by K. N. Casper
On Friday, as Ethan and Kayla were helping the girls down from the horses, Heather said Brad wanted to know if he could come out and ride, too.
“Who’s Brad?”
“He lives with me at the Rayborns’.”
Not home, Ethan noted, but at the Rayborns’. “How old is he?”
“Nine, but he’s in the same class as me.”
“How come?”
“’Cause his father wouldn’t let him go to school. Said he was bad.”
“Is that the foster father you’re living with?”
“Uh-uh. His last name is Estes. He lives with us because his daddy’s in jail. His mommy is, too, or maybe rehab. Leastways, he can’t live with her.”
“Has he ever been on a horse before?” At that age Ethan was already an accomplished rider.
“Nuh-uh. His daddy wouldn’t let him, and now he’s afraid nobody will.”
“Why’s that?” Ethan asked.
“’Cause he’s only got one foot.”
That stopped him for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear that. Was he born that way?”
Heather shook her head. “When he was six his daddy got mad at him for not standing still, so he nailed his foot to the floor and they had to cut it off.”
Ethan wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Children sometimes exaggerated or even made things up.
He set her on the ground. “Is that true?”
She looked up and nodded sadly, and Ethan had no doubt she at least believed it was.
While Megan and Heather cleaned their tack and put out the feed Carter had measured for them beforehand, Ethan drew Kayla aside.
“Do you know anything about a boy named Brad Estes?”
“Heather told you about him?”
“Did his father really—”
“Nail his foot to the floor? Yes. He walks with a limp sometimes, and my dear indefatigable daughter, who hasn’t yet learned the word discretion, asked him why. He showed her his artificial foot and told her how he got it. I was skeptical, too, so I asked some people at church. Apparently his father was on drugs. By the time his mother took the kid to the emergency room, gangrene had set in.”
Ethan gritted his teeth and hoped the boy’s father didn’t get out of jail for a very long time. “Heather says he wants to ride. Could you talk to Mrs. What’s-her-name—”
“Rayborn. You want me to see if she’ll let him come out, too?”
“Yeah. Speaking of which, how safe is Heather in that foster home?”
“I checked with Child Protective Services. The Rayborns have been taking in kids for about eight years and have a good reputation. I’ve met Leona. I wouldn’t call her one of the warmest people I’ve ever encountered, but she and her husband, Randy, seem to take good care of the kids they foster.”
“Why does ‘good’ not sound good enough to me?”
“It’s not a perfect situation for those children,” she agreed, “but some of the alternatives are worse.”
He wasn’t pacified. “See if Brad can come to ride, too.”
* * *
THE FIRST THING Ethan noticed when Brad showed up the following Monday with Megan and Heather was that he was small for his age and skinny. He was polite enough and excited about coming out to the ranch, but he was leery, as well. A kid on perpetual guard.
Ethan didn’t notice any limp. Maybe Brad only had one when he got tired or hurt himself.
Ethan quickly discovered the boy was also strong. He clamped his knees tightly against the saddle when told to, and he had the natural dexterity and coordination of a decent athlete. His handicap didn’t have to restrict him. There were, after all, one-footed football kickers, one-handed baseball players, athletes who had only one eye. Handicaps were regarded as challenges these days, not impediments.
“You have three students now, but only one of them is paying,” Kayla said the following Wednesday afternoon when the kids were doing their barn chores, which they seemed to relish. “Doesn’t seem very profitable.”
“It’s also not costing me anything,” he pointed out. “Besides, this isn’t about money.”
The children came running out of the barn, circled a wheelbarrow full of manure and ran back inside. All three were laughing.
“No,” she said, “I guess it isn’t.”
She kept watching him, and he had the feeling she was trying to see inside him.
Don’t, he wanted to tell her. What you find you won’t like.
