The tension ebbed away as Dothan stopped at a section of the split-rail fence in need of repairs. I frowned at the blood welling up on my thumb, the crimson dot its own source of dysfunctional stress release. Once upon a time, I’d had nice fingernails. Not long and painted—that look wouldn’t stand up for two minutes around the barn. But not torn to the quick either, surrounded by tender, red skin.
Ragged nails were a visible sign of my inner turmoil, not to mention exquisitely painful. I was really trying to stop. Blowing out a frustrated breath, I returned my grip to the reins. My gaze slid back over to Dothan, and my pulse picked up again. He was staring at me.
My belly filled with sour regret at the thought of my underhanded trick the night before. Even if Dothan did have some bizarre condition that caused him to zap people, what was I going to do about it? Report him to the Department of Energy? Just because everyone knew my business didn’t mean he was required to share his secrets with the world. Before I could talk myself out of it, I waved at him—a peace offering of sorts.
The sun disappeared momentarily behind a mass of clouds, throwing his tall form into silhouette. He hesitated, then lifted his hand and returned my greeting. Reaching to his back pocket, he pulled out what must have been nails, which he transferred to his mouth. The dogs surrounded him as he knelt to work on the loose fencing, excited to have him down on their level.
I tamped down my nerves at having an audience, even though Dothan appeared focused on his task. My anxiety bordered on ridiculousness—I’d mastered courses like this by the time I was ten years old. But I’d already fallen off once in front of him, and the rest of my track record in his presence wasn’t so hot either.
It didn’t help matters that my mind continued to revisit the meeting I’d been forced to attend after today’s dismissal bell. My guidance counselor had insisted on checking in with me, and I’d done my best to deflect her questions in the shortest amount of time possible. Now I was second-guessing myself, hoping I’d provided Ms. Sloan with enough assurances to avoid future discussions, or even worse, a call home.
Ms. Sloan had studied me like a newly-discovered species as I sat across from her in her office. She was my new counselor for junior and senior year, but clearly she’d been brought up to speed on my situation. “So, Jamie. How was your summer?” Her fingers toyed with the lanyard around her neck holding her school identification. With her tiny frame and smooth skin, she could probably pass for one of the students.
“Fine,” I answered. We were off to a bang-up start. My gaze searched the tiny room, as though I might find a secret exit which would allow me to escape before she was done interrogating me.
“What did you do?” she persisted, twisting the lanyard. A small but sparkly engagement ring shone on her left finger.
“I worked at my grandfather’s antique store.” The less I elaborated, the faster I could get out of here and over to the barn. But I tagged on some identical information in order to sound like I was contributing. “Huntsville Vintage Antiques and Books.”
“Was that fun?”
Was work fun? Was she kidding me with this? I shrugged. “It was fine. The shop is really busy in the summer, with all the tourists who come for the Civil War Trails.”
She nodded as though she was intimately familiar with the summer upswing in the antique business, her brown bob cut swaying. “And what did you do in your leisure time?”
“I rode. I board a horse at Fox Run Stable.”
Another nod. Clearly we were making progress. “Did you spend time with friends?”
“Yes.”
“So you do have a support network?”
“Yes,” I repeated, picturing a complicated arrangement of wires holding me up. I fought back a smile.
“Are you sure? Because it’s important that you have a loyal group of friends after what you’ve been through.”
“I do,” I assured her. It wasn’t really a lie, if one considered Sam and Beau a “group”. My fingers itched to travel to my mouth, but I laced them firmly on my lap. I didn’t want to look at Ms. Sloan, so I peered down at my feet. My bright coral toenails peeped out from my sandals. At least one set of nails looked decent.
“Are some of the kids at school still giving you a hard time?” she asked, the sympathy in her gentle tone contrasting with the excitement in her pale blue eyes.
“No.” Another half-truth. A few things had happened over the summer: our house was egged, my car windows were soaped. My classmates were nothing if not original. So far the start of the school year had been mostly devoid of abuse—but now that I was going to be seen every day, it was only a matter of time.
