by Vicki Tharp
Quinn climbed the metal rails of the corral and hooked his arms over the top, holding his hand out again.
Dink whined.
“Seriously, Quinn, you need to be—”
“Careful?” Quinn laughed. “Hell, I survived a helicopter crash. I think I’ll survive a little horse.”
“He’s not so ‘little’. And too cunning to trust.”
“What’s his name?” Dink nosed Quinn in the back of his calf, as if worried about him.
“Vader.”
“As in Darth Vader?”
Her head moved, and he assumed it was a nod, but in the darkness, he wasn’t positive. “Because he’s black?”
“Because the evil Force is strong in this one.” Jenna butchered the impression of Obi Wan’s voice. She’d always sucked at impersonations, but if she’d been a little kid, he’d have given her a trophy for trying.
“I’m sure he’s just misunderstood.”
“Yeah.” Jenna snorted out a laugh. “Tell that to Sidney and the black hoofprint-shaped bruise on her thigh.”
The horse stepped closer, neck outstretched, rear legs tucked underneath, ready to bolt. “’S okay, boy.”
Vader inched closer.
Dink pawed Quinn on the back of his boot.
“Quinn!” Jenna hissed.
Quinn ignored her. There was something about that horse. Fear. Yes. In his body language, in the snorts, in the tautness of his muscles, the flash of white in his eyes.
But there was something else, too. Something that resonated with Quinn, something he couldn’t pinpoint. He knew that reaching out was right in the same way that he could hear his engine spool up, listen to the whine, feel the vibration, and know all systems were a go.
Vader wasn’t mean. He wasn’t evil. He was—
Vader brushed his soft muzzle against Quinn’s fingertips. The horse startled and jumped back. Quinn kept his hand steady. “’S alriiight,” he said, his voice soft and low.
Dink plopped down in the dirt beside Quinn with a heavy sigh and a disgruntled grumble, as if to say, It’s your funeral. Jenna placed her hand on the back of his jeans, tucking her fingers around his belt, ready to yank him off the rails if Vader got ugly.
It wasn’t cold out, and it might have been his imagination, but heat radiated off of her hand. He envisioned that same hand sliding down his abdomen, looping around his belt buckle—
Another touch.
This time Vader didn’t dart away. Warm, moist air blew across his fingers as Quinn brushed the velvet nose. Jenna’s hand on the back of his belt loosened and she climbed up a rung. Vader charged at her, and she leaped off, out of reach. Growling, Dink tried to slip through the rails.
Jenna caught the dog before he squirmed through.
“You okay?” Quinn asked.
“Sit. Stay,” she ordered. To Quinn, she said, “See what I mean. Vader’s like a lifelong politician. Can’t be trusted.”
“Back up a bit.”
“Quinn—”
He turned his back on the horse. “Come on.”
“Okay, okay.” She took several steps back, dragging Dink along with her. “Don’t take your eyes off of him.”
Reaching out again, Quinn said, “Prove her wrong, buddy.”
Vader stomped the ground and shook his head, then his whole body. The horse’s tension eased. Vader licked his lips and stepped closer, one heavy clomp at a time. Jesus, how tall was this horse?
The insides of Quinn’s upper arms ached as he held himself against the rail, his right hand shaking from the effort it took to keep his arm outstretched. Again, the nose on his fingers, the hot breath in the palm of his hand.
Vader lipped his palm as if searching for treats. When he didn’t find any, he sniffed the back of Quinn’s hand. Vader worked his way up to Quinn’s wrist, to Quinn’s forearm, stopping in the middle, where the healing was the slowest. Vader sniffed deeply and tugged at Quinn’s shirtsleeve with his teeth.
Jenna sucked in a breath as if she was going to whisper a warning, but the words never came.
When Vader finished, Quinn reached up and rubbed a hand down the horse’s long nose. Vader pulled his head away but didn’t step back.
Quinn kept his voice soft. “Come on now, don’t be like that.”
The second attempt, Vader remained still. On the third, he leaned into the caress, blowing out a deep sigh and licking his lips as Quinn scrubbed his fingers across the swirl in the center of Vader’s forehead.
Having had enough, Vader turned and slipped back into the darkness.
“Wow,” Jenna whispered behind him. “If I’d recorded that, Sidney still wouldn’t believe it without seeing it with her own eyes.”
Quinn jumped down, and Dink trotted the few steps over, rubbing up against Quinn’s leg and nosing his hand. Quinn sank his fingers into the thick scruff and gave the dog a good scratch beneath the collar. Dink’s leg thumped against the ground like a bass drum, and his doggy lips pulled back into a satisfied grin.
With a final pat, Quinn straightened and said, “He just needed someone to believe in him.” Freud could have written a whole article analyzing that comment alone.
Lucky for Quinn, the man was dead.
Who needed all that psychobabble anyway?
“Quinn?”
“Oh no. No. No. No.”
“You haven’t heard what I was going to say.”
“Don’t need to.” Quinn stepped away from Jenna before she drew him into that silken web of hers that he’d always found impossible to escape. The one that made him do things he shouldn’t. Didn’t want to. “I know that tone. Whatever that devious mind of yours is cooking up, the answer is no.”
