She frowned. I looked into the barn. Mike was on crossties, but Malcolm wasn’t there.
“Did you already brush him?”
“A little.”
“Pick out his feet?”
“I forgot that.”
“Do you need help?”
She hesitated, then flopped into the chair. I sighed. After the scene at The Brick, I didn’t have the energy to play a guessing game with an eight-year-old.
“Mommy says I have to.”
Crap. Here we go. I gritted my teeth. “Have to what?”
“Ride.”
“Don’t you like to ride?”
Another shrug.
I’d dealt with kids before who had been “gifted” with the expensive pony and thousands of dollars worth of tack, riding clothes, and all the other paraphernalia that goes with competing in horse shows. As often as not, it was the parents’ show, and their approach usually ran along the lines of ‘I spent all this money on you, now you damn well better ride, and you damn well better win.’
Then they’d traipse down to the country club to brag about their kids’ blue ribbons. The kids had little or no interest, or they just wanted to bang around the trails, not practice posting without stirrups for hours on end.
I couldn’t be sure where Malcolm weighed in on this subject, and I didn’t mean to be subversive, but I couldn’t help myself.
“How will your mother know whether or not you’ve ridden?”
She looked at me. Clearly, this possibility had never occurred to her. I decided not to encourage her one way or the other. But if she took matters into her own hands, well…
“Have you ever ridden bareback?”
She shook her head and did not appear intrigued.
“Do you want to see some kittens?”
“Yes!”
Bingo. I led her upstairs.
After half an hour of playing with the kittens, during which time she named them Snowball, Night, Tiger, and Tigress, I asked, “What do you say we put Mike away, and you help me change Cali’s bandages?”
“Okay.”
I made a quick stop in the kitchen. “First, a little snack,” I said. “You like whipped cream?”
“Sure.”
She followed me. I brandished two cans. “Plain or chocolate?”
“Chocolate? Okay. No, plain. No, chocolate. No, wait.”
“You must make up your mind,” I sang and waved the cans in circles, then made a show of squirting some plain into my mouth.
“Oh, me, me, me!” She opened her mouth.
I gave her a squirt. She started to laugh.
“No laughing. You’ll choke.”
Malcolm’s voice reached us from downstairs. “Nicky?”
Nicky snorted whipped cream out her nose. I was laughing so hard, I had to sit on the floor.
Malcolm bellowed, “Nicky!” This time, with a note of worry.
“We’re up here,” I yelled.
A few moments of silence followed, punctuated by our coughing attempts to stop laughing.
“Can I come up?”
Nicky and I looked at each other. We each took another hit, but she couldn’t control herself. She giggled most of it down her chin.
“Should we let him?” I whispered.
“I think I peed my pants,” Nicky squeaked.
That’s when I snorted whipped cream through my nose.
Malcolm found us sitting on the kitchen floor, holding our stomachs, faces red, crying from laughter, dribbles of whipped cream on the floor and the backs of our hands and dripping down our shirts.
“What the—?”
Which only made us laugh more.
When Nicky could talk, she said, “Daddy, Vi had kittens!”
He joined us on the floor.
A little while later, we had ourselves cleaned up and under control, and Cali on crossties. I explained about her injuries and the finer points of bandaging wounds. Nicky watched with keen interest and asked a lot of questions. She was a good kid.
On impulse, I said, “Next time, you can ride her.”
Her eyes widened, she shook her head and backed away. “Oh, no. She’s too big.”
“I would hold her. You could just sit on her.” Why was I even suggesting this? I didn’t want anything to do with kids and riding.
“I couldn’t.”
Fear made her dart her eyes around as if looking for an escape route. “How about Gaston or Fergus?” I asked. “They’re nice.”
Again, the adamant shake of the head. “No.” She moved a little farther from Cali.
Something had spooked her. I hated to see her afraid, but I wasn’t about to push her, and anyway, this was none of my business. “Well, Mike isn’t so big. He looks like he’d be fun.”
“I guess.”
No matter what my personal feelings were with regard to kids and riding, it sucked that someone had ruined it for her. I could guess who the guilty party was, and she pulled in a moment later. Nicky’s shoulders slumped when she saw her mother’s car.
“It’s time for me to go.”
“It’s been really nice meeting you,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome.” She took the handle of a small suitcase with a big Winnie-the-Pooh on the side and began to roll it down the aisle.
