Читать книгу Time For Love - Melinda Curtis - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

“I NEED A minute with you alone.” Gage met Dylan in the Harmony Valley clinic’s parking lot. There was a stubborn tilt to the vet’s chin. “I know this is awkward. You’re here primarily for Kathy. But the colt, Chance, he needs your help.”

Dylan’s training had already failed one horse. He hesitated to make any promises. “I’ll do what I can, but that colt...”

“Is a fighter.” Gage grinned, but it was a fighter’s grin, an I’m-gonna-get-you-to-my-side-eventually grin. “I delivered him. I know what he was like before—happy-go-lucky, trusting, curious. And sometimes, he remembers, too.”

The vet could rationalize the situation all he liked. The fact remained: the colt was a danger to himself and others. He’d forever be unpredictable.

“Please.” Gage glanced away, as if he felt uncomfortable asking Dylan for anything. “Far Turn Farms called today and said if he isn’t suitably socialized in three weeks, they’re putting him down. They’ll destroy him for no other reason than the fact that he’s operating on survival instinct.”

Dylan agreed with all the things Gage said, but odds were the colt was like Phantom. Controllable until someone did something stupid. Was it worth the risk? Dylan had to be responsible.

Yet even as the thought ran through his head, Dylan felt defeat tumble in his gut. When had he stopped believing in redemption—not just in himself, but in horses, as well?

Instead of being the voice of reason, Dylan found himself saying, “It’ll take more than me working with him a few hours a day.” Which just proved what an idiot he was, giving the man false hope. The world was run by profit-and-loss statements, not heart and hope. That was what his old man used to say.

The vet’s attitude shifted subtly, like a horse who’d just realized what you wanted was what he wanted and he stopped fighting, but was too proud to lower his head. “Whatever you need.”

Yeah, what Dylan needed was his head examined. “If he hasn’t sent me to the emergency room in an hour, I’ll make you a list of activities that might help.”

“If things don’t work out...” Gage’s jaw hardened. “Is there room at Redemption Ranch?”

“If I still own the Double R in thirty days, we can talk.” Why not just lay all his failures at the good doctor’s door? While he was spilling his guts, he should tell Gage how hard he’d had it growing up with an abusive father.

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized.” Gage’s gaze dropped to the asphalt, but not quick enough to disguise the disappointment in his eyes. He was likely not so much sorry for Dylan’s misfortune as its impact on his concerns.

The vet went back inside. Dylan grabbed a thin, four-foot plastic pole with a red flag on one end and headed toward the stable.

When he was a boy, they’d lived in a small ramshackle place, the land not large enough to call a ranch. His mother waitressed, and his father worked odd jobs, but mostly people brought Dad horses to break. The money was good, but it was the chance to make another living thing suffer that appealed to Dad most. His old man was old-school. Tie the horse. Beat the horse. Defeat the horse. It got to the point where Dylan heard a horse trailer coming down the drive and he ran for his bedroom. He couldn’t stand the sound of a horse’s shrill screams. They sounded too much like his and his brother Billy’s.

It wasn’t until Child Protective Services took him and his brother away and placed them on a legitimate ranch with ten other foster boys that Dylan learned there was a gentler way to work with horses. To follow the more natural path, a horse trainer had to think like a horse, see the world like a horse, be the horse. Recognize every nuanced flicker of movement for what it was—confidence, trust, anxiety, fear, defense, rebellion.

Chance couldn’t be rehabilitated in a day, if at all. And despite the colt’s incredibly clean lines and heritage, he’d probably never make it on the track. There were too many noises there, too much visual stimuli. A racehorse was a trained athlete, one who could channel his focus down to one thing—outrunning the competition. Fears, phobias, quirks. They distracted. And distractions slowed a horse down.

He came through the back gate, and Sugar ambled toward him, ears perked forward, a marked contradiction to the colt’s quick steps and threatening posture. The colt probably assumed anything over one hundred pounds had the potential to pounce on him. Which might explain why Kathy, who was short and lacked meat on her bones, was the least threatening person at the clinic.

He paused to greet the mare and stroke her sleek neck. “You probably want to tell me how important it is to save Chance, too.”

