Time For Love. Melinda Curtis
volatile father had been.
Barry made a noise that Dylan took for disapproval. He glanced back at Phantom’s stall. “When I fought in the Vietnam War, they sent me down into the tunnels because of my size. I acted like a man and said I was brave, but the truth was, I was scared. And probably just as scared as the Vietcong I was sent down there to kill.”
“All right. All right.” Message received. Dylan and the horse were both probably scared. “I’ll pay Phantom a visit.” And yet Dylan didn’t move.
Barry headed for the stables. “I’m going to open up his paddock door and muck out his stall. The Dylan O’Brien who used to live here would take advantage of that time. And if that Dylan O’Brien still lives here, he needs to make an appearance.”
A white cat wended its way between Dylan’s legs, then moved slowly down the porch steps, pausing at the bottom to look back at him and flick her crooked tail.
Even Ghost knows it’s time to do this.
One by one, horses extended their heads to Dylan as he passed their stalls. He paused to greet Peaches, leaning in to look at the little palomino. She extended her nose to reach his hand, as if to say she had complete faith in Dylan. She’d been Phantom’s stable mate through his racing career and his retirement to stud. Dylan grabbed her halter and brought her along just as Barry tripped the lever that opened Phantom’s stall to the paddock.
Phantom charged into the gray light of morning as if he was the last vestige of darkness racing toward the horizon. Or perhaps he just missed the starting gates of his youth. He skidded to a stop at the far end of the paddock, nearly sitting on his haunches, then began his patrol of the perimeter. He made a circuit, rearing in front of Dylan, ready to strike him as he’d done months ago. His eyes rolled, until the whites showed, and Dylan’s gut twisted, but he stood his ground.
Phantom’s front hooves landed in the dirt. He let out a shrill whinny, prancing in front of them. The stallion bared his teeth and made as if he was going to lunge, but he never extended his nose between the paddock rails. And his tail was raised proudly, not swishing with anger.
Peaches, bless her, snorted. She was accustomed to the stallion’s theatrics. The pony knew he used to have more bark than bite. Maybe he still was a big faker. Mostly. Maybe he was just a more dramatic faker. Mostly. Dylan began to hum “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” noticing that the stallion’s hooves needed trimming.
Barry slid the gate to his stall closed. “That horse needs a different tune. That one’s getting old.”
“I like it.” Dylan led Peaches around the paddock. Phantom followed, rearing, kicking and announcing to the world that he was one upset dude.
A lifetime of living with horses, years of horsemanship training, and after one tremendous failure, Dylan had grown too cautious. “You almost had me, Dad,” he whispered to the mist. His father excelled at breaking things—bottles, bones, boys. “You almost had me.”
Phantom’s hoof struck the metal rail.
He still might.
* * *
“FAR TURN FARMS is only giving us a few more weeks with Chance.” Gage’s words echoed ominously in the near-empty clinic.
Behind the partition separating the animal cages from the hallway to the office and exam rooms, Kathy stopped refilling a cat’s water dish to eavesdrop. Gage wasn’t an ominous-announcement type of guy.
“You got that horse-whispering fella,” Doc replied in his rumbly voice. Officially, the Harmony Valley Veterinary Clinic was owned and run by Gage. Unofficially, it was run by his wife’s grandfather, Dr. Warren Wentworth. Doc had founded the place in the fifties, closed it after his wife died, then reopened it when Gage came back this year and married his granddaughter. “What’s his name? Dylan? He used to be good. That should be enough.”
Kathy stepped into the hallway. “Are they taking Chance back?” He’d been bred to win the Triple Crown. With no permanent physical damage, in a little more than a year the colt could be a contender.
Gage and Doc exchanged glances that seemed to say, How much should we tell her?
It was Gage who spoke. “Chance...well, he only has a few more weeks to show he’s salvageable.”
“Salvageable?” Kathy’s voice escalated. “Don’t talk about him as if he’s disposable.” As if no one would care if he went away forever. “We’ve been nursing him back to health. He’s so much better. He has...he has...a right to live!” A right to a home and security. And people who loved him.
That was what Grandpa Ed had provided Kathy. He’d washed his hands of her mother and stepfather, paying them to stay away from Harmony Valley. He’d given Kathy the stability and safety a child should have. No more sneaking bills from her mother’s wallet after she passed out and then slipping away to the convenience store to buy milk and snack cakes for dinner. No more being locked in an apartment for days at a time while her mother disappeared on drunken binges, all the while wondering if she’d ever return. No more nights spent huddled beneath a thin blanket when there was no heat.
“Nothing’s been decided yet, girl.” Doc’s shaggy white hair brushed the upper rim of his thick eyeglasses. He was a man fully grounded in the why-worry-about-tomorrow philosophy.
“That’s right, Kathy. And you can help Dylan with Chance.” Gage spoke as if Kathy was their ace in the hole. He nodded at Doc. There was something they weren’t telling her.
Well, there was something Kathy wasn’t telling them, too. And it sickened her. Dylan thought Chance’s fate was inevitable. He’d said as much the first day he came.
Kathy hoped that Dylan was wrong. Because if it was, her odds at being salvageable were no better.
* * *
“I CAN’T WALK.” Wilson Hammacker gripped the arms of his tan recliner as if that would keep him anchored in his living room in Harmony Valley. “I have no toes.” His toes. His toes! He still dreamed that they were attached to his feet.
“You have special inserts for your shoes.” Becca Harris held up what were essentially plastic socks with marble-size plastic toes attached. Becca was young and pretty, and for some reason she wasn’t squeamish about needles, surgery scars or false toes. “You were released from rehab. So now it’s time to get back out in the world.”
“I am not going to walk anywhere outside this house.” Wilson knew he sounded like a child. But in the past year, he’d lost his wife, been diagnosed with diabetes and had his toes amputated. “I’m a recluse and happy with that status.”
“Dolly needs her shots.” Becca pointed to his wife’s rotund dachshund, who, upon hearing her name, rolled onto her back on the brown carpet for a tummy rub.
Wilson couldn’t reach that low to rub her tummy without losing his balance. “I paid you to take care of me for a month. Take her to the vet.”
“You said it. I’m paid to take care of you.” Becca’s smile was as resilient as the woman herself. “I’m also paid to help the Mionettis. I’m due there in fifteen minutes.” Becca was the only caregiver in a town where the majority of residents needed caregivers. “If you don’t feel up to driving, I can drop you two off.” She knelt at the base of the recliner and took his hand. “Don’t be afraid. You walk around here just fine.”
“Without shoes.” And only because he’d insisted Becca move his living room furniture so that he could stagger on his heels, feet pointed out like a duck, from one chair-back to another. “What if I fall?” His old bones were as fragile as his wife’s teacup collection.
“You’ll get up.” She slipped a prosthetic set of toes on his right foot. It was cold against his skin, but soft, and smelled of new plastic. “Comfortable?”
Wilson arched his foot as he’d been taught. Five fake