She stepped closer. He stepped back. “Hear me out.” She sounded all calm and reasonable, like a seasoned hostage negotiator. Like he had a choice as to whether or not he went along with her diabolical plan.
He groaned. Knowing his answer would be yes. Shit.
Again, she inched closer as if he were the wild stallion that needed taming. His back hit the pen. “I think you should work with Vader.”
He didn’t know what he’d expected her to say, but it hadn’t been that. “What do you mean, ‘work with him’?”
“You know. Tame him, train him. He was brought to us as a last resort. If we can’t make him safe, they’ll destroy him.”
Destroy. The word jarred his back, his bones, his body, like it had when he’d first learned to land a helo when he was all heavy hands and no finesse. “They can turn him back into the—”
“The public lands are overcrowded. The Bureau of Land Management won’t let him return.”
“Jesus Christ.” Quinn planted his hands on his hips. “I’m not here to train horses. I’m here for a funeral, for answers.”
“How long is that?”
“Ten days. My CO wasn’t too upset to see me go. I’m not exactly essential personnel. The only thing I’ve been flying these past few months is the Healing Chair, monitoring flights and pushing paperwork.”
Her finger beneath his jaw surprised him. He hadn’t realized he was looking down. Jenna tilted his head up. Her eyes shone in the darkness. One booted foot stepped between his.
“You’re essential here. To that horse. Tell me you’ll help. For a day. Two. Whatever time you can give him while you’re here. Sidney hasn’t had any luck with him. Maybe you will.”
He pulled his chin away. Heard the scrape of his stubble against her skin. When she touched him like that, it only reminded him what a dumbass he’d been to let her go.
“It would be good for him…good for you.”
Quinn jerked back, bumping his head on the corral. Pain radiated around his skull, but it was a dull throb compared to the sharp verbal knife she’d just jammed between his ribs, millimeters from his strumming heart. “
Good for me? What are you trying to say?” His voice held a serious warning, telling her she’d better think twice about what she said next.
She fell back a step. “Training and being with the horses is good for people like you.”
A bark of laughter shot out of him. A black hole from which no humor could escape. “‘People like me’? You mean, helo pilots?” He knew that wasn’t what she meant. He knew she meant—
“People who have suffered a trauma.”
“I don’t need psychoanalyzing.”
“I’m not a psychologist.”
“And I’m not one of your vets. I don’t need a horse. I don’t need a program. All I need is to get back in the air where I fucking belong.”
* * * *
The muscles in Quinn’s forearms burned, his back ached, and more blisters had formed beneath his gloves. The pile of chopped wood on his left reached the height of his waist, but that didn’t keep him from placing another log on top of the old tree stump and swinging the ax again.
Jenna’s words from the night before played on repeat in his head.
People like you.
He levered the ax over his shoulder, using all the power in his arms, his legs, his back, his hands.
People who have suffered—
Kch-whop, kch-whop.
He didn’t need to be fixed.
Kch-whop, kch-whop, kch-whop.
He wasn’t broken.
“You know we have a machine that does that now, right?” Mac said from beside him.
The ax slipped in Quinn’s hand, the head glancing off the log, the blade sinking deep into the tree stump. Quinn wrestled it free. “Christ, you guys need to stop sneaking up on people when they’re swinging an ax.”
Mac shrugged. “You need to quit being so jumpy.”
The machine Mac referred to had been parked about five yards away, so he figured the question had been rhetorical, but he answered her anyway. “No gym for strength training. Figured this was the next best option for rehabbing my arm.”
He rested the handle of the ax against his leg and glanced at his mentor, and one of the reasons he’d joined the Marines. He thanked God for that decision every day.
Even on the bad days.
Dressed in her usual jeans, boots, and T-shirt with her brown ponytail hanging out the back of a tattered USMC baseball cap, she tossed him a bandana. He wiped the sweat off his face and chest.
She looked a little pale, a little green around the gills. “You feeling all right?” he asked.
“Something I ate.” She bobbed her chin toward his Frankenstein’s monster arm, deflecting the attention. She was an expert at that. “How’s the arm?”
He shrugged. “Long way from the heart. I think I’ll live.”
“But will you fly?”
Despite how hard the question hit, Quinn felt his lip curve up, not in a smile, but a close enough approximation. “You are direct. I’ve always liked that about you.”
“Most people find it annoying.”
He shrugged. “It suits you.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’ll fly again.”
She cocked her head, catching his hesitation and the way his words lacked complete faith. Direct and perceptive.
“What’s your plan B?”
Plan B. Fuck that. “I don’t need one.”
“That’s what I used to tell myself, too. Spent that first year after my medical discharge on the road, me and my Harley. Too many nights on the cold ground and too many days with nothing in my head but the nightmares. Trust me. You need an exit plan. Even if you don’t use it for twenty years.”
From behind him, one of the wild horses called out. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was Vader who’d answered. Quinn recognized the call, the frantic, frenetic whinny of a soul in trouble. If he were a horse, would he sound any different?
Would he want help?
Finger by finger, he plucked the sweat-soaked gloves off of his hands and stuffed them into his back pocket.
