Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Twice every year, Cara Alverez fell apart. First, on the day of her sweet little boy’s birthday. Second, on the anniversary of his death. Today happened to be the latter.
Crying constantly since early morning and not fit company for anyone, she had kept to herself, shunning well-meaning, but ineffectual platitudes. After seven hours of hard work on one task or another, her chores were done. One problem remained. Her watch read 2:17 p.m. Far too much time left in the day to fill...and survive.
Dabbing at her damp eyes with a wadded-up tissue, Cara wandered to the horse stable. Yesterday, in preparation for this moment, she’d moved Hurry Up from the mustang sanctuary to a stall for the night.
The small gelding, with his mousy brown coat, Roman nose and stubby legs, was perhaps the homeliest horse Cara had ever seen. He was also the slowest, hence the name. But all that mattered little because Hurry Up had the disposition of a kitten and an eagerness to please. Of the over two hundred head of abandoned and rescued mustangs residing at the sanctuary, Hurry Up displayed the most potential for an excellent child’s mount.
Had Cara’s son, Javier, lived, he’d have been four, almost five. The perfect age for his first horse.
Fresh tears threatened to flow, but Cara kept them at bay. Barely. Removing a halter from the row hanging outside the tack room, she walked to the stall where Hurry Up waited. Patiently, of course, as was his nature.
“Hola, chiquito. Ready for a workout?”
The gelding nuzzled her affectionately while she buckled the halter.
“Wait, wait,” she said, pretending to scold him. “We’ll get there.”
“There,” in this case, was a small corral adjacent to the round pen where Cara planned to exercise Hurry Up and maybe reinforce a lesson or two.
Dos Estrellas was a cattle ranch currently running over two thousand cows, calves and young steer. The mustang sanctuary occupied sections six and seven of the ranch, about five hundred acres. The late owner, August Dempsey, had bequeathed the land to Cara for her exclusive use.
August had been under no obligation to name Cara in his will, though he’d loved her like a daughter and she him like a father. But he had named her. The sanctuary, with its neglected and sometimes abused mustangs, was what gave Cara a reason to rise every morning and step outside her room when she’d rather remain buried beneath the covers.
Saddled and bridled, Hurry Up looked a little less ugly. He waited stoically at the gate for her to open it, then stood while she mounted. After several laps at a leisurely walk, she nudged the horse into a trot and circled the corral. Eventually, they practiced reining. Hurry Up executed perfect figure eights and zigzags.
“Come on, chiquito.” Cara attempted to coax the horse into a lope, to no avail. Hurry Up had exactly three speeds: slow, slower and slowest.
On the plus side, there was never any danger of him running away or bucking. The only way a rider could fall off this plug was to misjudge the distance while dismounting.
Her son, Javier, had been fearless and wouldn’t have thought twice about leaping from a horse’s back. Had he been a tiny bit more timid, he might not have...have climbed up the shelving unit and—
Cara promptly burst into tears. This time, there was no stopping them.
A cold January breeze, originating in the nearby McDowell Mountains, chased through Mustang Valley and across Dos Estrellas, drying Cara’s cheeks almost the moment they were wet. Hurry Up stumbled—probably because he was getting mixed signals from his rider—then quit moving altogether.
Vaguely aware that someone might see her, she climbed off the horse. That was as far as she got. Holding on to him for support, she buried her face in the side of his smooth neck and allowed grief to consume her.
Cara mourned more than the death of her beautiful little boy. She also mourned the demise of her marriage to Javier’s father and the loss of a life she’d never know again.
It wasn’t fair. It was also her fault. Everything.
Cara’s crying jag was nearing an end when a soft, concerned and decidedly male voice interrupted her. It came from the other side of Hurry Up, just outside of the corral.
“Are you all right?”
She winced, then quickly gathered herself, using the sleeve of her denim jacket to wipe her face. Apparently, she’d lost her wadded-up tissue.
“I’m fine,” she said, sounding stronger than she felt.
“You sure?”
She dared a peek over the top of Hurry Up’s mane, only to quickly duck down.
Josh Dempsey, August’s oldest son, stood watching her. She recognized his brown Resistol cowboy hat and tan canvas duster through the sucker rod railing. Of all the people to find her, why him?
Heat raced up her neck and engulfed her face. Not from embarrassment, but anger. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Josh. Okay, to be honest, she didn’t like him. He’d made it clear from the moment he’d arrived at Dos Estrellas a few months ago that he wanted the land belonging to the mustang sanctuary.
She understood. To a degree. The cattle operation was the sole source of income for the ranch, and the sanctuary—operating mostly on donations—occupied a significant amount of valuable pastureland. In addition, Cara didn’t technically own the land. She’d simply been granted use of the two sections and the right to reside in the ranch house for as long as she wanted or for as long as the ranch remained in the family.
Sympathy for the struggling cattle operation didn’t change her feelings. She needed the sanctuary. She and the two-hundred-plus horses that would otherwise be homeless. For those reasons, she refused to concede, causing friction in the family.
Additional friction. Gabe Dempsey and his half brothers, Josh and Cole, were frequently at odds over the ranch, the terms of their late father’s will and the mustang sanctuary.
“You need some help?” Josh asked from the other side of the corral.
“No.”
“Okay.”
But he didn’t leave.
A minute passed, then two. What was the matter with him? Was he truly dense or simply being obtuse? She’d told him she was fine.
“Is there something you want?” she called, then grimaced at hearing the sound of the gate squeaking. He wasn’t coming in, was he? She gasped softly. He was coming in.
“Your
