Iron Shoes Read online

  Iron Shoes

  by J. Kathleen Cheney

  Copyright 2011 J. Kathleen Cheney

  Smashwords Edition

  License Notes:

  Thank you for downloading this e-book. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this story, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

  Table of Contents

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Part 5

  Part 6

  About the Author

  IRON SHOES

  PART 1

  Imogen Hawkes noticed the minute hand of the clock on Hammersly's desk. It was spinning, a sure sign that her emotions had gotten out of control. In her mind she heard her mother reminding her that she must always remain calm. She took a sip of tea as she tried to comply with that inner voice.

  "I do realize this is quite upsetting for you," William Hammersly said in a soothing tone. A handsome man in his forties with dark hair that showed gray at the temples, he sat in the leather chair across from hers, his chiseled features wearing a well-practiced expression of distant benevolence. He reached over, lifted a folder from his elegant mahogany desk, and thumbed through the contents. "Unfortunately, there is no record of any agreement that you might have had with the bank. I'm afraid either the note will need to be brought up to date on the 7th of August, or the Trust will be forced to begin foreclosure proceedings."

  Imogen regarded him over the edge of her teacup. Her agreement with Mr. Solomon at the First National Bank had been a verbal one, but the banker's promise clearly hadn't been enough to stop Solomon from selling her mortgage to the Adirondack Trust, putting her under Hammersly's thumb. "How much is it in arrears?"

  "At this time, about nine thousand dollars." His tone sounded sympathetic.

  When she set down the tea cup, it clattered in the saucer, but she managed to keep her voice steady. "I'll have the money by the 7th."

  Hammersly leaned forward and daringly laid a hand over hers. Even through her glove, she could feel the warmth of his fingers. Her own were icy. "I hope you'll remember that you can always come to me," he said. "As a neighbor, Mrs. Hawkes, and, I trust, as a friend."

  She glanced down at the fingers covering hers on the arm of the chair. "That won't be necessary, Mr. Hammersly."

  "I do hold you in great regard, Mrs. Hawkes," he said. "My offer is still open to you, should you find yourself in dire straits. Please remember that. You know that I have always..."

  He continued speaking, but Imogen only half-listened. In the four years since her husband Henry's death, Hammersly had made several attempts to court her. Only twenty-two then, Imogen had been preoccupied with preserving the farm, not with finding another husband. She still wasn't eager to marry, not if it meant handing over the farm she'd worked so had to save into some man's control. Her lack of interest had only seemed to pique his, but she didn't believe for a moment that he'd fallen in love with her. While she could be described as 'striking', she was certainly not beautiful. Her coloring was at fault; her dark eyes and brows combined with hair the color of cream kept her from being fashionable. And it didn't help that Henry had always wanted her to wear pink, saddling her with a wardrobe full of dresses and suits she disliked. The pink silk walking suit she currently wore--a few years out of fashion, but still serviceable--didn't flatter her at all. No, Hammersly's interest in her couldn't be personal. He must have some other objective altogether. Sighing inwardly, she forced her attention back to him.

  "...is the sport of kings, not queens, my dear," Hammersly was saying.

  Imogen ground her teeth together. She glanced down at his expensive hand-made oxfords and noticed one of the laces coming untied. Things tended to fall apart when she was upset--literally, not figuratively. Alarmed, she slid her fingers out from under his and grasped the silk cords of her handbag. It would be wiser for her to get out of the building before anything else came undone. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Hammersly."

  Smiling genially, he rose with her and escorted her to his office door. She set her gloved hand on the brass knob and was mortified when the latch came loose in her fingers. A screw fell to the floor, and then the remainder of the handle clattered onto the marble outside the door. In the lobby, people turned to stare.

  Imogen gathered calm about herself. She handed the door latch to a nonplussed Hammersly and walked out of the temple-like edifice with her head held high.

