Scene 24

The athletic bay mare flew around the course, clearing fences as if powered by invisible wings. Triple bar, joker, Liverpool, an oxer as wide as it was tall. Both horse and rider made it look effortless, handling each jump with ease.

Dillon sat on the top rail of the arena, counting strides between combinations, marveling at Seren's ability to communicate with her mare through signals she could never see.

It was a dance. A duet. A pas de deux of perfect harmony.

She loved watching her sister ride. Loved the sheer grace of her form, the beauty of her style, the composure she radiated whenever she was in the saddle.

It seemed impossible they were related. Seren was everything their English mother was: graceful, tall, slender, with raven black hair and mahogany brown eyes. Studious and serious. Growing up, she had been the ballerina, the fashion aficionado, the girl who'd turned the head of every boy in secondary school.

Dillon had taken after their Welsh father.

Lacking in height, broad-shouldered, blonde-haired and green-eyed, with skin that burned at just the hint of sunshine. She'd been born with their dad's laid-back, jesting nature, and had built with him an ardent bond through their keen love of sport and competition. Where she lacked Seren's willowy lissomness, Dillon excelled at all things requiring strength and endurance.

They were two divergent seeds born of the same pod.

What they did share, however, was their parents' driving ambition. Both had inherited the desire for a challenge. It had been no surprise that the two competitive children had grown into adults with Olympic aspirations. A dream that had been realized for Dillon almost a decade sooner than her older sister—but one she always knew Seren would eventually achieve.

It had been one of the proudest moments of Dillon's life when, the year before in Melbourne, Seren was named as an alternate to Great Britain's equestrian eventing team.

Those Summer Games had been a personal disappointment for Dillon—not only because of her second-place finish, but because her sister had never been called to ride. It had to kill Seren, she knew, to have gone all that way and worked that hard and never be given the chance to compete.

The mare Seren qualified with, a Dutch Warmblood named Epic Forces—lovingly called épée—was the most talented horse she'd ever ridden. The owners had given her carte blanche to develop her as she saw fit. And watching them work this morning, Dillon had no doubt the pair would be headed to Los Angeles with a guaranteed spot on the Olympic Eventing squad for Team GB.

"Two golds for Team Sinclair in our future," she grinned as Seren spotted her on the railing and brought épée down to a walk.

"You and your gold medal obsession," Seren laughed, her breath disappearing into the cloud of steam rising from the bay mare's neck. "I'll just be happy to make the team."

"Bollocks." Dillon hopped off the fence, falling into stride beside the long-legged mare. "I know you want that hardware."

Seren drew épée to a stop. "Hack out with me? She could use a long cool-off."

Dillon rarely rode anymore, but when Seren asked her to, she never turned her down. She loved any stolen minutes she could spend with her sister. So seldom did the two of them have time together alone.

Quickly bridling one of the old school horses, she swung up bareback and joined épée and Seren on a leisurely excursion along the cross-country course running through the rolling hills surrounding the farm. It was the day before New Year's Eve, and the training center was quiet, leaving the two young women with the grounds to themselves.

"So what's up, Dilly?" They'd wandered down to the rippling creek and picked their way along the bank, avoiding the dripping tree branches that warmed with the rising sun. "I know you've not turned up in Swansea to ask me for a cuppa and watch me work."

Dilly . No one else called her that. No one else could get away with it. Dillon would throw hands before she allowed it. But somehow, coming from Seren, she'd always loved it.

Seren gave épée her head to pick her way across a slippery patch of mud, with Dillon following closely behind. It had been a couple years since she'd ridden. When they were children, she'd tag along with Seren to the farm every Saturday. She'd help her tack up her horses and often end the afternoon with the two of them hacking out.

Then, she started training with Henrik. He convinced her if she wanted to make it as a professional, there was no time for extraneous pastimes. No time for school. And eventually, no time for family.

So the Saturday mornings at the barn had come to an end.

"Do you think I'm apathetic?"

She hadn't really intended to ask the question, but it had been gnawing at her for the past couple days. Ever since Sam accused her of having no feelings.

"What?" Seren almost laughed as she drew épée to a halt, turning to look back at her. " You ?"

Dillon hiked a shoulder, trying to pull off indifferent, but Seren saw straight through her.

"Dillon." She sounded exactly like their mother when she said it. It was her listen to me, how can you be so daft tone. They were both stopped now, the horses taking advantage of their distraction to snag a few mouthfuls of tall ryegrass. "Who put that idea into your head? The new girl—?"

" No ." Dillon was quickly defensive. "Forget I asked—"

"Whoever told you that is a pillock. I don't know if there's a person who could be less apathetic than you. And I'm not just saying that because you're my sister." She swung a leg over her mare's wither so she could turn and face her. "You feel everything , Dillon. You always have. Sometimes too much."

Dillon disliked the unfamiliar prick she could feel at the back of her eyes. The catch in her throat. She wasn't sure if it was because she'd feared the answer, or if it was because Seren so vehemently had her back—as steadfastly as she always had, ever since they were children. Even when Dillon least deserved it.

Sliding off the grey gelding, she dropped into the wet undergrowth, Seren following suit. They pulled the bridles off the horses and set them loose to graze. Above them, the sun had cleared the treetops and brought a warmth to the breeze.

Heedless of the damp grass, Dillon flopped onto her back, staring at the overcast sky. Seren joined her, shoulder-to-shoulder.

"Talk to me, Dilly," said Seren.

And then she waited. Waited like she always did.

Waited until Dillon told her everything.

From Santa Monica to San Francisco. Sand Seekers to Sam.

Seren listened patiently, never cutting in, and when Dillon had finished, she remained quiet, taking time to think.