She blew air through her nose onto his chest, a sign of relaxed affection that might just as easily have translated to I love him, you dummy.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

Kathy came out the back door of the clinic as Dylan limped up the path to the stables. “Hey, wait up.”

At least one of his Harmony Valley clients sought his company. Dylan mentally shifted from horse mode to people mode. Kathy approached him eagerly. As thin as she was, as hidden as her form was beneath jeans that didn’t fit and that pink jacket, she shouldn’t have been mesmerizing. But there was an energy and confidence to her walk that said Look at me, much like a seasoned racehorse passing the stands on the way to the starting gate. For a moment, Dylan forgot his purpose and his fears, both being edged aside by the unexpected power of Kathy’s presence.

She stopped within touching distance and crossed her arms over her chest. “We need to talk about Chance.”

Dylan held up a hand. “Gage told me about the urgency with the colt. And...”

“Good. What can I do to help?”

More than anything, Dylan wanted to tell her to go back to the kennel, where it was safe. The last thing anyone needed was an injury on-premises. But the determination in her eyes registered. He knew she wouldn’t listen. “You can observe.”

“But...”

“No buts. You took risks yesterday. You can stay if you follow my lead. Agreed?”

It took her too long to nod. And there was a flash to her blue eyes that matched the fire of her hair. She might just as well have said, Agreed. For now.

As happened yesterday, they entered the stable to greetings from the two pregnant mares and a kick from the colt.

Dylan’s steps slowed. “Does he know what grain is?”

“Yes.” Kathy flashed him a small, proud smile. Dylan felt a corresponding grin try to slip past his guard. And then she added, “Because of the accident, he was weaned early.” And that wiped out any cause for Dylan to grin.

Early weaning was a strike against the foal’s odds to recover his confidence, just as certainly as one of Kathy’s parents being an alcoholic was a strike against her odds to stay sober.

I defied the odds. He wasn’t a drunk or an abusive father. But since the accident, Dylan felt as if someone had narrowed the rails bordering his life. His options and possibilities were fewer than before.

The grain bin was stored near the colt’s stall. Dylan indicated Kathy stay back and walked past the stall without acknowledging the colt. He hummed a few jazzy bars of “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” scooped out some grain into a feed bucket and shook it.

The colt wasn’t kicking. He was probably salivating for some oats. Dylan turned his back on the colt and kept up the song.

Kathy moved closer. Her footsteps were clunky, those of the recently boot-converted. She clomped like a Clydesdale and waved a hand to catch his attention. “Uh, Chance is in the stall behind you.” Skepticism colored her voice.

Had Gage told her about Dylan’s failure? “I know that.” Dylan kept his voice smooth and easy. “He doesn’t like to be looked at, though, does he?”

“No.” There was a little grudging respect. “Or touched.” She came to stand next to him, bringing the scent of flowery perfume and the aura of raw courage. Her tenacity pulsed between them, as noticeable as the notes of the song he hummed.

The colt blew an impatient breath, signaling his desire for oats.

Dylan lowered his voice. “Whenever we’re in here together, Kathy, we need to keep our voices as soft as a baby’s blanket.” He resumed his spiderly piece.

“I’m not going to whisper sweet nothings to you.” But she was. Whispering, that was.

So prickly. Despite himself, Dylan smiled, enjoying their banter. In between verses, he asked, “Have you noticed anything?”

“Chance hasn’t thrown a tantrum.” There was wonder in her voice, the sweetness of a newly converted believer in the man who’d once been the miracle worker. “What do we do now?”

“We stay here and talk where he can see us.”

She glanced over her shoulder. The colt huffed.

“Don’t look him in the eye.” Dylan rattled the bucket of grain. He hummed louder. “Do you know this song?”

“What mother doesn’t?” Her humming blended with his, filling the stable. Not surprisingly, after a while, Kathy fidgeted. He’d suspected she wasn’t the type to stand still for long. Her boots scraped loudly across the concrete floor.

“Remind me not to take you dancing.”

Her gaze dropped to her tan leather cowboy boots, so new the soles still shined on the sides. “Nobody can walk quietly or gracefully in these things.”

“There are millions who’d argue that point.”

She huffed. The colt copied her.

“Red,” he said. “You need to use your happy indoor voice.”

