Time For Love

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Dylan kept his voice chipper for his kid’s sake. He hadn’t enjoyed his parents’ fights when he was a boy—he refused to put his own son through the same. “I had a meeting run over.” He’d stayed too long in Harmony Valley, stopped at the bank and then run into the feed store for a bag of oats.

“You’re lucky.” Eileen slammed the rear car door. “We’re late.”

“I’ll have him home on time.” Traffic permitting. The highway between Cloverdale and Santa Rosa was often crowded and slow-moving.

“You’ve let the Double R go,” Eileen said coldly, before getting back in her car and driving away, puffs of dust a trail of annoyance in her wake. They’d divorced a few years ago. She’d wanted him to get over himself and find a “real job,” one with nine-to-five hours and generous benefits. Then she’d met deep-pockets Bob and filed for divorce.

“Dad.” Zach squeezed his legs. “I already had dinner. I’m ready to race.”

“Come on, sport. Let’s saddle Peaches.” Dylan took his son’s small hand and led him to the tack room, ignoring the end-of-the-day ache in his knee.

Barry, the former jockey turned caretaker, waved at them from his apartment window above the garage.

Zach leapfrogged forward. “Was Peaches a racehorse?”

If only Dylan had a dollar for each time Zach asked him this. “Peaches? She prefers to walk regally in the arena.” Plod along happily was more like it.

An owl hooted in an oak tree. A white barn cat with a crooked tail followed them. Horses stretched their graceful necks between stall bars, sniffing, nickering and stomping in greeting—Sam, a former jumper who balked at fences; Rickshaw, a half-blind bay; Marty, a headstrong trail horse; and so on down the line. Horses that were untrainable or unlovable—at least in their last owners’ eyes.

“Peaches is a good racehorse.” Zach defended his faithful steed, running ahead as if he’d been born wearing cowboy boots. “I could race her.” He opened the tack room door in the middle of the stable aisle.

Zach couldn’t kick that pony into a trot if he wore spurs and shot off fireworks, but Dylan wasn’t telling his son that. He followed Zach in, took Peaches’s bridle from its hook, then hefted her small saddle and blanket.

“Where was Peaches when Phantom kicked you?” Next Zach hurried toward the farthest stall on the end. The last stall had signs posted—Danger! Stay Back! “If Phantom ever came after me, I’d just hop on Peaches and race away.”

In the last stall, a shrill whinny pierced the air. The other horses drew back into their stalls.

Startled, Zach searched the gathering gloom as if expecting the black stallion to charge out of the shadows. Dylan kept walking, reminded of the courageous way Kathy had entered the colt’s stall today. But his knee throbbed a warning and Dylan kept his eyes on the bars over the stall windows where Phantom was stabled.

“Phantom is mean,” Zach said in a hushed voice.

“He’s just a horse.” A large brute of a horse with incredible speed and the bloodlines of Thoroughbred royalty in his veins. “You know, even if you try to be careful, accidents happen.”

“He’s mean.” Zach’s brown hair was crisply cut and gelled into place, just the way Eileen liked it. Shifting Peaches’s gear in his arms, Dylan ruffled Zach’s hair, eliciting a giggle from his son.

Zach, with his ready smile and buoyant attitude, was the balm to Dylan’s setbacks. With his son in his life, Dylan could bear any burden and ride out any storm. Financial worries would be weathered. Physical setbacks overcome. Shattered dreams rebuilt. Maybe even his faith in a horse could be restored given time.

Peaches loved Zach and greeted him when he opened the stall door by nudging his pressed jeans pockets. Peaches was an ancient palomino Shetland pony, formerly a mascot at Far Turn Farms.

Giggling, Zach pulled out some baby carrots from one pocket and held them in the flat of his hand. “She knows I have treats.”

Peaches lipped them from his little palm while Dylan saddled her. It took only a few more minutes to slip her bridle on, hoist Zach into the saddle and hand his son the reins.

