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.”
