Healing the Cowboy's Heart

by Ruth Logan Herne

  Charlotte stayed quiet, but when Isaiah stood, tall and firm, she stood, too.

  “Come along, Ginger. Come along.”

  The horse seemed to brighten up. She blew out a breath, stared up at him, then tried to roll.

  She couldn’t make it.

  Her eyes went wide, as if the mare realized how much was riding on this single maneuver.

  “Come along, girl. Home’s waiting.”

  Braden rolled his eyes. “Standing or laying isn’t the question here. It’s who she is, Isaiah. Some things are better left as is. You’ve got two kids on that ranch to think of. Neither one of your brother’s kids deserves to be around a crazy horse that’s hurt kids before.”

  “Hey, girl.” The rugged cowboy ignored the old man’s caution and stooped a little. “It’s up to you. Stay? Or go?”

  The horse stared up at him, as if weighing his words. Then with a mighty surge, she rolled fully and almost sprang to her feet, suddenly energized.

  “Don’t do this, Isaiah.” Braden stood between the cowboy and the upright horse. “There’s no reason to bring this all back up. It won’t bring Alfie back, but it will rile up a whole lot of emotions for people we both love. Your mother. Your family. You know it as well as I do.”

  Isaiah smoothed a hand along the horse’s scabby, dirt-crusted neck. “She’ll come with me.”

  The old vet’s eyes flashed. “I won’t be a part of this, Isaiah. Not one part. You know what happened that day. We both do. You would bring this mistake back to your mother’s door? Lay blame at her feet?”

  The cowboy kept a light hand on the mare. “That’s exactly why I have no choice.”

  “Isaiah.” Braden changed his tone slightly. He moved forward, imploring. “I’m your godfather, and I’m asking you. Begging you. Don’t do this. Please. It’s foolishness. It changes nothing, so what’s the point? She’s beyond help. Beyond hope. It’s time to do the right thing.”

  The square-shouldered Native American faced the smaller doctor. His expression mixed remorse and conviction. “Which is why she’s coming home with me. Live or die, she’ll be where she should have been all along.”

  The old man grabbed his bag so hard that it banged Charlotte’s leg, almost toppling her into the horse. “Out of my way!” He stormed past her and crossed the field, his bag half-open.

  “I’m out.” He barked the words at Bitsy, but made sure they all could hear as another horse trailer arrived. A local-news car followed. “And I hope your new horse vet does well by the lot of you because I won’t be part of any of this nonsense.”

  Nonsense?

  A flash of fear gripped Charlotte.

  What if she lost them all? What kind of reputation as a horse-savvy vet would she have then? Was she laying her career on the line for a hopeless cause?

  One of the men motioned for her.

  She began to move that way.

  The mare swayed, as if weak. Then she caught herself, drew up her neck and stood firm.

  Charlotte did the same. She was in a way better spot than the horse, and if the horse could muster up courage, then so would the doctor.

  * * *

  Saving Ginger was nonsense?

  Cool anger chilled Isaiah’s veins, while the July temperature mounted.

  The horse tipped her head and looked at him. If he’d had a choice, he lost it at that moment.

  Bitsy approached with another halter. He ran his hand up the horse’s nose and murmured soft words to her. Would the aged mare trust his words after being betrayed long ago? Did she really recognize him?

  She leaned her poor, thin face into his hand and breathed softly, an equine sigh.

  Maybe she knew him. Perhaps she’d forgiven him for standing by and saying nothing all those years ago. For letting her be taken because he was caught in a tough spot between the horse and his mother.

  His mother.

  She would recognize the horse. Maybe not initially, but once she filled out—if she lived—Stella Woods would recognize the horse she’d accused years ago. And that wouldn’t go well.

  Bitsy sweet-talked Ginger while the new veterinarian gathered information from Ty Carrington, Young Eagle and a woman from the horse rescue just south of Council. She offered initial instructions to each one as they guided the horses into their respective trailers. Curious, the campers had moseyed their way again once the horses were being loaded. The young doctor noticed that and glanced over her shoulder.

