stables were up a gentle incline from the clinic. The walk was quiet except for their cowboy boots on pavement. Dylan stopped in the stable’s entry and breathed in deeply, as if reveling in the smells of home. It smelled of hay and manure. Kathy was growing used to those aromas, but she still spritzed herself with perfume every morning.
“I thought Dr. Jamero only took in mares ready to deliver,” he said.
“Chance is Sugar’s.” When Dylan didn’t say anything, Kathy’s suspicion sensor went off—like a finger tap-tap-tapping her temple. She cast a sideways glance his way. “Didn’t Gage tell you about Chance?”
Dylan shot her a quick look, one eyebrow quirked, as if to say, What? You doubt me? “I’m here to evaluate. I like to see for myself.”
Two equine heads poked over stall doors.
“This is Trixie.” Kathy pointed to the tall gray mare who nickered a welcome. “And that’s Isabo.” A tired-looking bay who seemed too long in the tooth to be having babies. She stretched her nose toward Kathy.
“They like you.” Dylan sounded surprised.
His reaction pressed her pause button. Was it surprising because she was an alcoholic? A woman? Or...
There was a loud thud in one of the rear stalls.
“That would be Chance.” Kathy hurried to the stall. “I hear you, baby.” She slipped inside, moving slowly, surveying the stitches and bandages on the chestnut colt’s lower neck and chest. He pranced nervously through the straw, eyeing Kathy as if he’d never seen her before. The stitches beneath his round cheek were oozing and needed attention. “What’s up with you, baby? Are you lonely?”
Despite the long gashes, Chance was beautiful. He was only a few months old, his head barely reached Kathy’s, and yet he held himself with the proud dignity of a long line of racing Thoroughbreds.
Chance froze, staring at the stall door. A moment later, he began kicking, striking out at anything within range—imaginary foes, walls, Kathy.
A large hand gripped Kathy’s shoulder and yanked her out of the stall.
“Let me go. I can calm him down.” Kathy struggled to free herself as Dylan dragged her back several feet.
In the paddock outside, Sugar whinnied.
“You’re not going back in there.” Dylan’s voice became clipped and seemed to harden until his words hit her like gravel spitting from beneath a semi’s tires. “That. Colt’s. A. Killer.”
Kathy twisted free of his hold. “That colt is why you’re here.” She was shaking. Shaking with anger and fear and adrenaline. She was shaking and it wasn’t because she needed a drink. She and Chance had a lot in common—social handicaps. He by his appearance and outbursts. She by her reputation as a drinker.
She tugged Dylan out of Chance’s line of sight. Sugar trotted back and forth along the paddock fence.
“I heard about this colt, but not from Gage.” Dylan raised his voice to be heard above the huffing and hoof strikes Chance was making. “Mountain-lion attack.”
Kathy nodded. “Since the drought, they’ve been coming closer to civilization looking for food. Chance and Sugar were in a remote pasture at Far Turn Farms. They moved them here a few weeks ago.” She pitched her voice high, as if she was talking to a baby, taking a few steps back until Chance could see her again. “He’s just a scared lamb.”
At the sight of her and the sound of her voice, Chance’s outburst seemed to lose some steam, just like when her son, Truman, would throw a tantrum as a toddler. A bit of gentle reassurance and everything would be okay.
“He’s not a lamb. He’s nearly as large as you are.” Dylan’s face was set in hard, disapproving planes, a cookie cutter of most people’s reaction to her past mistakes. She didn’t want to admit how disappointing it was to see that familiar expression on his face, especially since she’d just met the man. “I’ve seen that look before. Don’t go in there. He’s a lost cause.”
The stall latch was cold beneath her fingers. “That’s what some people say about me.”
* * *
THE COLT WAS a deal-breaker.
“Your sister’s not what I expected based on what you told me,” Dylan O’Brien said an hour later to his prospective employer, Flynn Harris. “Kathy’s grounded and honest. You don’t need me.” The words knotted Dylan’s insides. Flynn’s paycheck would help get him back on track. He’d met recovering alcoholics in much worse shape than Kathy. Sure, she might benefit from a session or two with him. But the colt...
“I disagree.” The resemblance between Kathy and her brother was strong. The same straight nose. The same fair skin and keen blue eyes. Although where Kathy’s hair was a fiery red, Flynn’s was a burnished red-brown. “My sister’s good at hiding stress. She has a lot on her plate right now—a new job, reestablishing a relationship with her son, plans to take college courses online—and she wants to move into a place of her own.” Flynn’s voice was wound tighter than a fresh spool of kite string. “Dr. O’Brien...”
“I’m not a psychiatrist.” Best get that out in the open straightaway. “And I’m not a licensed therapist, either. I’m just a guy who’s good with horses and people. Besides, my clients usually come to me.” To Redemption Ranch, where a combination of straight talk and working with horses helped give them confidence to face life’s challenges without alcohol.
Was he really talking Flynn out of a paycheck?
With hefty child-support payments, a large mortgage and a near-empty bank account, Dylan couldn’t afford to turn down work. But the colt made it necessary. Those eyes. They doubled the knots in his already knotted insides.
They stood on a winding road on Parish Hill. Harmony Valley stretched beneath them with grid-like streets, small slanted roofs and tall mature evergreens, interspersed with trees that were losing their leaves for the winter and neat rows of grapevines. The early-November breeze had more force and nip to it up on the hill. Dylan shoved his hands into his vest-jacket pockets.
A white truck with a dented fender pulled up behind Flynn’s.
“That’s Gage,” Flynn said.
Dr. Gage Jamero got out. He was taller than Dylan, but just as direct. “Well, what did you think of the colt?”
“The colt neither of you told me about?” A sour taste bubbled from Dylan’s knotted stomach into his throat. Flynn had mentioned using the horses at the clinic only as a way to disguise Dylan’s visits with Kathy. “I didn’t like the look of him.”
Gage took Dylan’s measure. His lip curled. “Bandaged and stitched up, you’d look like Frankenstein, too. But he’s not a monster.”
“He lashes out like one.” Even as he said the words, Dylan realized that wasn’t quite fair. The colt could’ve easily hurt Kathy. It hadn’t. He’d waited outside the stall until she’d come out safely the second time. But all he could think of was how the feral look in the colt’s eyes was similar to that of one hulking, raging black stallion. He shifted his stance, taking most of the weight off his right leg.
“Sorry,