I wasn’t stupid; I knew bullying was a serious issue. However, I also knew I was in no danger of harming myself because of my classmates’ stupid attempts at harassment. Sure, it hurt sometimes, but I firmly believed ignoring them was my best option. Bullies needed a reaction in order to thrive, and I wasn’t going to give it to them. Each episode just strengthened my resolve to do well in school so I could get the hell out of Huntsville.
Wherever I ended up, I’d need to figure out a way to take Beau with me. I stroked his dark gray neck and eased him into a canter. It was time to jump the course again. With a mental shove, I cleared my mind of all thoughts pertaining to this afternoon’s pointless meeting. I’d handled it just fine.
My gaze slid over in Dothan’s direction as we rounded the corner closest to the driveway. He was leaning against the fence, one foot on the bottom rail, watching us. The hammer dangled from his fingertips, glinting in the sunlight.
A tiny tremor fluttered through my stomach, and I reminded myself Beau and I had tackled much more challenging courses in front of judges and spectators. A hot stable hand was no problem.
I turned Beau toward the first jump, his massive body gathering speed as we approached. My body fell into the familiar rhythm, and everything else dropped away. I felt Beau’s muscles bunch beneath me, and we sailed over the first fence together.
By the time I’d finished untacking and grooming Beau and settled him in his stall, the barn clock’s hands were inching toward 5:30. Technically it was still summer, and the bright September sun would provide a few more hours of daylight before it sank below the western horizon. But I had dinner and homework to attend to.
Hoisting my saddle from the stand, I carried it out to my car. It needed a thorough cleaning; I’d have to make time for that soon. As I walked back to retrieve the rest of my tack, I caught sight of Dothan, sitting on a wooden bench tucked into the corner where the outside barn wall met the paddock fence. A bundle squirmed on his lap.
What the…? I took a few steps closer before I identified the struggling mass as a cat, wrapped in a towel. Dothan clutched it to his chest with his left arm while his right hand hovered near the cat’s face. A pair of pliers extended from his grip.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. “What are you doing to that cat?” I said in a strangled voice.
His glanced up, his features settling into a resigned expression before he turned his attention back to the cat in his lap. “I’m trying to help him. He got into it with a porcupine.”
“Oh.” My cheeks heated with the shame of my initial thought. Why couldn’t I say—or do—anything right around this guy? “There are porcupines around here?” I asked. Brilliant. My index finger searched for the sore spot on my thumb, and I clenched my fists at my sides.
He sighed, lowering the pliers. “Well, there are quills lodged in his face.”
I slumped in defeat. “Right. Sorry, dumb question. I’ve just…never seen one, and I spend a lot of time in the woods.”
His steely gaze softened by a few degrees. “Well, they’re rare in Maryland. And nocturnal.” He used his free fingers to rub the scruffy tabby behind the ears. If the cat felt anything strange at Dothan’s touch, he didn’t show it. “But I’m guessing this poor guy was hungry enough to try to catch one for dinner,” he added.
I wondered idly
how he knew about the habits of porcupines, but I wisely chose not to ask anything that might remotely involve personal information. “Well, this may be another dumb question, but is there anything I can do to help?”
“It would probably make this a lot easier,” he allowed. “It took me a while to get him this far, though, so if you could...you know…move slowly.” He tilted his head, shooting me a meaningful look.
My entire face flamed, all the way to my ears, as I recalled my jerky spasm from the night before. But I was determined to be of some assistance to the poor animal, if not to Dothan. I approached them carefully, as if land mines lay buried beneath the hard dirt.
The cat peered up at me, his yellow eyes wide with panic. His body was wrapped in a towel cocoon in Dothan’s muscular arms, but the black and brown stripes on his head didn’t look familiar. “I don’t recognize him,” I said softly. Barn cats tended to come and go as a general rule; however, most that came by Fox Run settled in once they discovered their diet of rodents would be supplemented with plenty of dry cat food and water.