  She was blonde. Blue-eyed. A lovely face, with the kind of figure that made a smart man take note, and wasn’t that funny because he hadn’t had time to take notice of a woman for a while. Partly his fault. Partly God’s timing in parking two orphaned kids in his care.

  So yes, she was beautiful with her long golden ponytail, a wisp of fringe around her cheeks and forehead, and the plain T-shirt over thin blue jeans. She’d chosen a good outfit for animal work and long summer days. But Idaho farms and ranches were tough by nature. To start off at odds with his godfather, a man who shared history with 90 percent of the area’s ranchers, wasn’t just risky. It probably sounded the death knell of her professional career, because the Hirsch family carried clout in Adams County and they weren’t afraid to use it.

  A second news car pulled in behind the sheriff’s cruisers. Neglected farm animals were big news in Western Idaho and a case like this would make headlines. And if the rescues failed, his godfather would use those headlines to his own advantage.

  Braden didn’t like to be second-guessed. To have this young woman challenge his decisions wasn’t something he would forgive easily, even though he sat in the front church pew every Sunday, with his wife and her sister right there beside him.

  Ty and Young Eagle had situated their rigs to receive their cargo. Word had spread, more people arrived and Isaiah hung back purposely. As the other horses were being carefully loaded, the young veterinarian came his way. She stripped off her gloves and shoved them into a pocket before donning a new pair.

  “Bitsy said your name is Charlotte?”

  She nodded toward her van with a jut of her chin. “New big-animal vet in town and already making enemies with the establishment.”

  “Not all of the establishment.” He noted the men loading trailers, Bitsy and the kids, none of whom had really stopped watching.

  “And you are?”

  “Isaiah Woods. Rancher. Horse breeder.”

  She frowned quickly. “Can you segregate her at your place so she’s quarantined for the first few weeks, Mr. Woods? You don’t want to track something into your herd.”

  “Isaiah. And yes. I’ve got a spot.”

  She accepted the correction with a brief nod. “You know this horse?”

  “Yes.”

  She slanted a quick look of assessment his way. “And?”

  He stayed silent.

  She didn’t. “You’re Native American.”

  “Nimiipuu. Or Nez Percé, as we’re known now.”

  “The Last Indian War.”

  Few people remembered the native history, how a band of Nez Percé was hunted over a thousand miles of rough terrain, caught after much fighting and then sequestered on a hot, dry plain in Oklahoma, far from their cooler mountainous homeland. She surprised him and he didn’t surprise easily. “Someone paid attention in eighth-grade history. Many don’t.”

  “Well, right now I’m paying attention to her.” Charlotte moved along the mare’s flank. She closed her eyes and gently probed the animal’s body. “She’s due to foal soon.”

  Now she got his attention. He stared at the horse, then followed the skinny line of her curvature until the familiar sway beneath her confirmed the doctor’s diagnosis. “That can’t be good for her.”

  “Babies do tend to steal whatever they need from their mothers, leaving the mother drained. In her case, drained equates star
ving.”

  The horse gulped as if swallowing was hard.

  “Do you have a place ready for her?” she asked as she smoothed her hand along the mare’s flank.

  “A hay barn with three stalls I use when I need to segregate.” He watched as she did a quick exam from the horse’s side.

  “Baby’s heart rate is strong and steady. Mother’s is shakier considering her condition. Let’s get her moved, get her in a clean area and we’ll start a care regimen right away.” She stood up, jotted notes into her phone, then faced him. “I won’t pretend I’m holding out a lot of hope.”

  “Because she’s so far gone.”

  “That and an almost full-term pregnancy puts a significant strain on the mother. How old is she?”

  “Twenty-six.” He didn’t have to stop and think because he hadn’t stopped thinking about Gingersnap—her formal name—since the day they hauled her away, twenty-one years ago. He’d been nine years old and had just witnessed what no child should ever have to see, the loss of his cousin and best friend.

