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.
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