He strode to the barn, as if he had something important to do. He did—get away. Being close to her made him uncomfortable. He liked the opposite sex. Always had. But he didn’t get involved with married women or divorcées with children. Much too complicated. He didn’t have anything to offer a woman with responsibilities. He was a good-time sort of guy, nothing more. He’d messed up his own family. He had no intention of messing up anybody else’s.
The following Wednesday he was sitting atop Cinco giving the three youngsters a lesson in the big outdoor arena—Megan on Birdsong, Heather on Fiddlesticks and Brad on Joker—when he heard the gurgle of a diesel pulling up the driveway. He swiveled in the saddle but didn’t recognize the maroon pickup that stopped next to Kayla’s Toyota. Didn’t immediately recognize the driver, either. He and Kayla, however, greeted each other familiarly.
The visitor wasn’t exceptionally tall even in cowboy boots, but he had the brawny bulk of someone who worked out with weights. After shaking Kayla’s hand, he stood behind the fence, gazing out at the children riding inside the oblong arena. It wasn’t until he removed his Western hat and brushed back his wheat-colored hair that Ethan recognized him.
Noah. Holden Kelley’s son. He’d been on the football team with Ethan’s brother, Jud. Ethan knew Noah had taken over as minister of the local church after his father had suffered a second stroke a couple of months ago. A chip off the old block, no doubt.
Turning away from him and Kayla, Ethan asked the children to reverse direction and continue at a walk. After ten minutes, Megan was growing bored with the slow pace—the kid was always on the move. Even Heather seemed anxious to trot, and Brad had enough natural ability, in spite of his size, to handle it.
“Okay, kids, line up at the far end.”
They obeyed quickly and eagerly.
“We’re going to learn to trot now.”
“Yay!” Megan sang out.
Ethan rode around the arena, demonstrating the proper form.
“To trot, you have to squeeze with your legs, let up slightly on the reins, then give the horse a little kick with your heels to make him go faster.”
He trotted another full circuit and drew to a halt in front of them.
“You first, Megan. Trot from where you are to the other end of the arena, then slow to a walk and turn around.”
He wasn’t surprised when she bounced like a puppet with half the strings broken. She didn’t fall off, but she came close, and he could see the sheer terror on her face as she clutched the saddle horn. Ethan still couldn’t understand how such an eager student hadn’t learned to trot in a year of lessons. He shrugged off the thought and found a couple of good points to praise—she’d kept her shoulders back and only lost one stirrup—and gave her several pointers on what she needed to do to improve. Heather’s turn.
The first time trotting was scary; he could see doubts and fear clouding her eyes.
“Same thing. One length,” he said.
She kicked Fiddlesticks halfheartedly without results.
“Loosen up on the reins a little.” When she did, he clicked his tongue and ordered the horse into a collected trot. Heather grabbed the saddle horn and bounced violently in the saddle. At not quite the halfway point, Ethan called the horse down to a walk.
“That was a real good start,” he assured her as she returned to her place. “Next time, tighten your knees more and you’ll do even better.”
Brad’s turn.
“Keep your legs straight and tighten your knees. Ready?”
The boy nodded.
“Now give Joker a kick to get her going.”
The look of shock on the boy’s face at the first violent bounce was inevitable, but he instinctively clamped his knees. After initially grabbing the horn, he released it and held the reins in front of him. Ethan watched his eyes. The kid was intense, his attention focused exclusively on what he was doing.
He’s going to be all right. Instead of one length, Ethan let him trot home.
The girls clapped their hands in approval, surprising Ethan with their generosity. He praised the boy and watched his eyes light up. How long had it been since anyone had given him real encouragement?
While the children resumed riding in a circle—theoretically cooling their horses down—Ethan nudged Cinco over to the sidelines.
Noah looked up at him, smiling pleasantly. “You’re making those kids very happy.”
Ethan swung out of the saddle. “They’re doing okay.”
“I’m Noah Kelley.” They shook hands. Noah’s grip was firm. “You probably don’t remember me. It’s been a while—”
“What brings you out here?”