  And then he experienced the loss of another dear friend when they sent the horse to be euthanized. Nearly every moment since had been timed from that fateful day. Alfie gone, and Gingersnap hauled away to her death.

  Only here she was, so someone else must have realized the horse wasn’t at fault.

  He didn’t know how this happened, but seeing his old friend neglected and starved, he knew it was long past time to fix things. Starting today. “I’ll get the trailer now that the others have loaded.”

  “Is your daughter strong enough to handle this?” She jutted her chin toward the group of watchful teens.

  “My niece, actually. And yes. She’s quite strong. Why?”

  “Watching animals die is no picnic. And you and I both know this one’s on shaky ground.”

  Regardless he still had to try. “We’ll do our best and leave the rest in God’s hands.”

  Doubt clouded her features. “Whoever left the fate of these animals to God didn’t give them much of a fighting chance, did they?”

  He faced her, calm and cool, and made sure she understood exactly what he wanted to say. “He brought them here, where they’re surrounded by helping hands. I’d say He’s done all right.”

  She didn’t argue with him, but her expression indicated she wasn’t buying into his reasoning.

  No matter.

  He needed her help. She needed work. They didn’t have to get along or be friends, but when she murmured soft words of encouragement as they moved the mare forward, he wondered how someone so innately gifted with horses could be that far removed from God?

  That was her business. Not his. And he would have enough on his plate once people realized that he’d just gone against a two-decades-old death sentence. A sentence that had never been carried out. A sentence decreed against a horse who hadn’t done one thing wrong.

  God had given him the chance to fix an old mistake. One way or another he was going to make up as much of that error as he could, and that would depend on how long Ginger and her baby lived.

  Chapter Two

  Isaiah Woods’ ranch was about the prettiest thing Char had ever seen, and that was saying something for a girl raised on an elite Kentucky horse farm.

  She drove her van beneath a wooden arch that read Dancing Meadows and was pretty sure she’d taken a step back in time. An L-shaped rustic log cabin stood to her right, shaded by towering pines. Wind chimes hung from the braces connecting the wooden porch pillars. They jangled a mix of sounds into the afternoon breeze as sunlight bathed the western side of the house. The natural light deepened the golden tones of the wooden logs. The whole thing created a suitable-for-framing Western-ranch image. As she followed the graveled drive to a system of pristine barns, she angled the van to the left and then paused.

  Three meadows spread out behind the barns. Two lay fairly flat, with an occasional dip and roll. The third went up a hill toward the deepening forest that served as the backdrop to this beautiful landholding. But it wasn’t the pretty green pastures that brought her to a stop.

  It was the amazing array of colorful Appaloosas that made Char catch her breath.

  Grays. Chestnuts. Buckskins. Blues. It was like viewing her favorite childhood poem, the one Corrie would sing to her, lulling a busy girl to sleep with promises of a new day coming. Hushabye. Don’t you cry... Go to sleep, little lady... When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses.

  Her heart went tight, remembering. Corrie Satterly had cared for all three of the Fitzgerald girls, from the time her oldest sister, Lizzie, was a baby. She had surrounded Lizzie, Melonie and Char with faith, hope and love. And yet...despite Char’s love for her surrogate mother...it never seemed to be enough. Someday she’d have to take some time and figure out why. But not today.

  “You like our horses?”

  She turned, surprised.

  A copper-haired boy faced her, and then he hopped up on the fence and pointed. “See that blue roan?”

  There were several, but she saw the one he meant right off. “With the wider blanket.” To the right a gorgeous horse stood slightly apart. The blue-gray coloration faded as it reached the horse’s back, then merged with a wide blanket of pale cream, lightly speckled. “She’s a stunner.”

  “She’s named after me. Liam’s Little Lady because we were born on the same day. Only I’m eight and she’s four.”

  “A birthday present.”

  His eyes shined when he looked at her. “Yes, that’s right. And I remember my daddy holding me up and saying, ‘Well, then, what do you think, boy?’”