“He’s new around here, I think. Like me. I noticed him on Monday, and I’ve been feeding him the last few days.” Dothan bent, his long hair falling around his face, and murmured to the cat.
My heart melted as I listened to this rough, intimidating guy comfort a terrified cat with gentle words. The tabby relaxed, and I whispered, “He probably knows he needs our help.”
Dothan nodded. “I need you to take the pliers,” he said, extending the tool toward me. “You’re going to have to do the pulling.”
I gulped. “Me?” The urge to nibble on my fingernails was suddenly overwhelming. I ignored it, instead taking the evil-looking pliers from him. I accepted the tool as if it were a loaded gun, carefully avoiding touching Dothan in the process.
“Yes. I can’t let you hold him. He’ll tear you to shreds.”
I ground the toe of my boot into the dusty earth, stalling. “He might just as easily scratch you, if he gets his legs free,” I pointed out.
He shook his head firmly. “We’ve developed some trust. Besides, animals and I tend to get along.”
I glanced at his fingers as they stroked the sides of the cat’s neck in a soothing, circular motion. Maybe the current worked as some kind of anesthesia. “Are you sure we shouldn’t call the vet?”
“Mr. White’s a great guy,” he said, referring to the owner of Fox Run. “But I don’t think he’s going to want to pay a vet for an on-site call. He already buys food for all these strays, and this one just showed up this week. Mr. White hired me to help out around here, not to call other people for things I can fix. He’s suffering, so let’s get these out and clean the wounds.”
My jaw fell open. I hadn’t been aware he could actually string that many sentences together. It was practically a speech, and all for the scared animal in his arms. My throat tightened. Hold it together, I ordered myself. If Dothan could overcome his reluctance to speak to me for the sake of the cat, I could summon the courage to do my part of the surgical procedure.
“Okay,” I managed, trying to keep the quiver out of my voice.
“You can do this, Jamie. Just pull straight out. The quills have barbs on the ends, so you don’t want to twist or tug at an angle. One clean yank, right near the point of entry.”
Hearing my name from his lips sent a potent thrill charging up my spine. I didn’t think he’d even remembered it. I blew out a breath, nodding.
A clump of stiff gray needles sprang from the cat’s face like a hideous imitation of his white whiskers. With shaky hands, I closed the jaws of the pliers around the shaft of the quill. Like pulling off a bandage, I told myself, silently counting to three. Then I jerked the pliers back in one swift motion, and the cat tensed in Dothan’s arms as the first quill came out.
“Good job,” he said, before dropping his head to calm the cat with more soothing words.
His simple praise steadied my nerves. “Ready?” I asked softly.
“Yes. Just drop all the quills in a pile on the dirt. Make sure you don’t touch them. I’ll clean them up later once I can get some gloves on.”
I gripped the next one with the pliers. We were going to be here for a while. Maybe he’d prefer to complete the process in silence, but that was too damn bad. “How do you know how to do this?” I dropped the second quill next to the first.
“I love animals. I wanted to be a vet, at one point.”
At one point? He had to be between 18 and 20 years old, max. Hardly too late in life for the tone of resignation I detected. I plucked another quill out. “Are you saving up for vet school, then?”
“No. Things changed.” The hard line of his mouth told me I’d better quit while I was ahead.
Fine. It would be best for all three of us to get this done as quickly as possible. I extracted the remainder of the quills with smooth precision, turning his cryptic answers over in my mind to little avail.
“Done,” I said finally, exhaling forcefully. The cat’s neck went limp, as though he understood. My own muscles followed suit; I suddenly felt exhausted. Time-wise, I was pushing it—I really needed to get home and get dinner on the table. But I wasn’t ready to abandon our patient just yet.
“What now?” I set the pliers on the bench in a slow, non-spastic motion.
“Can you grab the hydrogen peroxide from the tack room?” Dothan asked, shifting the cat’s weight. “And a clean rag to apply it.” His arms must have been even more fatigued than mine, but his powerful muscles stayed rigid as he continued to support the cat.
