Page 2 of One in a Million

A smile curved Jasmine’s lips as Roper loped the stallion around the arena. The horse still had his elegant moves. The speed it took to win might have tapered off. But the man was a master, putting the great horse through his paces with subtle moves of his hands, knees, and feet. She wouldn’t mind getting a closer look. But the timing was wrong today. There were too many people around. Roper would be tired and wanting to finish his work. And today, after a hard swim in the pool, she was a stringy-haired, red-eyed mess.

Roper usually arrived at work early in the morning. That would be the best time for her to take a stroll and bump into him—purely by chance, of course.

She laughed, imagining the surprise on his handsome face. She’d tried more than once to catch his eye. So far, he’d seemed unaware of her. But Jasmine knew her way around men, and she knew how to get herself noticed. She looked forward to the challenge.

* * *

It was a long-standing custom for the Culhane family to eat dinner together every Friday night. The tradition had started two generations ago when a giant oak tree on the ranch was felled by lightning. Frank’s grandfather, Elias Culhane, had declared the strike an act of God, sliced a long, diagonal section of the trunk and had it made into a table for the family dining room. It had been Elias—a preacher’s son—who’d given orders that hereafter, his descendants should sit down at the table and share a weekly meal in peace, harmony, and love.

Nobody crossed Elias, not even decades after his death. But over the years, peace, harmony, and love had become a joke. And the table had become more of a Friday night battleground.

Wearing a yellow sundress, with her fiery hair twisted into a high bun, Jasmine surveyed her family around the table. Not a bad-looking bunch. But in other respects . . .

“Hey, sis, what have you heard from that fancy agent of yours?” Darrin, her brother, was seated across from her. “Is Ron Howard still begging you to come and star in his big movie?”

Butthead. Always was, always would be. And as usual, he knew right where to jab. “I’m still weighing my options,” she said. “How’s that Supreme Court nomination coming? Any word from the president?”

“Good one, sis.” Darrin was four years older than Jasmine. Redheaded like his sister and their mother, he kept an office in the house he rented in the nearby town of Willow Bend, but the ranch had always been his home, just as his destiny had long since been carved out as the Culhane family lawyer.

“Actually, Jasmine, your brother has a point.” Simone, Darrin’s petite blond bride, was from Dallas oil money via finishing school. “Get real, honey. You’re never going to make it as a movie star. Find yourself a job—or better yet, find a man who’ll take care of you and give you some babies to raise. You’re not getting any younger.”

Jasmine caught the amorous glance that passed between the newlyweds.Heavenly days, was Simone already pregnant?

Anxious to change the subject, Jasmine spoke to her father, who sat at the head of the table.

“Daddy, have you chosen your horse for the Run for a Million?”

Frank Culhane speared a second slice of prime rib, taking his time to answer. He was a strikingly handsome man—his body fit, his hair thick and streaked with silver. A respected trainer and champion rider, he was still winning cash prizes at reining events. This past March, at the Cactus Classic in Scottsdale, he had qualified to be one of sixteen top riders in the biggest reining event of the year—the Run for a Million, to take place later that summer at South Point Arena in Las Vegas.

“It’s too soon to decide,” he said. “The Run for a Million won’t happen until mid-August. There’s plenty of time.”

“Come on, I know you, Dad,” Jasmine teased. “Give me a hint. Is it Million Dollar Baby?”

He shrugged. “Can’t say. You know the drill. I’ll be taking three horses to the competition, two of them as backup. I probably won’t make my final decision until the night of the competition. Meanwhile, I’ll be riding in two other events. That should help narrow down the choice.”

Yes, Jasmine knew the drill. She’d grown up in stables and arenas where both her parents were competing for prize money. Not all Jasmine’s memories were happy. Sometimes the tension between her parents would get so heavy that she could almost taste it in the air. Maybe that was why, although she was a capable rider, she’d never wanted to compete.

In reining events, each rider chose the horse to show. And there were rules. A horse could be shown by its owner, a family member, or an employee. A trainer without a suitable horse could lease one from an owner or ride a client’s horse. Prize money would be split between the owner, the rider, and usually the runners-up.

“When are you going to retire, Dad?” Darrin asked. “You’ll be the oldest rider in this year’s competition. Isn’t it time you stepped back and let the next generation take over?”

“Some of your trainers are good enough to win,” Jasmine said. “Look at Roper. When he rides, it’s as if he creates a mind link with the horses. Put him on a winner and he could make some serious money for the ranch. When are you going to give him a chance?”

Frank chuckled. “After I win the Run for a Million, I’ll think about it. But don’t talk to me about retiring. I’d rather die in the saddle than in a rocking chair or, heaven forbid, in some blasted hospital bed. Give me my horses and the thrill of competing for a prize. For me, that’s heaven.”

“I understand, Dad. But you’re not as young as you used to be. We want you to take care of yourself.”

Jasmine did understand, although she knew better than to speak the truth. Frank enjoyed being the center of attention. He didn’t want anybody stealing his thunder in the arena—especially a younger employee who was probably a better rider than his boss. And Frank wouldn’t be too keen on sharing the prize money either, or having his best trainer quit for a better offer.

One person at the table hadn’t spoken. Lila sat at Frank’s left, toying with the food on her plate. She was a stunning woman, tall and elegant, her stylishly streaked hair tied back with a silk scarf. Usually she held her own in the weekly dinner table conversations. But tonight she appeared troubled.

Whatever was wrong, the bitch deserved it, Jasmine told herself. She had hated her stepmother from the moment she’d set foot in the great house and started redecorating. At first, Lila had tried to make friends with her husband’s daughter. But there could be no forgiveness for the woman who’d destroyed her parents’ marriage. After the first few months, Lila had abandoned her overtures and settled for cold civility.

The tension had eased when Jasmine left for L.A. to pursue acting and modeling work. But when she came home between gigs, it was as if she’d never been away.

Frank finished his pecan pie and stirred in his chair. “I’m going down to check on that mare who’s about to foal,” he said, turning to Lila. “If she’s in labor, I’ll stay with her, so don’t wait up for me.”

“Fine.” The word was spoken with no change in Lila’s expression. “Try not to wake me when you come in.”

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