Time For Love. Melinda Curtis
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.
KATHY COULDN’T STOP thinking about Dylan, the horse savior, and his ranch full of misfit horses. He may look like a cowboy, but he acted like a four-legged rehab counselor. Both she and Chance had been put at ease during their “session.”
“Mama, what are you doing?” Truman stood at the corner of Harrison and Taylor on the town square, his feet buried in reddish-brown leaves. He tugged on Abby’s leash, while she strained toward Kathy.
“I’m walking Mr. Hammacker’s dog.” Perhaps walking was the wrong word. For every few steps she encouraged Dolly forward, the dog sat down, or tried to. Kathy had to be quick with the leash, while doing her best not to choke the little dear.
But forget about Dolly. Truman was here. Talking to her. And thoughts of dogs and ten extra dollars in her pocket evaporated as she tried to think of what she had to offer Truman. All her pockets contained were a Band-Aid, some kibbles and lip balm—nothing to entice a young boy.
Dolly flopped to the ground in defeat, the flopping not worrying Kathy since the dog’s legs were extremely short and her belly extremely large.
Truman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the clinic?”
Of course her bright, young son would know where Kathy was supposed to be. “I got a second job as a dog walker.” He should be proud of her.
“You’re not very good at it.” He pointed at Dolly, who’d closed her eyes, rolled onto her back and extended her paws heavenward.
If the dog hadn’t blinked at Kathy, she might have thought she’d killed her. “It’s my first day.” Kathy glanced at Truman hopefully. She’d walked Grandpa Ed’s elderly Labrador a time or two as a kid, but that dog had been trained to military standards—Kathy hadn’t needed any skills of her own to do a good job of it. And since Abby had been given to Truman while Kathy was in rehab—and presumably been trained during that time, as well—she had little knowledge of how to convince a dog to walk. “Can you help me?”
It was the wrong thing to say.
Truman’s face turned as pale as spoiled milk. He spun around and ran in the direction of home, Abby at his side.
Kathy waited until her son was out of sight to sink to the cold curb next to Dolly. Memories assailed her in a swarm of guilt and remorse.
“Mama, it’s time to go to work.”
“Can you help me get dressed, Truman? Mama feels sick.”
She’d vomited more than once on her precious son during her dark days.
“Mama, what are you doing on the kitchen floor?”
“I fell, baby. Can you help me get to bed? I don’t think I’m going to work today.”
She’d missed so much work they’d fired her.
“Mama, it’s time to leave for school.”
“Can you help me by staying home today, Tru?”
Becca homeschooled him now.
“I’m such a loser, Dolly.” She’d stolen her little boy’s childhood. She couldn’t blame him for trying to defend it now that Becca and Flynn had given it back to him. “I’ve never told anyone what I did to him. How I took away his innocence by being a drunk.”
The small brown dog climbed into Kathy’s lap and licked her chin.
Kathy stroked Dolly’s short, silky fur. “That won’t make up for the fact that you’ve only walked a block, you know.”
It didn’t make up for it, but it was a start. And that was what Kathy needed. A start.
A late-model, faded green Buick pulled up in front of her. It was the ladies of the town council—Agnes drove (although she could barely see above the dashboard), Mildred rode shotgun (although her eyes behind her thick lenses were vaguely unfocused) and Rose sat in back (ballerina prim as ever with her white hair in a tight bun at the base of her neck).
“Do you need a ride, dear?” Agnes asked, which may or may not have been code for We stopped to make sure you weren’t sneaking a drink.
“No, I was just sitting here...” Feeling sorry for myself. An answer that would earn her more questions from the councilwomen than less. The peaked green gable of the empty Reedley home was visible above the Buick. “Admiring the Reedley place.”
Agnes and Rose looked at the unkempt craftsman-style home on the other side of the street.
And then Agnes turned back and said the darnedest thing. “I have a key to that one. Let’s take a look, shall we?”
“Oh, no. I’m not in the market for a place.” Kathy didn’t want a look-see of this house. When she moved out on her own, she wanted to go someplace where no one would report back to Flynn. But what could she say except yes? They were already pulling away, assuming she was interested.
Agnes parked the car in the Reedleys’ driveway. They’d moved away not long after the grain mill exploded. That catastrophe had started a mass exodus since the mill had been the town’s primary employer. Harmony Valley had less than a hundred residents now, most of whom were elderly, too set in their ways or financially unable to leave. Flynn’s winery was slowly bringing people and services back to the geriatric town.
Walking at a speed Dolly appreciated and one that fit Mildred’s walker