Ethan sensed Kayla stiffen at his abrupt manner. Noah seemed not to notice.
“Kayla was telling me what a terrific job you’re doing with these kids, and I thought I’d come out and see for myself.”
“I’m not a member of your congregation. You don’t have to check up on me.”
Noah snorted, seemingly more amused than offended by the remark. “Actually I’m here as an envoy.”
“Well, why don’t you go ahead and deliver your message.” And leave.
“Not a message, a request. Some of our congregation have children with special needs. After hearing what Kayla had to say Sunday about the great job you’ve been doing here with Heather and Brad, they’re wondering if you’d be willing to give their kids horseback lessons, as well. They’ll be happy to pay you,” he added.
“How many kids?”
“Six altogether.”
Seven paying students instead of one. The income would certainly be welcome. He’d have to juggle his schedule.... “Why didn’t they ask me themselves? Why send you?”
Noah shrugged his muscular shoulders. “They were afraid you’d turn them down, I reckon.”
“And they thought you might have special influence?”
Noah flashed his pearly whites. “Pretty naive, huh?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ethan caught Kayla staring at him. He knew he was acting like a jerk, but Kelley wasn’t a name he had reason to respect. “What are their ages and problems?”
Noah reached into a breast pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “I’ve written it all down for you. Names, ages, physical or mental impairments, as well as telephone numbers in case you want to talk to their parents or guardians.”
“Do they understand that I’m not a therapeutic riding instructor?” Ethan asked. “I have no credentials, no particular training. For all they know, I might be doing their kids more harm than good.”
“You obviously have a way with children, Ethan. They respond to you because you genuinely care about them.”
“That’s a pretty glowing evaluation after just a few minutes of observation.”
Noah smiled. “It’s not my judgment, Ethan, it’s Kayla’s. She’s been impressed with what you’ve been able to do with Heather and Brad.”
Ethan glanced at her. She nodded a bit tentatively, apparently unsure of his response.
He folded the paper and stuck it in his hip pocket. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good. If you decide to take on just one or two of them, perhaps as a start, that’s fine.” Noah extended his hand, forcing Ethan to take it again. “Thanks for hearing me out.”
He tipped his hat to Kayla, turned and sauntered back to his truck.
* * *
WHEN ETHAN TOLD Kayla Monday afternoon after his lesson with the children that he was calling off Wednesday’s session, he offered no explanation, and she didn’t ask for one. He was, after all, entitled to a personal life, plus running a horse ranch was probably a lot more complicated than just feeding horses and cleaning stalls, but she was curious.
Her father furnished the answer later that night by handing her the Homestead Herald.
“Page two,” he said and shuffled off to bed.
The local newspaper was small, only a few folds and seemed to contain the same advertisements for the feed store, the general store, the hardware and drugstore in the same spots every week. Why not? Not likely to find many sales or bargains in a town of fewer than fifteen hundred people. The closest competition was in San Antonio, thirty miles away.
The heart of the paper was local news and gossip. Because the Home Free program was so important to the community, legal notices were also posted—along with the names of the people who were getting land, where their property was located, what the new owners intended to use the land for, and perhaps most importantly, how many children they had. One of the reasons behind the program had been to lure families back to the shrinking town, since its schools were in danger of being closed. Nobody wanted their kids bused miles away to other communities.
The brief article on page two announced that Ethan Ritter had been granted official permission to transfer his father’s remains from the public cemetery in Homestead to the family plot on the Broken Spoke, and that the reinterment was scheduled for Wednesday afternoon.
The revelation came as a shock to Kayla. It meant the ranch had previously been owned by the Ritters, undoubtedly for a long time, since there was a family graveyard on it. Yet she was sure she’d been told Ethan was part of the land giveaway program.
Time for research, and who better to ask than Millicent Niebauer, who seemed to know everything about everybody and had few qualms about sharing it.