  She stopped outside on the sidewalk next to the tall clock. A buggy rattled by on Broadway past where she'd left her own, and then another, the mid-morning traffic lighter than normal. Mrs. Crowden bustled along the sidewalk without a word. The old woman threw an odd look at Imogen, but crossed Broadway and stepped into the drugstore on the opposite corner, casting one last glance back at her before letting the door close behind her. Imogen spotted Hammersly's black automobile parked on Church Street. His driver, a sallow-faced young man with dark hair and pale eyes, leaned against the vehicle, watching her as she stood by the clock, trying to decide what to do.

  Disbelief and anger kept her fixed there. The agreement between herself and the bank allowed half-payments on the farm's mortgage. She had never been late, not once. It wasn't in her nature to go back on a bargain. She simply couldn't. It scandalized her that Mr. Solomon had. Without doubt, Hammersly had something to do with that betrayal. He must love having her under his thumb like this.

  The warm July wind swirled around her and tugged at the straw hat precariously pinned in her hair. She glanced up and spotted the tall clock's minute hand moving far too fast. The hand slipped off the center post and fell to lie on the inside of the glass bezel. Imogen shook her head, annoyed with herself for being so out of control.

  Mother Hawkes, she decided, would know what to do.

  ***

  Imogen turned her buggy onto Broadway and headed north. The recent rain kept the dust down, but there were muddy spots everywhere. She'd dragged the lace hem of her skirt through one as she'd unhitched the buggy. She briefly hoped it stained, giving her an excuse to get rid of the suit, and then wryly reflected that she couldn't afford to replace it now anyway.

  She passed by the Waverly Hotel and headed up North Broadway. Graceful homes lined the street in varying styles. Henry had chosen to build an Italianate villa for his mother there after he'd married his first wife back in the late 80s. A moderately sized home painted in a light blue, Mother Hawkes' house lacked the gingerbread trim that the house out on the farm had, which made Imogen like it all the more.

  By the time she'd tied off the buggy and stepped up onto the porch, Imogen had lost the edge of her anger. Her mood had settled to a level of annoyed disbelief. In her mother-in-law's tasteful front sitting room, Imogen described her morning's travails as Mother Hawkes patiently listened.

  "...and then Mr. Hammersly repeated his earlier offer," Imogen finished.

  Her mother-in-law, an energetic woman on the far side of sixty, frowned down into her tea. "He offered to marry you? Again?"

  "As a way out of the debt, of course." Imogen set down her saucer, holding to the appearance of calm like a lifeline. "He told me he knew how it must be hard for me to manage a stable alone. Then he patted my hand and reminded me that racing is the sport of kings, not queens. That was when I got up and left."

  Mother Hawkes shook her head. Her family had been in horseracing for three generations. While her son Henry had run the farm for most of the previous two decades, Mother Hawkes had run things herself for just as long before that, and far more profitably. If Henry had listene
d to his mother more often, Imogen wouldn't be in the wretched position she was now. Knowing that, Imogen had made a point of seeking out her mother-in-law's business advice more and more frequently over the last four years.

  "I hope you gave him your coldest shoulder, girl," Mother Hawkes said. "You're good at that."

  She had a reputation for coldness, Imogen knew, and had since childhood. "I did my best."

  "Hammersly's always wanted my family's land, although I didn't think he'd go to this length to get it. And now there's that silly practice track--he's lusting over that for his own horses, no doubt." Mother Hawkes glanced up at Imogen and added, "Not to say he doesn't want you, too, girl."

  It was the land Hammersly was after, Imogen had no doubt of that. Marriage was simply his way of getting the lowest price. "It doesn't matter why Hammersly offered, I've no intention of marrying the man. I'll simply have to come up with the money."

  Mother Hawkes nodded approvingly. "Good girl. How much?"

  Imogen took a deep breath and said, "About nine thousand dollars. I have until the 7th to pay or the Trust will begin foreclosure proceedings."

