Читать книгу Time For Love - Melinda Curtis - Страница 11

CHAPTER TWO

“I’M HOME.” KATHY entered the front door, shedding her pink jacket.

No one greeted her. The house smelled of savory pot roast steeped in bittersweet memories.

Her grandfather had passed away four months ago, but memorabilia from his military career still hung on the living room wall—medals, pictures, certificates of service—along with black-and-white wedding photos and baby pictures. Add in the 1970s furniture and color scheme, and everything looked the same as when he’d been alive, except there was no dust, no newspaper piles, no faint smell of hair tonic. Flynn said he’d update the place once he was done grieving. Until then, the house looked the same as it had twenty years ago.

It’d been almost two decades since their mother left them here, since Kathy had sat in Grandpa Ed’s lap while he braided her hair (a skill he’d learned in the military for making horses presentable). He’d told her she was going to be just like all the other girls in Harmony Valley. But she was different.

She was surprised every time she opened the pantry and discovered it was full. She was wary of strangers, even smiling ones in town. And her heart stuttered every time she saw a woman with red hair or heard a female with a smoker’s throaty laugh.

She’d stayed close to home in those early years, under the watchful eye of her grandfather. Eventually, when her mother didn’t come back and Kathy reached her teens, she felt confident enough to push the small-town limits that had kept her safe for so long.

Kathy missed Grandpa Ed’s booming voice as he chastised her teenage self for wearing skirts that were too short. She missed his barked rules and pieces of advice, however unwanted they’d been at the time. She could still feel his strong arms around her when she had come home after only a few months at college, alone, an emotional wreck and pregnant. He’d talked her into keeping Truman. It’d been the best decision of her life.

Until the text messages started...

The screen door banged behind her. Abby, her son’s small, mostly black Australian shepherd, trotted over to greet Kathy.

“It’s you,” Truman said flatly, standing in the foyer. He was eight, but he might just as well have been eighteen for all his sullenness. Everything about him was dirt smudged and disheveled—from his unzipped blue jacket, slightly askew on his thin shoulders, to his sneakers, laces dangling, the color of spent earthworms. “I thought you were Uncle Flynn.”

Her chest felt cavernous, as if somewhere along her alcohol-blazed trail the heart she’d given to her little boy had been lost. “I brought you a chocolate bar.” When he was younger and she’d disappointed him, she would bring him gifts and sweets, and he would fling his arms around her as if she had never failed him. Today she’d had Phil, the elderly town barber, go in and buy the bar for her at El Rosal. Kathy pulled it from her jacket pocket, distressed to find the dark chocolate soft beneath her fingers.

Without looking at her, Truman turned up his nose. “I don’t eat treats before dinner. Aunt Becca says I can only have one treat a day, and I already had cookies.”

Kathy remembered baking cookies with Truman last Christmas in this kitchen. He’d stood on a stool, mixing the dough, chattering a mile a minute. When they slid the cookies in the oven, Truman had hugged her tight and then run to play checkers with Grandpa Ed. If only she’d known how fragile their bond was, she wouldn’t ever have let him go.

“How about a hug?” Kathy dropped the candy onto the low wooden coffee table and extended her arms, knowing they’d remain empty, but still stubbornly hopeful. So very hopeful. “Your mom’s had a long day.”

“I hug you every night at bedtime, like I’m supposed to.” So young to be able to wound her so deeply.

Kathy couldn’t seem to draw a breath.

Abby sat quietly in front of her, soft eyes patient for affection. She’d been Becca’s dog until last summer, when Kathy went into rehab and Truman moved in here. Kathy reached in her pocket for a doggy treat. Presents worked great with animals. With her son? Not so much. Not anymore.

Truman walked past Kathy to the kitchen. “Where’s Aunt Becca and Uncle Flynn?”

“I don’t know,” Kathy said. “I smell dinner, though. We should check to make sure it doesn’t burn.”

He shook his ginger-haired head. “Becca never burns anything.” Another accusation. Another oxygen-robbed moment.

Unlike her sister-in-law, Kathy was a horrible cook. Granted, in the past two years she’d been operating the stove under the influence, but she was convinced you either had the cooking gene or you didn’t. The more Becca’s perfection contrasted against Kathy’s flaws, the stronger Kathy’s desire to get a place of her own became. All she needed was rent money—and Truman by her side.

Becca hurried down the hall toward them, looking put-together-cute in yoga pants and a thin green sweater. For sure, she didn’t smell of manure and disinfectant. “I didn’t hear you two come in. I was on the phone checking on a client.” Saint Becca, the town’s caregiver to the elderly. She kissed the top of Truman’s head.

Kathy’s ears filled with a rushing noise, much like the time she’d got caught by a submerged branch at the bend in the Harmony Valley River and nearly drowned. She turned away.

“Did you meet Felix’s new litter of kittens?” Becca asked Truman.

Kathy couldn’t resist turning back.

Truman beamed. He used to smile at Kathy like that, before she’d lost control of the drinking. “I also saw Bea’s baby goats. She calls them kids.” He giggled.

