding joy in the sport and in her accomplishments.

Ellie’s years of partial blindness had caused her to live inside herself more than most of the people he knew, a feeling of isolation Jake could relate to.

Neither of them seemed to have the courage to reach out and grasp the intimacy others offered.

Ellie’s mother and father had both been nationally acclaimed riders.

Jake guessed being a winner in the sport was Ellie’s way of dealing with the insecurity she felt in other areas.

She had little experience with people and often felt out of place.

The truth was, even after her vision problems were corrected, Ellen Fletcher had never come out of her shell.

“Should I take you to Gladstone or your house in Peapack?”

the driver asked, breaking into Jake’s thoughts.

He checked his watch.

“Looks like we’ve got plenty of time.

You can let me off at the house.

I’ll drive on over from there.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

Whatever you say.

Jake wished the members of the selection committee would be as easy to convince.