It was full-on dark now. And quiet. Quiet enough that Dylan imagined he heard Phantom’s huff of disgust as he led Peaches toward the arena. He flipped the lights on, chasing away the bogeyman. Then he opened the gate and set the pair free.

Peaches, per her usual modus operandi, walked slowly toward the fence and began her circuit. Small puffs of dirt rose from each footfall.

“Dad. Dad. Daddy.” Zach twisted in the saddle. His grin was so bright it could have lit the arena. Forget the arena—it sparked a feeling of joy in Dylan’s chest that chased away the day’s concerns. “Say it, Daddy. Say it.”

Dylan grinned. “Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen. The Cloverdale Derby is about to begin.” Dylan latched the gate. “Peaches and her jockey, Zach O’Brien, are the odds-on favorite tonight. And—” he drew out the word as he climbed atop the highest rung on the arena fence “—they’re off. It’s Peaches in the lead.”

With a whoop, Zach leaned over the pony’s golden neck and jogged the reins as if they were galloping. “Come on, Peaches. You can do it.”

The pony continued plodding along.

“Keep going, Dad.”

Dylan could go on like this forever. “They’re heading into the first turn with Peaches ahead.”

* * *

LATER THAT NIGHT as Dylan pulled into the driveway of Eileen’s prestigious home in her prestigious neighborhood in Santa Rosa, Zach was fast asleep in his car seat in the rear of the truck. Eileen’s outdoor lighting cast a glow over the perfectly manicured yard, limelighting verdant shrubs and small tufts of autumn color.

Eileen and her husband, Bob, came outside to meet them. They wore matching red plaid flannel pajama pants, green T-shirts (his: Santa; hers: Mrs. Claus) and red suede slippers. Cute, but not exactly Dylan’s thing. Not to mention, Thanksgiving was still weeks away—never mind Christmas.

“I expected you an hour ago.” Eileen’s voice was as hot and toxic as a smoking muffler. So much for her ho-ho-ho. “You didn’t answer my texts or my calls.”

“I left my phone at the barn. There was traffic.” That last part was a little white lie. He’d taken Zach for ice cream. Dylan unbuckled his son from his seat.

Eileen elbowed him aside and lifted Zach. “You’re always either late or canceling on him.”

“I’m trying my best. I brought you a check.” He tried to keep his voice even, but his throat felt as potholed as his driveway. “It’s tough to get a business going in the early years. I have to hustle clients where I can.” His income wasn’t big, but it was fairly steady. Big paychecks loomed on the horizon—if he could help Kathy, if he could help the colt, if he could harvest Phantom’s sperm. If. If he could rediscover the nerve to work with severely untrainable horses, he could make the dream of a steady income a reality.

Bob took Zach from Eileen and tucked the little man to his shoulder as if he’d had years of practice. Something cold solidified in Dylan’s stomach. And it wasn’t rocky-road ice cream.

“I’ve talked to my lawyer.” Eileen was on a roll tonight. She snatched the check from his hand. “You can’t be late anymore. Not you or your money.”

“Not now, honey,” Bob said. “Let’s get Zach to bed. He’s got school tomorrow.”

Dylan hadn’t forgotten it was a school night, but... “It’s only eight thirty.”

Bob sighed, as if he knew better what Zach needed. He walked toward the house with Dylan’s kid.

Eileen’s mouth worked in that way it did when she was having trouble swallowing back bitter words. She was rarely successful. She spewed words at him, as sour as a green cherry, as hard as its pit. “You need to do better, Dylan. Or things are going to change.”

Like things hadn’t changed when she left him and took his son away? How could they get any worse?

Bob stopped and turned to face Dylan. Zach murmured something. Bob murmured back, stroking Zach’s little shoulders. The cold fist in Dylan’s gut expanded. The other man met Dylan’s gaze over the hood of the truck.

The cold fist sucker-punched Dylan from the inside out.

He knew how things could get worse.

They could take Zach from him. Not for Saturdays. Not for Wednesday nights.

Forever.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_77151fd3-0044-5fa4-a072-0531dc7dcc91)