The following morning, Miranda tossed her overnight bag in the back seat of her VW Jetta and rolled down all four windows before pulling out of the drive. The AC had quit working months ago, but rather than wallowing in misery, she chose to fantasize that she was behind the wheel of the shiny red Mustang convertible she’d promised herself once she got her big break. It was the car she’d vowed to drive in the entire length of the Pacific Coast Highway—still another unfulfilled promise she’d made herself the day she’d arrived in L.A.
Everything about California had been so exotic and exciting back then, but over time, disappointment and disillusionment had begun to tarnish the glitter of Tinsel Town. Passing the historic Studio City Theatre on Ventura, she was vividly reminded of the dream that had driven her west in the first place—the chance to make movies. Would she ever get a break? Statistics weighed heavily against it. Only stubborn pride had kept her from hanging it all up and going back home to Ohio.
Hedged in by traffic on all sides, she crept along, lost in her thoughts, until finally merging onto the Hollywood Freeway. Although this assignment wasn’t quite what she’d hoped for, she was determined to make the best of it. She consoled herself that it was at least a step up from the weddings and bar mitzvahs that normally filled her weekends. The drive would also give her the chance to escape the monotony of her real life for a few days.
Approaching the junction of Interstates 5 and 710 in East L.A., she suddenly felt like she’d come to a fork in her life. For five years she’d been too blinded by ambition to enjoy herself, and what had it gotten her? An overpriced apartment the size of a postage stamp and a lonely single bed.
Seconds passed.
Her hands tightened on the wheel.
A horn blasted as she swerved right into the lane leading to the Long Beach Freeway. The ocean route would add at least two hours to her drive, but she was determined to fulfill at least part of her dream.
Chapter 2
Rancho Santa Fe, California
Arriving ahead of schedule, Miranda presented her employee ID to the security guard manning the entrance. “Hi. I’m Miranda Sutton with Starlight Productions. We’re filming an event here.” With Lexi’s reminder of her neglected love life lingering in her mind, Miranda flashed her most disarming smile.
“Sutton?” He scanned a sheet for her name. “Go ahead.” He nodded, and then opened the gate without even looking up.
“Thanks,” she replied, disappointed in having wasted her best smile.
Pulling through the elaborate wrought iron entrance, Miranda found not one, but three full-size equestrian arenas and a parking lot dotted with high-priced cars. Pulling between a Lexus and a Mercedes convertible, she parked and climbed out of her car, camera bag slung over her shoulder. Finding no sign of Bibi, Miranda checked her watch. She was an hour early.
Miranda decided to scout the site. As she approached the main arena, she encountered a curvy brunette in tight-fitting white dressage breeches and glossy black boots leading a huge chestnut horse with a stud chain wrapped tightly around its nose. The horse was visibly agitated, with its ears pinned and nostrils flared. Although Miranda hadn’t been around horses in several years, she knew enough to recognize the signs of its distress. Any time he snorted or pulled his head away, the woman gave a hard jerk on the chain, which only seemed to increase the animal’s agitation. Miranda was almost ready to speak out when a man appeared and snatched the lead from the woman’s hands.
“What the hell are you doing?” the brunette demanded.
“Pain is only going to get resentment from him, not respect. Right now this animal is fighting you every step of the way—and this is why.” To Miranda’s amazement, he unsnapped the chain and then removed the animal’s halter as well. The moment the horse realized it was free, it spun and bolted, bucking all the way to the far end of the arena. “Most horses will walk or trot over to the fence when released. Picasso ran like his tail was on fire. What does that tell you?” he asked the gaping woman.
“He’s difficult to work with,” the brunette snapped. “All the horses in his bloodline are high-strung.”
“That’s because high-dollar show horses like him spend way too much time confined in a stall. You need to let your horse just be a horse now and then.”
The woman frowned at the chestnut that was now galloping laps around the arena. “How the hell am I supposed to control him now?” she demanded, hands on hips.
“You’re going to get nowhere unless you give him some downtime. When he snorts, tosses his head, bucks, or kicks up his heels, he’s not being bad, Steffi. He’s just feeling good.”
“I thought I was paying you to work with him,” she said, still visibly miffed.
“I will. But first we need to teach him that work can be fun. Let him have it, and he’ll start to relax. Once that happens, he’ll concentrate better on what you want rather than trying to escape at every opportunity.”
“I don’t understand the point,” the woman argued. “How is any of this going to improve his performance under saddle?”