She huffed again.

Dylan shook the grain, giving himself a mental headshake, as well. He was here primarily to support Kathy’s foundation of sobriety. He couldn’t do that without getting to know her better. “Tell me a story about yourself, Red.”

She didn’t blow smoke at the hair-color-related nickname. “My life isn’t the stuff of fairy tales.”

The colt shuffled about the stall, pushing straw with each step. Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.

“Red,” he scolded gently. “Nobody’s life is rainbows and pots of gold.” His certainly hadn’t been.

“You should meet my brother, Flynn.” Oh, there was sarcasm there, but it was almost hidden in the most saccharine of whispery tones. “He and his friends have the Midas touch. They created a popular farm app, sold it for millions. Came home to decompress and fell in love. Tra-la-la.”

He smiled. “So you’re the ugly stepsister? Never to find Prince Charming? Blaming Cinderella for your lot in life?”

“My mistakes are my own, Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Ah, a tragedy.” Behind him, the colt’s steps slowed. “What was the cause of your downfall? Spindle prick? Poisoned apple? Evil stepmother?”

At his last joking guess, she seemed to shrink.

Finally, a clue, a path he could follow to help her overcome the triggers of addiction. He felt energized, like a hunting dog receiving a burst of adrenaline as he picked up a scent.

Dylan would have played out the conversation, probing further, except misery pinched Kathy’s forehead, flattened her lips and drained the color from her cheeks. The bread crumbs leading to the answer he sought would have to be picked up with care.

Otherwise, instead of helping Kathy stay sober, he might send her right back to the bottle’s embrace.

* * *

KATHY DIDN’T KNOW what to say to Dylan. Or how much to say.

When word first broke of Flynn’s success nearly two years ago, the texted threats had begun. I know what happened to you in college.

Nobody knew, except the man or men responsible. There’s a price for silence.

A price to pay for protecting her secrets, for protecting her son. She didn’t want people to know she’d been a victim. But more important, she didn’t want Truman to know he was a product of a brutal crime.

And so she’d sold off things to pay the piper. And yet those payments were never enough. As it went on, Kathy found it increasingly hard to sleep, hard to concentrate at work. The drinking started out innocently enough. A nightcap to ease her fears. A shot in her morning orange juice to smooth the jumpiness. All because he was watching. Whoever he was.

And then the blackmailer made a mistake...

“Can you spare a minute, Kathy?” Standing in the stable door, Doc’s white hair ruffled in the breeze.

“Sure. Be there in a minute.” Kathy glanced at Dylan, then over her shoulder, not quite meeting Chance’s gaze. He stood calmly, staring at Dylan’s back.

“I’ll be right here waiting for more of that story.” Dylan’s deep, smooth voice held her rooted in place. Since his last question, he was treating her just like Chance. He didn’t look at her directly. He didn’t make any sudden moves. He was just there, a shoulder ready to lean on.

Kathy just couldn’t read Dylan. Yesterday he’d been coldhearted toward Chance. She’d written him off as the type of man who’d consider her a waste of time, too. Today he was humming children’s songs and joking with her about fairy tales. If she was the type of woman to lean on a man, she might have considered his broad shoulders to be leanable.

“There’s no story to tell.” Kathy forced her feet to move away from him. “And you don’t need me for this.”

“Aren’t you curious to see if you’re his security blanket?” He shook the oat bucket. “I am.”

She was, too. But she hurried off anyway.

Doc was ahead of her on the path. He had a rolling gait, moving the way Kathy imagined she had when she’d been drunk. He led her into an exam room where another old man sat holding a leash to an overweight dachshund, which was lying on the brick-patterned linoleum doing its best Superman impression—front paws extended forward, short back legs barely stretching beyond its little tail. “This is Wilson Hammacker. He needs help every day walking his dog, Dolly.”

Mr. Hammacker had an age-spotted, shaved head and the pale skin of a shut-in. Kathy vaguely remembered him from growing up in town, but she couldn’t remember what he’d done. Not the butcher. Not the ice-cream-shop owner. Not the barber.

“I’m willing to pay.” Mr. Hammacker interrupted her thoughts with a hard-as-nails voice.

