Time For Love

“I’m sorry your wife’s not here.” Becca put his shoes on next. Her touch was firm, yet gentle. It reminded him of his mother, gone thirty years. “But you have to take better care of yourself. You’ve seen what can happen when you let the diabetes get out of control. And who knows what’s wrong with Dolly.”

He let the conversation about control drop. “Nothing’s wrong with that dog but old age.”

“Besides needing her shots, she’s a bit round.” Becca stood, tossing her brown braid over her shoulder. She held out her hand. “Come on.”

The thing about Becca was she didn’t put up with nonsense. You paid her in advance and then you were stuck with her. She showed up, listened to your complaints and did what the doctor ordered, even if that wasn’t what you wanted. He’d hired her to help him transition to this new reality. Shots? She didn’t sweat a bit. Finger pokes? Performed efficiently. Whining? She ignored it. Helen would have loved her.

He gripped the armrests again. “Once you get to a certain age, the rules shouldn’t apply to you anymore.”

Becca captured his hand and helped him to his feet. He took a step and then another, relearning the gently rolling feeling of something extending beyond the balls of his feet.

She hurried about, gathering her purse and Dolly. “Just because you’re old doesn’t mean you can cut corners on diabetes. We’ve got to get your blood sugar down, especially in the afternoon.”

“Poke-poke-poke. That’s what diabetes is. I hate it.” He much preferred drinking.

“Was all that skipped poking worth losing toes over?”

He’d like to say no, but that would be admitting that his current predicament was all his fault.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_923699ea-8910-5ca2-8431-689f3c09b2cc)

“I NEED A minute with you alone.” Gage met Dylan in the Harmony Valley clinic’s parking lot. There was a stubborn tilt to the vet’s chin. “I know this is awkward. You’re here primarily for Kathy. But the colt, Chance, he needs your help.”

Dylan’s training had already failed one horse. He hesitated to make any promises. “I’ll do what I can, but that colt...”

“Is a fighter.” Gage grinned, but it was a fighter’s grin, an I’m-gonna-get-you-to-my-side-eventually grin. “I delivered him. I know what he was like before—happy-go-lucky, trusting, curious. And sometimes, he remembers, too.”

The vet could rationalize the situation all he liked. The fact remained: the colt was a danger to himself and others. He’d forever be unpredictable.

“Please.” Gage glanced away, as if he felt uncomfortable asking Dylan for anything. “Far Turn Farms called today and said if he isn’t suitably socialized in three weeks, they’re putting him down. They’ll destroy him for no other reason than the fact that he’s operating on survival instinct.”

Dylan agreed with all the things Gage said, but odds were the colt was like Phantom. Controllable until someone did something stupid. Was it worth the risk? Dylan had to be responsible.

Yet even as the thought ran through his head, Dylan felt defeat tumble in his gut. When had he stopped believing in redemption—not just in himself, but in horses, as well?

Instead of being the voice of reason, Dylan found himself saying, “It’ll take more than me working with him a few hours a day.” Which just proved what an idiot he was, giving the man false hope. The world was run by profit-and-loss statements, not heart and hope. That was what his old man used to say.

The vet’s attitude shifted subtly, like a horse who’d just realized what you wanted was what he wanted and he stopped fighting, but was too proud to lower his head. “Whatever you need.”

Yeah, what Dylan needed was his head examined. “If he hasn’t sent me to the emergency room in an hour, I’ll make you a list of activities that might help.”

“If things don’t work out...” Gage’s jaw hardened. “Is there room at Redemption Ranch?”

“If I still own the Double R in thirty days, we can talk.” Why not just lay all his failures at the good doctor’s door? While he was spilling his guts, he should tell Gage how hard he’d had it growing up with an abusive father.

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized.” Gage’s gaze dropped to the asphalt, but not quick enough to disguise the disappointment in his eyes. He was likely not so much sorry for Dylan’s misfortune as its impact on his concerns.

The vet went back inside. Dylan grabbed a thin, four-foot plastic pole with a red flag on one end and headed toward the stable.

When he was a boy, they’d lived in a small ramshackle place, the land not large enough to call a ranch. His mother waitressed, and his father worked odd jobs, but mostly people brought Dad horses to break. The money was good, but it was the chance to make another living thing suffer that appealed to Dad most. His old man was old-school. Tie the horse. Beat the horse. Defeat the horse. It got to the point where Dylan heard a horse trailer coming down the drive and he ran for his bedroom. He couldn’t stand the sound of a horse’s shrill screams. They sounded too much like his and his brother Billy’s.

It wasn’t until Child Protective Services took him and his brother away and placed them on a legitimate ranch with ten other foster boys that Dylan learned there was a gentler way to work with horses. To follow the more natural path, a horse trainer had to think like a horse, see the world like a horse, be the horse. Recognize every nuanced flicker of movement for what it was—confidence, trust, anxiety, fear, defense, rebellion.

Chance couldn’t be rehabilitated in a day, if at all. And despite the colt’s incredibly clean lines and heritage, he’d probably never make it on the track. There were too many noises there, too much visual stimuli. A racehorse was a trained athlete, one who could channel his focus down to one thing—outrunning the competition. Fears, phobias, quirks. They distracted. And distractions slowed a horse down.

He came through the back gate, and Sugar ambled toward him, ears perked forward, a marked contradiction to the colt’s quick steps and threatening posture. The colt probably assumed anything over one hundred pounds had the potential to pounce on him. Which might explain why Kathy, who was short and lacked meat on her bones, was the least threatening person at the clinic.

He paused to greet the mare and stroke her sleek neck. “You probably want to tell me how important it is to save Chance, too.”

She blew air through her nose onto his chest, a sign of relaxed affection that might just as easily have translated to I love him, you dummy.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

Kathy came out the back door of the clinic as Dylan limped up the path to the stables. “Hey, wait up.”

At least one of his Harmony Valley clients sought his company. Dylan mentally shifted from horse mode to people mode. Kathy approached him eagerly. As thin as she was, as hidden as her form was beneath jeans that didn’t fit and that pink jacket, she shouldn’t have been mesmerizing. But there was an energy and confidence to her walk that said Look at me, much like a seasoned racehorse passing the stands on the way to the starting gate. For a moment, Dylan forgot his purpose and his fears, both being edged aside by the unexpected power of Kathy’s presence.

She stopped within touching distance and crossed her arms over her chest. “We need to talk about Chance.”

Dylan held up a hand. “Gage told me about the urgency with the colt. And...”

“Good. What can I do to help?”

More than anything, Dylan wanted to tell her to go back to the kennel, where it was safe. The last thing anyone needed was an injury on-premises. But the determination in her eyes registered. He knew she wouldn’t listen. “You can observe.”

“But...”

“No buts. You took risks yesterday. You can stay if you follow my lead. Agreed?”

It took her too long to nod. And there was a flash to her blue eyes that matched the fire of her hair. She might just as well have said, Agreed.For now.

As happened yesterday, they entered the stable to greetings from the two pregnant mares and a kick from the colt.

Dylan’s steps slowed. “Does he know what grain is?”

“Yes.” Kathy flashed him a small, proud smile. Dylan felt a corresponding grin try to slip past his guard. And then she added, “Because of the accident, he was weaned early.” And that wiped out any cause 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?”