  Mother Hawkes frowned down into her tea-cup. "And unfortunately, all my ready funds are tied up in steel right now." She rose and began pacing the sitting room, her burgundy silk skirts rustling as she passed. "I would like to strangle Mr. Solomon. I won't, of course, but I do wonder what leverage Hammersly used to make Solomon hand over your mortgage. Hmmm. I know a couple of the Trust's board members. They might be interested to know how Hammersly's using his position there to his own advantage."

  Her mother-in-law had a great many friends, a trick Imogen had never managed. She had too much to hide. "It doesn't matter. It's just over two weeks. Hammersly has the upper hand so, for now, I only have one hope."

  Mother Hawkes sat down heavily as if her sixty-odd years had suddenly caught up with her. "Your horse has to win the Special Stakes."

  Imogen nodded. She'd been struggling to build a decent stable out of the mess Henry had left behind. This year after paying her bills, she'd put up every cent left over as stakes for the Special. It would be her first race as the farm's owner, but she'd never dreamed so much would ride on the outcome. "The purse would be at least fifteen thousand dollars. There are nine stables running."

  "Sanford has entered, hasn't he? He's got a very good two-year-old, I hear. And McCarran does as well."

  "I have faith in my trainer," Imogen said. "If Paddy can't get Blue Streak up to speed by the race, I'll eat my handbag." Paddy O'Donnell had been training horses at Hawk's Folly Farm all of Imogen's life. She couldn't imagine anyone who knew horses better than him.

  Mother Hawkes gave her a thoughtful look. "Give me your cup."

  Imogen handed it over. Her mother-in-law had a gift for reading the leaves, and Imogen hadn't known her to be wrong yet.

  Mother Hawkes stared into the teacup, her arched white brows drawn together. She turned it this way and that, and pronounced, "There's a whirlwind coming, girl, although I can't say whether it will bring good or ill. Be on the watch for it." She looked up at Imogen then. "How you handle it will determine the outcome."

  Imogen pressed her lips together. Her own mother would have cautioned her to ignore foolish prophecies. She would have said that Mother Hawkes' prediction was vague, and could be interpreted in many ways. But something about her mother-in-law's words rang true.

  "I'll keep my eyes open," Imogen promised.

  ***

  The drive back to the farm helped calm her, the regular clopping of the horse's hooves soothing her frazzled nerves.

  Hawk's Folly lay just over the rise, and when the buggy crested the hill, Imogen stopped to take it in. Despite the fact that Henry had willed the farm to her, Imogen had never truly felt she owned it.

  The Victorian house had been built by Henry for his first wife, Bella, a hot-house beauty who'd filled the place with frills and lace and dainty figurines. The house's pink siding needed attention, Imogen noticed. It hadn't been painted since '01, a couple of months before Henry had died. Yet another thing that would have to wait now. The green-roofed stables were in perfect order, though.

  To the east of the stables lay the practice track, the cause of her current woes. Henry had mortgaged the entire property to pay for the thing's construction. A full mile, the track had all the trappings of the one at Saratoga save its grandstand and the fancy new judges' stand. A hedge of cedars surrounded it, meant to hide the neat white posts and fine dirt from prying eyes.

  Henry had had grand ideas, but he'd been hampered by both a complete inability to recognize a good horse and an unwillingness to listen to any advice, whether it came from his trainer, his mother, or his wife. It had taken Imogen a couple of years to accumulate decent breeding stock once she'd gotten rid of his questionable acquisitions. The current two-year-olds were her first crop, and the Saratoga meet would be their maiden outing.

  Barely visible from the rise was the old tenant's cottage at the far end of Hawk's Folly. When Imogen's mother had come over from England with an infant daughter, a 'recently dead' husband, and a single retainer escorting her for the sake of propriety, Mother Hawkes had taken them in and let the mother and daughter live in the cottage. She'd hired Paddy to work in the stables. As a child, Imogen had played there. She would help out with the horses whenever she could escape her mother's tight grasp. Her mother had other designs, wanting Imogen to be as proper and lady-like as herself. The fourth daughter of an earl, her mother took her consequence seriously.