Kathy turned to Doc expectantly, waiting for him to name the clinic’s price.

“Dogs, all mighty, girl.” Doc spouted his favorite exclamation. “Take charge of your life and quote him a price. I thought you could use some extra money.”

Pride warmed her. She hadn’t expected a referral. Not from Doc. Not from anyone.

Kathy met Mr. Hammacker’s gaze. “I wouldn’t know what to charge.” Or, on second thought, if she even wanted the work. She put in thirty hours a week at the clinic, and Flynn had to drive her sixty miles round-trip to her support group once a week in Cloverdale. That was a fairly full schedule. She knew that walking one dog shouldn’t be such a big deal, but commitments were important to Kathy. She wanted to be certain she could honor each and every one she made these days since she’d already blown so many.

“This generation has no business savvy, Wilson,” Doc said, not without a tinge of humor. “Charge him ten dollars, girl. If it works out, sell him a package of walks, say seven for fifty dollars.”

Kathy waited for Mr. Hammacker to protest. When he didn’t, she said, “Before you accept, did Doc tell you I’m a recovering alcoholic?”

Doc rolled his eyes.

Mr. Hammacker didn’t bat a gray eyelash. “As long as you come on time—three thirty—and you drop Dolly off by four, you’ll do.” His wrinkled lines smoothed into a more somber demeanor. “Dr. Jamero just told me Dolly is overweight, which contributes to her back problems. And if her back hurts, then she just lies around all day. My diabetes prevents me from walking her.” He stared down at his feet glumly.

“What he won’t tell you is he’s lost his toes to the disease and he just sits around all day,” Doc said gruffly.

“No toes?” Kathy had lost a lot of things, but at least she had all her toes.

“No toes,” Mr. Hammacker confirmed, staring at his black orthopedic sneakers. His situation made it impossible for Kathy to refuse.

“Give the girl your address, Wilson, and take her cell phone number. She’ll be by later this afternoon.”

“I don’t have a cell phone,” Kathy said quickly. “Can he call here if he needs me?”

“I suppose he’ll have to.” Doc studied her over the top of his thick and grimy glasses, but didn’t question her about not having a phone.

* * *

THE FIRST TIME Dylan had helped a “ruined” horse return to productivity, he’d been twelve and in a foster home. No one was sure why the gelding began bucking when someone put a foot in his stirrup, but no amount of whipping and intimidation had worked on the animal. The horse grew to hate everyone.

Nick Webb had taken in the horse just as optimistically as he’d taken in Dylan and Billy months before. But the horses had turned Dylan’s stomach since before they’d even arrived. He couldn’t look at them without thinking of guns and his father. And unlike Billy, who’d thrived from day one with the Webbs, Dylan had kept to himself. He’d stayed away from the horses and hidden every time a truck pulled into the driveway, expecting his father to one day show up and take him back.

“That horse needs to trust someone,” Nick had said to Dylan. The man had put an old ladder-back chair near a paddock post. “Sit here until he trusts you.”

For days, Dylan had sat in that chair doing his homework and watching the other foster kids go about their chores. Bored out of his mind, he’d begun humming to himself. But he never turned around. He never looked that gelding in the eye. He couldn’t.

And then one day while humming “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” the gelding nuzzled Dylan’s head. A sense of peace descended. Dylan reached up to touch the bay’s velvety muzzle. A sense of forgiveness filled him. He stood, turning slowly. The gelding pressed his forehead against Dylan’s skinny chest. It seemed natural to hug, to scratch the base of the animal’s ears, to stroke his long neck, to rediscover the joy of a bond with a soul who only wanted to be accepted on his terms and be given unconditional love.

Without building a firmer foundation of trust, Kathy wouldn’t give up anything more to Dylan. And neither would the colt.

Dylan had backed up slowly, small steps, and as soon as he was within a foot of the stall door, the colt went into survival mode—bucking and whinnying a warning. Stay away. Don’t come any closer. I’ll hurt you.

“What are you doing?” Kathy charged into the stable, shouting and upsetting the colt even further. “Sugar’s racing around the paddock.”

Dylan snagged Kathy’s arm and led her back to the point where he’d started. “Red. I’ve been testing your little friend.”

“He didn’t fail. You did.”