I hurried into the barn, grabbing a brown bottle from the dusty box of first aid supplies and a clean rag from the shelf. When I crossed the aisle right in front of the wide main entrance, I slowed my pace. Turning left, I approached the bench slowly, to avoid startling both the cat and Dothan. For whatever reason, I desperately wanted to prove to him I could control myself.
“So, does he have a name?” I asked, pouring the antiseptic onto the rag. I saturated a large section of the cloth covering my index finger.
“I’ve been calling him Tom,” Dothan said. A hint of a sheepish smile flashed across his features as he held the cat’s head steady.
“Tom cat? Original.” I rolled my eyes playfully before I suddenly remembered Dothan might not be the best candidate for sarcasm. Dabbing carefully at the angry puncture wounds, I cut my glance over to check his reaction.
The sides of his mouth quirked, deepening the nearby dimples. He tried to scowl at me, but a reluctant grin broke through instead. “Yeah, I know. But all I could tell about him was that he was male, and covered in porcupine needles. And I was hoping the second feature was temporary.”
“Maybe you should rename him ‘Lucky’,” I suggested.
“Also highly original,” he pointed out. An actual laugh, deep and sexy, escaped as he shook his head. He stood up, cradling Tom over his shoulder like a baby. The cat’s front legs emerged from the towel to hook on to the material of Dothan’s black T-shirt. “I’m going to let him rest on my bed.”
My stomach flipped at the reminder of how close I was right now to Dothan’s bed. In proximity, at least—the actual likelihood of my ever ending up there with him was nonexistent. Dothan was too hot, too aloof, and not remotely interested in me.
Whoa, where did that thought come from? I nodded, dipping my chin to hide any trace of my rogue fantasy. I followed him back into the barn, watching Tom’s yellow eyes droop as he slumped over Dothan’s broad shoulder. Turning down the aisle, I scooped up the rest of my tack quickly while Dothan continued down the center hallway toward a door on the left. “Bye,” I called out over my shoulder. “Good luck with Tom.”
“See you. And thanks, Jamie,” he added, disappearing into his room.
Chapter 5
The following week, a persistent cell of violent thunderstorms stalled over Huntsville, turning the skies from gray to black on an hourly rotation. Wednesday morning dawned beneath a heavy fog, but by the time I go
t home from school, the sun had chased the last of the clouds away. Unfortunately, I had to get to the store to relieve Nathaniel, my grandfather, by four o’clock.
I scowled at the clear cerulean sky as I strode across the lawn to where my little silver hatchback sat parked on the street. Why couldn’t the rain have waited for the days I was scheduled to sit inside a musty antique shop? I hadn’t been to the barn since Saturday. At least I’d seen then that Tom was almost as good as new. Maybe tomorrow I could bring him a treat. With a heavy sigh, I rummaged through my backpack for my keys.
I didn’t even notice the lone car driving down Locust Street until it slowed a few houses down from mine. It rolled up across from me, and I looked up from my search. Loud music and laughter escaped from the car as the windows slid down. Then three gun barrels poked out, all pointing at me.
“Hey, Jamie!” a male voice called cruelly, right before they opened fire. The impact knocked me backwards, and I slammed into my car’s side mirror. My feet tangled and I went down, my elbows smacking the pavement with an explosion of agony.
I rolled toward my tires as the other car screeched away, blasting me with a final humiliating stream of exhaust. A moment later, my eyes fluttered open cautiously. I stared at the splattered surface of the street, my cheek resting on the wet tangle of my hair. Hot tears smeared my vision. I blinked, sending them trickling sideways across my face.
The pounding of boots running toward me suddenly registered in my rattled brain. No more, I thought silently. There’s only so much I can take.
“Jamie! Are you okay?” a familiar deep voice called out.
I struggled to focus, pushing through the shock waves reverberating inside my skull. Dothan?
“Who the hell was that?” he growled, dropping down into my field of vision.
Huh? What was going on? I couldn’t seem to find a logical thread connecting the events of the last few minutes.
“Who was in the car, Jamie?”
Divine Fall Page 3