"Sam has some fair points," she said at length, though her tone was devoid of judgment. "You have developed a pattern of running away, but not for the reasons she believes."

Dillon said nothing, watching as a blue tit flitted along the branches above them, its yellow belly glittering with dewdrops.

Rolling on her side, Seren propped herself onto an elbow to look at her sister through the curtain of meadow grass.

"You're different than most people, Dillon, but I don't think you realize it. Very few people have your kind of ambition. Your intense focus and tenacity. And because of that, I think you're drawn to women with the same qualities. You—intentional or not—choose extraordinary because you are extraordinary. It's only natural to be attracted to someone with a like mind—with like dreams."

"It's not the ambition that worries me."

"Of course not. It's what you're most attracted to. But it's what pushes these women to success. It's the reason they stand out in their careers. Hufen yn codi , right?"

One of their dad's favorite sayings: Cream rises .

It was always strange to hear Seren speak Welsh. She spoke so little of the language. It had never been of interest to her.

"So what are you getting at? I need to change my type?"

Seren laughed. "You couldn't change that if you wanted to. And for the record," she nudged her shin with the toe of her riding boot, "I never want you to change anything about you. You're exactly who you should be."

"Whoever that is," Dillon muttered, still gazing at the sky.

Seren was quiet a moment, contemplative, before continuing. "I know you're afraid what happened after Dad is going to happen again. You were really young and vulnerable, and the press exploited that—"

"It has nothing to do with that—!"

"It has everything to do with that and we both know it. It's why you panicked with the attention you were getting while you were with Kelsey, and it's why you're back home now." Rolling into a sitting position, she plucked the blossom off a creeping thistle and rolled it between her fingers. "It doesn't mean it's going to be like that again, Dillon. The year after Dad died was a tsunami of events that led to the perfect storm. You were already getting so much media because of the Olympics, and then, what Henrik said after Dad—"

"I don't want to talk about it, Seren!"

"We are going to talk about it! We've never talked about it, but we're going to talk about it now!"

Dillon turned her face away. Never had Seren pushed on her. Never had she forced her to address all the years of unspoken hurts lying dormant between them. But there was no escaping this conversation short of getting up and walking away.

The soft fingertips of Seren's lambskin gloves gently touched her cheek, turning her head back toward her. "I know you still tell everyone he died because he was sick. And I get it. I don't like to think about it either. But I also know, because of what you went through after he killed himself, that you're afraid it's—"

"What would you know of it, Seren?!" Dillon shoved her hand aside, leaping to her feet. She wanted to run. To be anywhere but here. "You aren't the reason he's dead! No one ever pointed the finger at you!"

Seren was up half a beat behind her, grabbing a hold of the collar of her jacket, staring down at her with the same furious intensity.

"The only reason Dad is dead is because Dad made a horrible decision to take his life. No one else made that decision for him, Dillon. No one . Not you. Not me. Not Mam. Not even that bastard, Henrik. That was Dad and Dad alone. And don't you ever fucking forget it!"

Dillon tried to pull away, but couldn't shake Seren's grip. It was the first time she'd ever heard her sister swear. The first time she'd ever raised her voice to her.

"That's easy for you to say." Dillon gave one last weak attempt to break free of her grasp, but it was already too late. She could hear the tears trembling in her voice. Feel them streaming down her cheeks. And there was nothing she could do about it. There was no place she could run this time to make them go away. No time to beat. No record to break. No medal to chase. And when Seren reached forward to take her in her arms, she wanted to cling to her, to let her sister burden the weight of her despair, but all she could do was stand there, her arms hanging at her sides, and cry.

Seren held her anyhow. Held her as her body wracked with the unfamiliar release. Held her through her choking sobs until, at last, she could finally breathe.

Sensing the ebbing wave of her emotion, Seren took a half step back, releasing her from her hold.

"You have to let it go, Dillon. You run and run and run, and keep everyone at arm's length. I know you're terrified of who you were when you were nineteen. I know the guilt eats at you. But we can't change the past. I'm tired of living in it. I'm tired of watching you live in it." She brushed the back of an impatient hand across her own eyes. "There's so much of Dad in you. There are so many things I loved about him I get to see in you every day. But you're not him. So don't let his decisions shape you. You're your own worst enemy. Henrik is gone. Dad is dead. It's time for you to let it go. It's time for you to figure out how to love yourself." She reached out, brushing the hair from Dillon's eyes. "Please."

Dillon looked away, out over the meadow, down the rolling hills to the sea. The tide had gone out in the bay, leaving a thousand shells sparkling in the rays of sun that had broken through the clouds. Above them, a goldfinch burst into a melodious tune, startling the horses, who raised their heads to hear the song.

"I wouldn't even know where to start." She tugged a black berry off a wild privet, flicking the poisoned fruit into the brush.

"I think you do." Seren smiled. "Not that I'm overly fond of Hollywood."

Dillon took a long, shaky breath, before looking at her sister. "You better learn to be," she said, allowing herself to find her own half smile. "In a few years, you and épée are going to be intimately familiar with Los Angeles."

"Leave it to you to always have your mind too far in the future," Seren chastised. "For just one minute, will you think about today?"

Dillon ran her palm over the sweep of ryegrass, thinking about how abruptly she'd left California. How unfair she'd been to Kam.

"What if she doesn't want to hear from me?"

"Don't be twp, little sister," Seren poked her with the nub of her spur as she bent to collect their bridles.

Dillon knew she'd chosen the word deliberately. Another of their dad's favorites—the Welsh word for daft. She wanted it to be okay to talk about him. To remember him. Without all the hurt.

"I promise you, she's waiting by the phone." Seren slung the leather crownpiece into Dillon's hand. "Any girl would."