  When her mother died, it had been Mother Hawkes who suggested to Henry that, since he'd been a widower for a couple of years, he could do far worse than to marry the girl from the old cottage. Imogen had always been grateful for his offer, even if she hadn't loved him. Eighteen and suddenly alone in the world, she hadn't had any place to go, no family that she knew, and no experience at making a living for herself.

  And after Henry's death it had all fallen on her, every inch of the land, its history and its people. Now with it threatened, she could feel ties binding her there. Not just to the people who worked for her, but the farm itself. It was hers, and she didn't intend to let it go.

  The day was flying by, she realized. Determined not to waste it, Imogen snapped the reins and the horse trotted down the rise. Once she'd pulled the buggy into the stable yard, one of the hands rushed up to take the reins. Imogen climbed down, grabbed the package of supplies Paddy had requested from the store, and tossed it over by the main stable door for him. She cast a glance in the direction of the stalls but decided to change out of her town clothes first, so she headed up to the wide porch of the house and inside.

  Her bedroom was on the second floor with windows overlooking the green roof of the stable and the yard. Tired of living in the shadow of Henry's first wife, Imogen had repainted the room in a sunny yellow, sold the accumulation of knick-knacks, and purchased new bedding and a rug suited to her own taste--one of the few extravagances she'd allowed herself.

  She glanced out her windows and saw Paddy stalking toward the house, so she dashed into the dressing area between the two upstairs bedrooms to change. She stripped off her stained walking suit and pulled on a riding skirt in heavy brown twill and a fresh cream-colored blouse--working clothes, and far more suited to her taste. Then she headed down to find out what Paddy needed.

  "They're forgeries," Paddy said as soon as she made it down to the sitting room. When annoyed, his accent took on the thick brogue of the old country, but Imogen could usually follow it.

  She peered at the sheaf of papers he held up for her to inspect. The new stallion, she realized, her heart sinking. After seeing the horse's listing for auction in Boston, she'd bid on him sight unseen. His racing record alone should have made him valuable, and she'd been quite surprised when she won him. With the other news she'd gotten this morning, she didn't want to hear her gamble hadn't paid off. "Are you certain?"

  Paddy ran a hand through his gray hair and se
ttled his tweed cap atop again. "As sure as the day is long, girl."

  "They raced him under these papers, Paddy."

  "Someone in Boston turned a blind eye, then, something the fine gents in Saratoga aren't going to do."

  Imogen sighed. She grabbed one of Henry's old barn coats off the rack near the door. "Well, I suppose I should go take a look at the fellow. I paid enough to have him shipped here. Please tell me he has good points that outweigh his spurious pedigree. Can he be used for training, at least? A riding horse?"

  Paddy held the door open for her, his expression guarded. "I think it's best you see him yourself, girl."

  They walked together down the path toward the stables, Paddy clucking his tongue over their new acquisition all the while. A life-long pessimist, Paddy never failed to see the dark cloud under the silver lining. But he was probably right. If he thought the stud she'd purchased sight-unseen wasn't any good, then they probably had an expensive new gelding, not even suitable to be a riding horse.

  Imogen unpinned her braided hair as they walked. It had a coarse texture--like a horse's mane, her mother had always pointed out. A few white-blonde strands blew across her eyes, escaping confinement. She tucked them back behind her ears as Paddy led the way through the stable. The air smelled of horse and manure, hay and dust, all scents that seemed welcoming and safe to Imogen. The stables were large, the French style with two rows of stalls facing each other across a center aisle. The old stud, Dalmation--the only one of Henry's studs she and Paddy deemed worth keeping--had his stall down at the far end, away from the yearlings and colts. The newcomer waited a couple of stalls over.

  She looked over the door at the creature. A dark chestnut with neat compact lines, he looked exactly like the sketch published in the auctioneer's newsletter: five years old, deep chest, well-formed legs and haunches, clear eyes. About fifteen hands, he wasn't a large horse, but his racing record--she did know that to be accurate, at least--indicated he had heart. He'd had only one second place finish among dozens of wins.