In the bedroom she tossed her robe onto the bed. Hesitating, she considered showering. She decided against it; she'd only get dirty again in an hour or so. She pulled on jeans, a rugged cotton shirt, and a scarf. From the closet she collected her riding boots and a vest. She refreshed her color with a slash of blush across each cheek. Running a brush through her hair, she caught the white flash of the remaining silk glove shrouding her left hand. Casting her glance out the window, she removed it and took a pair of worn leather riding gloves from her vest pocket. She put them on, taking extra care with the left one, adjusting it carefully so that it appeared to fit naturally. There.
She backed her car from the garage and slid her sunglasses on her face and cruised down the twisting road, feeling a little buzzed as the convertible gained speed, the wind whipping all around her.
This area of Woodside was hilly and lush. Either side of the road occasionally gave way to gated driveways or hedged walls. At certain bends, off to the right and downhill, she could see the small, artificial lake resting in the middle of this particular smart-set valley. It was a short drive, her destination within walking distance of her home had she chosen to take the footpath that circled the lake.
She turned onto the long private drive. The hot pavement turned to dusty road as she approached the ranch. She passed a small stilted shed that marked the property line of the ranch. To the right, in a liberally spaced cluster, were two cottages, a ranch house, a small stable, and a second, larger double-door barn. Dressage and jumping rings were not far from these buildings, separated from the lake by a dirt path. In one of the fenced circles a trainer led a tethered Morgan colt in medium-sized circles, gently guiding the shining black animal with a long lunge whip. In another ring a young girl neatly sailed a black Hanoverian over post-and-rail jumps, under the instruction of a tall man dressed in mixed hues of indigo. Greta had never seen the man here before. From this distance he appeared lithe and attractive, and her curiosity was piqued. As if sensing her appraisal, he turned and looked in her direction. He leveled his hand against his brow to shield the sunlight. As he did this, she noticed that he was wearing an odd white garment over his right arm; it took her an instant to realize it was a sling.
She raised her sunglasses from her face and settled them in her hair. Had the man been looking at her or at something else nearby? He turned back to the rider, signing with a wave, then turned and jogged out of the ring, disappearing into the smaller barn.
She climbed out of the car and proceeded to the massive double doors. Inside, she was surrounded on either side by large beautiful horses of various breeds. Their heads turned in her direction as she passed. Occasionally she stopped to pet a particular animal owned by an acquaintance. She grew excited by the smell of the horses, the dust, the feed, and the dryness, and was glad she had decided to come here to ride. When she wasn't shopping or doing the other things that consumed the hours of her day, this was her passion, being here at the ranch with these beautiful, powerful creatures.
Stall 28, at the end of a long row, held Mighty Boy, her four-year-old thoroughbred stallion. So black he was almost purple, Mighty Boy had been a gift from Matthew when they had moved to California.
"Hi sweetie," Greta said, stroking the animal's head. She nuzzled her face into his cheek, her chestnut hair mixing and mingling with his black mane. The horse nodded and whinnied, happy for her arrival.
"Hello, Mrs. Locke," said Jennifer, the ranch's owner. She was a solid woman with white-gray hair and eternally sun-squinted eyes. "What a happy boy he is," Jennifer said. "Everyone who sees him is in awe of his beauty."
"He is a pretty boy, isn't he?" Greta said. She paused to appraise the animal for a moment before leading him out of his stall.