  “And what did you think?” asked Char.

  “I thought we would be like that forever.” His voice went soft. He stared out at the horses as if suddenly watching a different kind of scene. “All of us here, with Uncle Isaiah, eating rice pudding and raising horses.”

  Sadness wound through his words, enough to keep Char from asking questions.

  “Doctor?” The teen girl—he’d called her J.J. at the Armbrusters’—came their way from a service barn. A big red-gold dog trotted alongside her, ears up, tail wagging. A family kind of dog, happy and healthy. “We’re over here.”

  Char indicated the passenger seat to the boy. “Want a lift?”

  The boy shook his head. “Uncle Isaiah says if you can walk it, walk it. And if you can run it? Better yet.” He dashed off in the direction of the older barn.

  Wise words.

  Char followed, then pulled the van near the broad, open doors facing the driveway. In a time when many old barns were in a state of neglect, this one wore its age with dignity. Three extra-large stalls lined the western wall, while neatly stacked hay and straw did the same on the opposite side.

  “You came straight over.”

  Oh, that voice. His voice.

  It drew her, but it wasn’t just his voice. There was something else. Something in the firm, strong way he stood. His quiet demeanor. No excessive movements, as if simple stoicism meant more than meaningless activity. She didn’t mention that she hurried this way because Ginger’s prognosis was the trickiest. He already knew that. “I wanted to see her settled.”

  He led her to a big stall. The floor was thick with clean yellow straw. The chestnut roan was snatching hay from a wall-mounted hayrack. Nearby a clean water trough was full. A broad Dutch door faced the outdoors. The top half of the door stood open, bathing the stall in fresh air and light, while the bottom half of the door was firmly latched.

  “Hey, pretty.”

  Ginger perked her left ear when Char spoke, but kept right on eating.

  “I hate to interrupt the first solid meal she’s had in who knows how long.”

  Caring. Kind. A man of conviction. Not exactly the kind of man she was used to. Was that her fault? Or theirs?

  “Can we put off the tes
ting for a day?” he continued.

  She faced Isaiah as the two kids came into the barn. J.J. came their way. Liam hung back, close to the haystacks. The dog sat by his feet, quietly watching the scene unfold.

  “My thoughts exactly. Let’s let her get her bearings, and we’ll run tests tomorrow. Right now good hay, fresh water and a clean stall are her best friends, and you’ve taken care of that.”

  “That was all J.J.” He settled that look of pride on the girl again. “She’s my right-hand gal with horses and she’s already determined that Ginger’s going to make it.”

  Char could write the girl a list of reasons why the horse probably wouldn’t make it, but they’d face those hurdles in the days to come. “I like a solid optimist,” Char told her as she extended her hand to the girl. “Especially when optimism is paired with a good work ethic. I’ll come by first thing in the morning and take some samples. In the meantime I want to do a general deworming and start a course of antibiotics for whatever is causing that runny nose and cough. We’ll go more specific if needed when we have the test results.”

  “Shouldn’t she have a bath?” asked J.J. “I think she’d feel better after one, don’t you?”

  “She’d look better to us, but for her comfort’s sake, let’s just worry about food, water and the cleanliness of her surroundings right now. I promise you if this works, she’ll look a lot better four weeks down the road.”

  “I hope so,” said the boy.

  He sounded worried. And when she shifted her gaze to him, his expression showed deep concern.

  “She looks sad to be in here,” he explained. “All cooped up with scratches and things when all the pretty horses are out there.”

  All the pretty horses. There it was again, from a child’s lips, a phrase from that beloved poem. “She can’t be near our horses right now, Liam.” Isaiah squatted to the boy’s level. “She’s sick and she might make them sick. That’s why we’ve got to keep her over here for now, okay?”

  “Like when Grandma puts me in time-out?”

  “No,” said Isaiah kindly. “This is more like being in the hospital. Separated so we can give her time to get well again.”