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gait as well as the slow, rolling natural gait that had covered ground so comfortably for many long-ago plantation owners. Riding him was like sitting in a rocking chair.
    Christian leaned against the General’s side and let the brush drop to the sawdust-covered floor. There would be no more gaited shows, no competitions, no red or blue ribbons to hang in the tack room, no shot at a national championship. No more.
    It was dark by the time he stroked the General’s velvety nose one last time, then latched the door shut and said good-night. Maybe he should take Emma’s advice to sell. Yet he couldn’t seem to.
    Looking over his shoulder once, then again, he hurried down the long aisle to the open barn doors, out into the parking lot. He rolled down his sleeves, slipped into his jacket and got into his truck. He was already late.
    As he drove away he could see the girls from the ring leading their horses back to their stalls, laughing and calling to each other. Christian headed for his mother’s house.
    He wouldn’t come here again.

CHAPTER FOUR
    F RANKIE O WEN M ALLORY stood in the parlor of her home on East Brow Road, waiting for Christian. He was an hour late. On the mantel the clock chimed seven times. She was already tired, still exhausted from the fund-raiser last night, and it had been a long day.
    He was her son, she told herself. Her only son. She would be glad to see him. But like many Southern women she was no shrinking violet. She could handle him. Emma had already hinted about the anniversary party.
    Forty-five years.
    â€œMom?” She heard Christian calling from the entry hall. At last.
    â€œIn here,” she answered, barely raising her voice.
    She had no intention of giving in. She’d rather sell her antebellum sterling silver, the family antiques that had been handed down for two hundred years, or the oil portraits in the gallery from so many generations, including one Confederate general.
    Frankie refused to take part in her family’s countdown to her anniversary. She wouldn’t see the humor in their teasing. Some of those years—much of the last year—had been impossible to bear.
    She smoothed her tailored pants as if putting on armor. If only she and Christian could conduct this conversation without a battle.
    â€œHey.” He strode into the room and she sniffed the air.
    â€œDo I smell horse?” She eyed his dark suit. “Surely you didn’t go riding dressed like that.”
    â€œI just stopped by the barn. I didn’t have time to change.” He kissed her cheek. “How’s my favorite mother?” He folded Frankie into a hug, but the best defense, as Lanier would say, is a good offense.
    â€œThat horse is a killer . You should put him down.”
    He flinched. “Have you been talking to Emma?”
    â€œNo, but it seems we agree. I can’t imagine you’d even think of going anywhere near that barn again.”
    â€œWell, I did,” he said in the same stubborn tone he’d used since he was a little boy. “And I’m not here to argue about the General. Emma asked me to come by—speak to you about a party for your anniversary.”
    Her heart lurched. “No party,” Frankie told him. “A small private dinner would suit me, thank you very much. Here’s the guest list—you, Emma, Grace, Rafael—” she all but wrinkled her nose “—your father and me. No one else.”
    â€œThat would be a first. Mom, half this town will want to celebrate your day,” he said with a cheeky grin that curdled her already precarious mood. “All those people, maybe we should rent the convention center for the night.”
    Frankie picked invisible lint from the upholstered arm of a chair. The wooden surface of every end table, the gleaming white marble of the fireplace mantel, showed not a trace of dust.
    â€œMy anniversary hardly compares with the annual Pink Ball,”