“I’m going to wash up.” Kathy fled down the hallway. She locked herself in the bathroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror. What an afternoon. A confrontation with a handsome, heartless stranger, followed by another example of how she’d been replaced in Truman’s life.

She needed...something. She didn’t want a drink. Alcohol didn’t solve anything. But she wanted her son to look up to her and love her, like he used to. Like he did to Becca. She wanted them to be a family again, to have a bond with her son that no one could break. If only he would agree to spend time with her. Alone time. Together time. Precious time. He’d see she was the mother he’d once loved wholeheartedly.

The shower beckoned. She knew the family wouldn’t hold dinner for her. She could eat alone. But that was the coward’s way out. And her grandfather hadn’t raised any cowards. He’d passed on words of wisdom to her and Flynn after their mother left them here for good—pep talks he’d most likely used on the military men who’d reported to him during his career.

She met her gaze in the mirror. “Don’t let life push you around. You can win back Truman’s love and trust.”

She could.

The more often she said it, the better chance she had of believing it.

* * *

FEAR DID AWFUL things to a man. It drained Dylan of energy and hope, and now of morals.

His old man would have said he’d let a horse best him. And then he’d have followed that up with a besting of his own. His dad’s bloodshot eyes had been wilder and more menacing than any horse.

Still thinking of the promises he’d made in Harmony Valley, Dylan drove down Redemption Ranch’s thinly graveled, potholed driveway, illuminated only by his headlights. A small car turned in behind him. He parked in front of his paint-peeling, two-story clapboard house. Motion-activated lights flipped on—one from the front porch, one over the separate garage and one near the corner of the double row of stables. They illuminated his crabgrass and scraggly shrubbery.

Home, sweet home.

Phantom let out a shrill whinny, more a warning than a welcome.

Dylan leaned against the dented tailgate, pushing all his concerns—for the black stallion, Kathy and a damaged colt—to the side.

“Daddy!” A brown-haired, stubby-legged five-year-old boy tumbled out of the backseat as soon as his mother unbuckled him. Zach wrapped his wiry arms around Dylan’s legs. “I want a pony ride.”

Eileen stood at the car, arms crossed, a frown on her face. He’d considered her kind and beautiful once—short wavy brown hair, whiskey-colored eyes and a button nose. And she had once loved him, back when she’d considered Dylan the man who hung the moon, the horse miracle worker whom everyone wanted to hire. “Cutting it close, Dylan?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Dylan kept his voice chipper for his kid’s sake. He hadn’t enjoyed his parents’ fights when he was a boy—he refused to put his own son through the same. “I had a meeting run over.” He’d stayed too long in Harmony Valley, stopped at the bank and then run into the feed store for a bag of oats.

“You’re lucky.” Eileen slammed the rear car door. “We’re late.”

“I’ll have him home on time.” Traffic permitting. The highway between Cloverdale and Santa Rosa was often crowded and slow-moving.

“You’ve let the Double R go,” Eileen said coldly, before getting back in her car and driving away, puffs of dust a trail of annoyance in her wake. They’d divorced a few years ago. She’d wanted him to get over himself and find a “real job,” one with nine-to-five hours and generous benefits. Then she’d met deep-pockets Bob and filed for divorce.

“Dad.” Zach squeezed his legs. “I already had dinner. I’m ready to race.”

“Come on, sport. Let’s saddle Peaches.” Dylan took his son’s small hand and led him to the tack room, ignoring the end-of-the-day ache in his knee.

Barry, the former jockey turned caretaker, waved at them from his apartment window above the garage.

Zach leapfrogged forward. “Was Peaches a racehorse?”

If only Dylan had a dollar for each time Zach asked him this. “Peaches? She prefers to walk regally in the arena.” Plod along happily was more like it.

An owl hooted in an oak tree. A white barn cat with a crooked tail followed them. Horses stretched their graceful necks between stall bars, sniffing, nickering and stomping in greeting—Sam, a former jumper who balked at fences; Rickshaw, a half-blind bay; Marty, a headstrong trail horse; and so on down the line. Horses that were untrainable or unlovable—at least in their last owners’ eyes.

“Peaches is a good racehorse.” Zach defended his faithful steed, running ahead as if he’d been born wearing cowboy boots. “I could race her.” He opened the tack room door in the middle of the stable aisle.

Zach couldn’t kick that pony into a trot if he wore spurs and shot off fireworks, but Dylan wasn’t telling his son that. He followed Zach in, took Peaches’s bridle from its hook, then hefted her small saddle and blanket.

“Where was Peaches when Phantom kicked you?” Next Zach hurried toward the farthest stall on the end. The last stall had signs posted—Danger! Stay Back! “If Phantom ever came after me, I’d just hop on Peaches and race away.”

In the last stall, a shrill whinny pierced the air. The other horses drew back into their stalls.

Startled, Zach searched the gathering gloom as if expecting the black stallion to charge out of the shadows. Dylan kept walking, reminded of the courageous way Kathy had entered the colt’s stall today. But his knee throbbed a warning and Dylan kept his eyes on the bars over the stall windows where Phantom was stabled.

“Phantom is mean,” Zach said in a hushed voice.