“You going to help Sidney with that horse?” Mac asked.
Jesus Christ. He drew a hand down his face, over the two-day-old growth of stubble he hadn’t bothered shaving off. “Not you, too.”
She crossed her arms over her chest.
“I don’t need the program,” he said.
“Didn’t say you did.”
“I’m not fucked up.”
Mac’s lips twisted into a sardonic smile, as if his fucked-up-edness was as debatable as global warming or putting ketchup on a thick steak. “I didn’t think I was, either.”
She tossed him his T-shirt and bumped her chin toward the round pen. Sidney slammed the gate behind Vader, and the horse cantered along the rail, mane and tail unfurled behind him as if tearing off into a storm.
“When your men, your crew, your friends die…it’s never easy.” Mac clapped him on the shoulder and steered him toward the round pen.
That tightness in his chest returned, a strangling, staggering, smothering guilt. That sense that if he’d been a better pilot, had had faster reflexes, had done anything differently, maybe some, or all, of his crew would be alive today. The fact that he’d been green-tabled, and the FFPB, the Field Flight Performance Board, had cleared him of any wrongdoing, didn’t make living with his crew’s deaths any easier.
That was one murderous bitch of a firestorm.
He’d flown in storms before.
Not like that.
Didn’t matter. It had still been a damn training mission.
Sometimes, when his thoughts dared go where they shouldn’t, when his memories threw off the cuffs and chains and clawed their way up from the dark recesses of his mind, he wondered, if his crew had died by enemy fire, if that horrifying circumstance would ease the guilt. Just enough for him to catch a full breath so that every second of every day wasn’t suffocating.
He doubted it would.
But he wondered.
They stopped a few feet from the round pen. Vader cantered by, that big brown eye on Quinn as the horse thundered around. By the second round, the horse slowed a fraction. By the third, he’d broken down to a trot. Sweat lathered the horse’s neck. His nostrils were flaring, his massive sides heaving. Trying to catch a breath. Catch a break.
Like Quinn.
“I don’t need this,” Quinn said, but his words lacked conviction as his hands reached for the gate latch.
“Maybe not,” Mac said, “but the horse does.”
* * * *
From the shade of the overhang at the front of the barn, Jenna watched Quinn work Vader in the round pen. She wanted to move closer, but she was afraid to break whatever spell he’d cast over the horse.
That was all it could be. Pure, unadulterated sorcery.
How else could any sane person explain how Quinn was able to put his hands on the devil’s own horse?
“Amazing, huh?” Sidney stepped into the shade, a cold bottle of water in each hand.
“Yeah.” Jenna accepted one of the bottles and took a couple of large swallows, feeling the cool liquid slide down the back of her throat and pool in her stomach. “He’s always been good with horses, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Quinn eased down the horse’s side, running his hands in long, soothing strokes down the horse’s neck, up over the withers, and across his back.
“I’ve seen this before. Not with a wild horse,” Sidney said, “but with a palomino paint ranch horse left with a trainer at a barn to be legged up before going to the auction. There was this little girl taking lessons from me. Ten years old, looking for her first horse. I remember she came around the corner and the horse stuck his head over the stall door, and I swear that horse did a double take. I’ll never forget the look in that horse’s eyes. Like, there she
is, there’s my little girl.”
“Love at first sight?”
“Pretty much. Here’s this horse that had just dumped two trainers, and when the little girl gets on, he’s a total prince. Doesn’t put one hoof wrong.” Sidney tipped her bottle toward Quinn and Vader. “That right there. That’s a lifetime kind of horse for Quinn. Like Eli is for me.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think Quinn is looking for that kind of commitment. From a horse or anything that isn’t seventeen tons of metal and rotor.”
Jenna left Sidney at the barn and walked toward the pen as Quinn worked his way up to the horse’s neck. Scratching at the base until he hit Vader’s itchy spot. Vader bobbed his head up and down, his lips twisting with pleasure. Quinn gave him one last pat and turned him back out into his corral. The horse trotted around the enclosure, then settled back down and tore a mouthful of hay from a hay net.
“Quinn Powell, the mighty horse whisperer,” Jenna said as she opened the round pen for him and bent at the waist. “I bow to your greatness.”
“Yeah, yeah, cut the crap,” Quinn said, but for once he had a genuine smile on his face.
He stole her water and drained it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He winked at her and gave the bottle back.
Jenna’s heart didn’t skip a beat. Her breath didn’t catch. No butterflies danced in her belly. But the tips of her ears heated and she turned away before he glimpsed her smile.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Seriously, it was just a wink.
And that flash of dimple.
“That was my water.” She tried her best to sound irritated, but as she turned back, he flashed that dimple again, so she figured her tone wasn’t very believable. Damn. She was in trouble.
“Come on,” Quinn said as he guided her back toward the cabins. “I’ll buy you a drink in town.”
“Town? What for?”
“To find Crystal.”
Jenna stopped walking and turned toward him. “How do we do that? The sheriff’s office hasn’t even been able to find her.”
“From what Frank said, I don’t think they’re looking too hard. We canvass Murdock. Show her picture around. Ask questions. Find the bad guys. You know, like in the movies.”