Malcolm, who had been grooming Gaston, took her free hand.
“Nicky,” I called. “Keep that cell phone on vibrate, okay? You never know when you might get a call from a secret friend.”
“Okay,” she said. “Bye.”
I waved, and they went out. After the Caddy had disappeared, leaving a small dust cloud in its wake, Malcolm said he and Hank would be working on the new fence at the far end of the pasture. They’d already fixed the broken rails of the riding arena.
He’d changed into his kilt. I couldn’t fathom why he liked to work in it, but it must have been comfortable, like he said. The faded plaid consisted of large blocks of dark green and navy with narrow stripes of red, yellow, and pale blue. A tarnished blanket pin held it together.
I opened the gate so he could drive his truck into the horse pasture. He stopped and powered his window down.
“Sure you don’t want to help?”
My eyes strayed to his bare knees. The kilt’s frayed hem rested a few inches above them. “Tempting, but I have quite a bit left to do in the barn.”
He followed my gaze and quirked an inquiring brow at me. “Holler if you need anything, okay? We’ll hear.”
“Hank thinks that kilt’s pretty silly, you know.”
“Hank’s opinion has been noted on more than one occasion.”
“What does Brooke think of it?”
“Hates it.” He grinned and leaned his arm out the window. “What do you think of it?”
I bit my lip against a growing smile. “I could get used to it,” I said.
He gave me a satisfied nod, and I watched him drive over the bumpy field, fencing materials rattling in the bed.
The moment he was out of sight, I jogged over to where the manure spreader sat. I slowed and followed the path I’d steered the day we found Norman, scanning the ground, looking for something that didn’t belong. That could be anything. All I could see was what was supposed to be there—dirt and grass, straw and manure. If there were anything else to find, the deputies would have taken it that day. It’d rained more than once since then, so I didn’t know why I was wasting my time hunting for the famous needle in the haystack. Oh, yeah, the crazy dreams.
Crazy, all right. And persistent. And, I don’t know. I couldn’t explain it, but I was beginning to believe Wastrel was trying to tell me something. And I needed to hurry up and figure it out.
While I kept my eyes focused on the ground before me, I listened for the sound of an approaching truck. I didn’t want to have to explain what I was doing. It was a quiet afternoon. I could hear Malcolm and Hank hammering. The breeze brought a few snatches of their conversation, although I couldn’t make out
any words. Then, they were silent.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember details from my dreams. The day’s heat lifted the smell of rain-soaked earth to my nose. I turned my face to the sun to feel its warmth. I’d seen Hank go by earlier with his tractor. A big screw-like thing hung off the back that they must use to dig holes. At the moment, though, it had become quiet. The horses in the field were too busy munching grass to make any other noise. A meadowlark sang from its perch on the electrical wires along the road. Noire watched me from a patch of shade under the spreader.
Just as on that first morning when Malcolm and I went riding together, I detected no human sound. I liked it.
I continued my search down the length of the field and made the turn at the far end just as I had when I’d been on the tractor. Nothing, damn it. There simply was nothing beneath my feet except dirt. If I wasn’t supposed to be looking, then what the heck was Wastrel trying to tell me? And what if I did find something? Then what?
I stopped about ten feet from the spreader and closed my eyes again.
Yes!
Wastrel had been circling it. I did the same. There was no reason not to go right up to it. My dog was under it. Norman’s body was gone. Still, it was hard to make my feet go there. The deputies had dumped most of the compost out. I kicked through some of the piles and finally stood next to the big scary farm implement. Should have brought a pitchfork or something to sift through the stuff inside the box. I crouched to look underneath. Noire rolled to her back for a belly rub, and that’s when I saw it—something shiny half hidden in a clump of grass.
“Com’ere, you silly dog.”
She wormed her way over to me. I had to get on my hands and knees and reach blindly. My fingers closed on a small, hard…I brought it out and opened my palm. It was a micro-cassette tape, the kind used in answering machines. I stuck it in my pocket and hustled to the barn before anyone saw me.
- 27 -
With everything except the evening feeding finished for the day, I went upstairs. I could have ridden a couple of horses, but I was beat. A short nap would revive me.