“He’s just a horse.” A large brute of a horse with incredible speed and the bloodlines of Thoroughbred royalty in his veins. “You know, even if you try to be careful, accidents happen.”

“He’s mean.” Zach’s brown hair was crisply cut and gelled into place, just the way Eileen liked it. Shifting Peaches’s gear in his arms, Dylan ruffled Zach’s hair, eliciting a giggle from his son.

Zach, with his ready smile and buoyant attitude, was the balm to Dylan’s setbacks. With his son in his life, Dylan could bear any burden and ride out any storm. Financial worries would be weathered. Physical setbacks overcome. Shattered dreams rebuilt. Maybe even his faith in a horse could be restored given time.

Peaches loved Zach and greeted him when he opened the stall door by nudging his pressed jeans pockets. Peaches was an ancient palomino Shetland pony, formerly a mascot at Far Turn Farms.

Giggling, Zach pulled out some baby carrots from one pocket and held them in the flat of his hand. “She knows I have treats.”

Peaches lipped them from his little palm while Dylan saddled her. It took only a few more minutes to slip her bridle on, hoist Zach into the saddle and hand his son the reins.

It was full-on dark now. And quiet. Quiet enough that Dylan imagined he heard Phantom’s huff of disgust as he led Peaches toward the arena. He flipped the lights on, chasing away the bogeyman. Then he opened the gate and set the pair free.

Peaches, per her usual modus operandi, walked slowly toward the fence and began her circuit. Small puffs of dirt rose from each footfall.

“Dad. Dad. Daddy.” Zach twisted in the saddle. His grin was so bright it could have lit the arena. Forget the arena—it sparked a feeling of joy in Dylan’s chest that chased away the day’s concerns. “Say it, Daddy. Say it.”

Dylan grinned. “Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen. The Cloverdale Derby is about to begin.” Dylan latched the gate. “Peaches and her jockey, Zach O’Brien, are the odds-on favorite tonight. And—” he drew out the word as he climbed atop the highest rung on the arena fence “—they’re off. It’s Peaches in the lead.”

With a whoop, Zach leaned over the pony’s golden neck and jogged the reins as if they were galloping. “Come on, Peaches. You can do it.”

The pony continued plodding along.

“Keep going, Dad.”

Dylan could go on like this forever. “They’re heading into the first turn with Peaches ahead.”

* * *

LATER THAT NIGHT as Dylan pulled into the driveway of Eileen’s prestigious home in her prestigious neighborhood in Santa Rosa, Zach was fast asleep in his car seat in the rear of the truck. Eileen’s outdoor lighting cast a glow over the perfectly manicured yard, limelighting verdant shrubs and small tufts of autumn color.

Eileen and her husband, Bob, came outside to meet them. They wore matching red plaid flannel pajama pants, green T-shirts (his: Santa; hers: Mrs. Claus) and red suede slippers. Cute, but not exactly Dylan’s thing. Not to mention, Thanksgiving was still weeks away—never mind Christmas.

“I expected you an hour ago.” Eileen’s voice was as hot and toxic as a smoking muffler. So much for her ho-ho-ho. “You didn’t answer my texts or my calls.”

“I left my phone at the barn. There was traffic.” That last part was a little white lie. He’d taken Zach for ice cream. Dylan unbuckled his son from his seat.

Eileen elbowed him aside and lifted Zach. “You’re always either late or canceling on him.”

“I’m trying my best. I brought you a check.” He tried to keep his voice even, but his throat felt as potholed as his driveway. “It’s tough to get a business going in the early years. I have to hustle clients where I can.” His income wasn’t big, but it was fairly steady. Big paychecks loomed on the horizon—if he could help Kathy, if he could help the colt, if he could harvest Phantom’s sperm. If. If he could rediscover the nerve to work with severely untrainable horses, he could make the dream of a steady income a reality.

Bob took Zach from Eileen and tucked the little man to his shoulder as if he’d had years of practice. Something cold solidified in Dylan’s stomach. And it wasn’t rocky-road ice cream.

“I’ve talked to my lawyer.” Eileen was on a roll tonight. She snatched the check from his hand. “You can’t be late anymore. Not you or your money.”

“Not now, honey,” Bob said. “Let’s get Zach to bed. He’s got school tomorrow.”

Dylan hadn’t forgotten it was a school night, but... “It’s only eight thirty.”

Bob sighed, as if he knew better what Zach needed. He walked toward the house with Dylan’s kid.

Eileen’s mouth worked in that way it did when she was having trouble swallowing back bitter words. She was rarely successful. She spewed words at him, as sour as a green cherry, as hard as its pit. “You need to do better, Dylan. Or things are going to change.”

Like things hadn’t changed when she left him and took his son away? How could they get any worse?

Bob stopped and turned to face Dylan. Zach murmured something. Bob murmured back, stroking Zach’s little shoulders. The cold fist in Dylan’s gut expanded. The other man met Dylan’s gaze over the hood of the truck.

The cold fist sucker-punched Dylan from the inside out.

He knew how things could get worse.

They could take Zach from him. Not for Saturdays. Not for Wednesday nights.

Forever.