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as they'd
once been ridden. John had a suspicion that hundreds of years ago, as the nomads
swept over the desert on their swift mounts, very few were accoutered in purple
silk with jangling bits of silver and painted hooves and even mascara around
the horse's eyes, for God's sake. But if entering the class would give Emma
pleasure, hey, what was a little purple silk?
    "Listen, can I talk to
Marian?"
    "Sure." The little
girl hesitated. "I miss you, Daddy."
    His heart seemed to knot in
his chest. "I miss you, too, honey."
    His daughter didn't bother to
cover the telephone before she bellowed, "Marian!"
    As he waited, John pulled
himself up, yanking the pillow from beneath the spread and bunching it behind
him. The king-size bed was too hard, the pillows too squishy. With an ache Emma
had brought on, he missed home. His own bed, his solid foam pillow, Isaiah's
silent, familiar presence, the soft whisper of a horse's muzzle against his
hand. Always Emma, with her light, high voice that ran on and on. And at times
like this he still thought about his wife, who had died over two years ago. As
Emma changed and grew, John couldn't help hurting for all that Susan had
missed.
    With a shock he realized that
he was seeing Marian, too, as though she held a part of his heart as well. He
had almost kissed her yesterday, before he had recognized her fear. What would
have happened if he had? Damn it, he couldn't be alone in feeling this
attraction!
    He heard her coming, her
voice muffled as she said, "Emma, could you help Jesse and Anna pick up
the Playdoh?" Then she said into the telephone, "Hello, John. How's
your trip going?"
    "Oh, it's okay." He
glanced at the sheaves of paper fanned across his bed. The statistics on the
two teams were the kind of thing he'd need to pull from his hat tomorrow during
the broadcast.
    "It ought to be quite a
game," he added. "But I forgot, you're not a fan, are you?"
    "I'm afraid not. Emma
made us promise to watch you, though."
    "You trying to give me
stage fright?"
    Her chuckle, low and
delicious, came from too far away. With an increasing ache, he could see those
dimples and the gentle curve of her mouth.
    "Millions of people are
already watching you," she pointed out. "I don't think Anna and Jesse
are very critical."
    He couldn't resist.
"What about you? Are you critical?"
    "You could tell me three
downs made an out and I wouldn't know the difference."
    "I wasn't really talking
about football," he said. "I was talking about me."
    There was a moment of silence
before she answered obliquely, "I'm looking forward to seeing you on
TV."
    "What's that mean?"
    "You live in a different
world."
    "Yeah, in hotel rooms
that have less character than my horses' stalls. Or are you imagining glamour
and the high life?"
    "Well..." Her laugh
took away her constraint. "All right, you've got me. I figured a pro
athlete makes tons of money and always has a blonde on each arm."
    John grimaced. There'd been a
time that he'd seen the life that way, too. He had even lived it for a couple
of years, before he'd grown up. Marriage and a baby and too many aches from too
many hits had a way of doing that.
    "I'm a has-been nowadays,"
he reminded her. "It's not the same."
    "That's right."
There was a smile in her voice. "I'd almost forgotten the ugly scars on
your knees."
    "That's one thing about
kids. If I have any flaws, you'll hear about 'em."
    Again that chuckle.
"Emma tells me you have scratchy cheeks because you only shave when you
have to. She says that you yell sometimes when you're mad, but she knows you
don't really mean it. She says..."
    He groaned. "I get the
point. I don't have a secret left to my name."
    "I don't, either,"
she said, inexplicably sounding a little sad.
    "Obviously our lives
have become too staid and boring." He kept his tone light. "Maybe we
ought to dump all the kids and you could come with me some weekend. Live that
life of glamour."
    "You should have asked
before you disillusioned me," she countered,