A chill wind blew through the stable, sweeping in a few red-gold leaves.

“Remember your tone, Red. I didn’t say he failed.” Her arm beneath her pink jacket was bone thin and trembling. “We have to start all over. Ready?” He began the spidery tune, pausing when she didn’t join in. “If you don’t feel up to a song, how about a game?”

“Shouldn’t you be paying attention to Chance, not me?” Gossamer spiderwebs weren’t as thin as Kathy’s voice. Her fingers knotted and twisted at her waist. “I’m no one.”

That nonsense had to stop. “Red... Kathy...” He set down the bucket of oats and turned her to face him, taking both her cold hands in his. He didn’t usually hold his clients’ hands, but her small ones felt right in his. “Is Chance no one?”

She wouldn’t look at him. “No.”

“Am I no one?”

She shuffled her feet. “No.”

He gave her hands a gentle shake. “Then you are not no one.” When she didn’t react, he said, “I’m waiting for a head nod, something to acknowledge that you matter in this world.”

The movement of her chin was infinitesimal. He’d take it.

“Now.” Dylan was reluctant to let her hands go, but he did, once more presenting his back to the colt. “Chance needs to pay attention to us, not the other way around. Horses are social animals, like dogs. By saving his life and isolating him, you’ve taken away his herd. Also, his wounds hurt, and when you come in to clean them, you hurt him more. To him, the way he’s learned to survive and avoid pain is by moving and kicking.”

“Now I feel like the bad guy.”

Me, too. With Phantom. “It’s a trade-off necessary to save his life. Now we need to swing things around, let him come to us. Let’s play a game.” Get her talking again. “This one is called ‘tell me something about your name, something that no one else knows.’” He often used icebreakers to learn more about a client and how they viewed their problems. “I’ll start. My middle name is Jerraway, which is my mother’s maiden name. So if I were to use my initials, I’d be...”

“D.J.” She rolled her eyes. “You are so not a D.J. I mean, you play pool with D.J. He’s your drinking buddy.”

“Yeah, I don’t drink. My dad was a drinker.” Violent, too. Both topics he seldom shared. Time to hear about her. “Your turn.”

“Kathy is usually short for Katharine. But my mom just named me Kathy.” She paused, and when she spoke again, it was with forced optimism. “Short and sweet, no middle name.”

Mom. Definitely a hot button, possibly a trigger to drink. “Makes it easier to fill out paperwork. So, Cinderella, were you blessed with a wicked stepmother, too?”

“No.” He could swear that one syllable also meant Thank heavens for that. “Do you have any horses of your own?”

“Many. The Double R is a place for misfits.” In his mind’s eye, Phantom reared in front of him again. Dylan’s gaze sought reality and landed on Kathy’s face. “Some respond well to training and go to new homes.”

“And the others?” Her voice cracked with urgency. “Are they lost causes? Do you...get rid of them?”

For a moment, Dylan couldn’t breathe. Phantom’s territorial paddock dance came to mind, his future unclear. “I haven’t given up on one yet,” he managed to say.

His father’s voice seemed to whisper in his ear: liar.

Since, Dylan qualified. I haven’t given up on one since...

Somewhere in his head a door to a long-suppressed memory opened. His father’s slurred voice, shouting commands, making threats, moonlight glinting off the barrel of a gun.

Dylan’s stomach tumbled over and over in a sickeningly familiar corkscrew. His vision began to funnel. Sweat broke out at the base of his spine. He needed something to hold on to.

His gaze caught on a bent nail sticking out of a post a few feet away. He told himself he was like that piece of steel. Bent, but not broken. Strong despite his wounds. His stomach kept tumbling and the nail seemed to be moving farther and farther away, out of reach, almost out of sight.

The opening bars of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” drifted into his ears, bringing with it memories of velvety muzzles and forgiveness.

Kathy’s voice. A familiar tune.

But Kathy wasn’t just humming. She was singing. She was singing as she slid her small hand into his. She was singing as she gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

Behind them, the colt chuffed, oddly at peace.

Dylan’s stomach tumbled back into place. The nail still had a foothold in the beam an arm’s length away. The door to his memories slammed shut.

And for a moment, hope flowed through his veins.