* * *
THE NIEBAUER PRESS, which published the Homestead Herald, was a throwback to a bygone era. Its ancient offset printing presses were still in place, too big to be moved. Except as collector’s items, they probably weren’t worth more than their weight in scrap iron. Nowadays, Millicent Niebauer, a sparrow of a woman, wrote all the articles for the newspaper on a computer, and they were printed in the back by her husband, Hiram. The tall, scrawny man was as taciturn as she was talkative.
Kayla was well aware that her exploratory visit to the paper would require tit for tat. Smiling, she entered the old-fashioned print shop fully prepared.
“Mrs. Price—” Millicent didn’t have to pause a heartbeat to remember Kayla’s name “—how very nice to see you. I’ve been hearing all sorts of wonderful things about that vineyard you’re planting.”
“Please, call me Kayla.”
“Heard your daughter is taking riding lessons from Ethan Ritter, too, even though he wouldn’t sell you Birdsong. Can’t say I’m really surprised, of course.”
“He said he couldn’t in good conscience sell me a thirty-year-old horse.”
Millicent’s right brow went up. “Yes, I reckon that’s as good an excuse as any.”
Kayla was sure there was a specific reason for her choice of words, but she let it pass, confident she’d learn what it was eventually.
“I stopped by, Mrs. Niebauer, to tell you how much I enjoy the Herald. You do such a wonderful job making it informative and friendly. I feel like a member of the community just reading it.”
The older woman preened. “Why, thank you, dear, and call me Millie. Everybody does. We don’t have a big paper, but I do my best with it.”
“It shows. It’s really good. I noticed Ethan’s going to be moving his dad’s remains to the Broken Spoke. Is that common here in Texas, to bury family members on private property?”
“Oh, my, no. You have to obtain special permission from the state, but the Broken Spoke was in the Ritter family for well over a hundred years. His mama and sister are buried there, you know, along with other members of the family.”
Kayla was confused. “But I thou
ght he just bought the place in the same land deal I did.”
“Well, yes, that’s true, but his family owned it before that.”
Kayla tilted her head. “I don’t understand.”
Millie smiled, please to be the source of fresh information. “I forget that everybody doesn’t know the history. Well, it started a dozen years ago now, when the K-bar-C went into bankruptcy after Clyde Braxton died. He was in his eighties by then and having a hard time keeping the place going. His children, the ungrateful lot...well, they weren’t any help. Spent money like it was going out of style. After he died, it did, too. Served them right, if you ask me, but it’s not for me to judge.”
She rearranged the announcement cards on the long counter between them, cards that had been on display for some time, considering the way they were yellowing around the edges.
“Anyway,” she continued, “when the place came up for sale at auction a bunch of the local ranchers decided to pool their resources and buy it. Ethan’s daddy, Zeb, merged the Broken Spoke into KC Enterprises, as they called their consortium, and, since his place was more or less in the middle of it all, he became the foreman. Did a good job, too, but times were against them.”
She went over to the end of the counter, poured coffee into two ceramic mugs emblazoned with Don’t Mess With Texas and handed Kayla one. “Don’t know how much you know about ranching—”
“Very little, I’m afraid,” Kayla conceded. And as Ethan had pointed out, nothing about horses.
“Well, it’s a hard life, despite all the glamour them fools out in Hollywood make it look like. Hard on men and harder on the women, if you ask me. There’s no oil around here, as you might have noticed, so you have to work for what you get.”
She sipped her coffee and made a face. “Reckon I need to make a fresh pot.”
She shoved the two cups aside, went to a small refrigerator behind a filing cabinet and brought over two soft drinks.
“These are the real Dr Pepper,” she said proudly. “Was up in Dallas last week and stopped off in Dublin. That’s the only plant still bottling the original recipe, using cane sugar instead of corn sweeteners.” She took a slug, smacked her lips and set the bottle on the counter.