Malcolm had an electronic voice-mail setup, so there were no answering machines available to check out the tape. Could it be what JJ had been looking for in the apartment? If JJ killed Norman, what was his motive?
The answer might be on the tape. I wrapped it in tissue and tucked it inside the brim of my competition helmet, which I kept stored in a box on the top shelf of the closet. I flopped on the bed and promptly fell asleep.
The dream came quickly. Wastrel nudged me toward the tangled underbrush of a dark wood. I didn’t want to go. He pushed me again, and I stumbled into someone’s living room. Nothing was familiar, and the only thing I could clearly see was a small, white dog gnawing a bone.
Bones again.
It was a little Westie, well groomed with a blue collar. It looked at me, got up and walked to the other side of the room. I followed it through a doorway and stood in the dilapidated kitchen of an old house trailer.
A horse whinnied.
I awoke in darkness and bolted downstairs to feed. A glance at my watch told me it was two hours past the usual time. The moment I stepped into the barn, I turned on my heel and went right back up the stairs to retrieve Willy. I wasn’t interested in toting a shotgun, but there was no need to be careless about self-protection. While I was at it, I grabbed a quick hit of whipped cream to bolster my courage, wondering if Malcolm and Hank were working in the dark or if they’d come in while I’d slept.
Feeding the horses took three trips to the grain bin. It was awkward keeping Willy in one hand, but why take chances? I rushed through my routine, glancing over my shoulder more than once when a horse huffed or banged a hoof against the wall. Help might be within shouting distance, but my heart beat faster than usual every time I passed an open doorway, wondering who lurked in the primeval dark.
Or in the loft, I thought as I hurried past the ladder.
Worst of all, Noire had taken off. She was probably with Malcolm and Hank.
I was watering when I heard someone come up behind me, and my first thought was, this can’t be happening again. Every time someone believes that in a movie, they end up with a knife between their shoulders…or worse.
I put my left thumb over the end of the hose to squirt it with maximum force, and spun around, swinging Willy as hard as I could.
It was already too late when I realized it was Malcolm. The man had fast reflexes. He ducked. Good thing, or I would have knocked him out. I did soak him, though.
I stood there, unable to do anything but stare at him, breathing hard, hearing only the blood pounding in my ears. I dropped the hose.
“It’s just me, Vi,” he said quietly.
He stripped his sopping shirt over his head, wrung it out, and slung it over a rung of the loft ladder. Willy clattered to the floor. Malcolm shook water from his hair. I moved back a pace, fear replaced by another emotion that elevated my heart rate.
“It’s just me,” he said again, coming forward.
He had broad shoulders and a well-muscled chest, just enough hair to run my fingers through, smooth skin highlighted by sunburn. The kilt rested on his hipbones, exposing his navel and flat abs. I moved away until I hit the wall. He came right up to me, his blue eyes pinning me in place. I could smell sweat and dirt on his skin.
“Just me,” he whispered.
His arm snaked around me to turn off the water. We stood like that a long moment, and I held my breath.
“You startled me,” I said.
“I know. I’m sorry. Good thing you didn’t take the shotgun.”
I let my forehead touch his collarbone, felt his heart beating as wildly as mine. My nipples strained against my tee-shirt to make contact with his bare chest.
“I nearly took your head off.” I looked up at him.
“You have a hell of a swing. Would have been ugly if you’d had the gun.”
His voice was low and slow, a soothing caress, but calm was far from what I felt. He leaned one hand against the wall near my right shoulder and rested his cheek against my hair.
“What were you doing sneaking up on me like that, anyway?” I asked, trying for nonchalance and failing. All at once, I felt stretched and enveloped, as if he were pulling me inside him.
“I didn’t mean to.” He kissed the bruise on my forehead. “I decided to leave the truck at the other end of the field and walk back. It’s a beautiful night. I was about to say something, but you were too quick.”
His breath tickled my ear, sending little tremors straight to my lower belly. If I didn’t get away from him, my personal volcano would erupt. I shifted to the left. He brought his other arm up on that side.
“How about a walk?” he asked. “We need to talk.”
“I need to get to bed.” But first I needed to smack myself for saying that.
A leisurely smile curled his lips. “Okay.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
I didn’t think that’s what he intended, either. But there were times like this in my past when I wouldn’t have hesitated. He was still married, and that was reason enough to pause. It was also the potential. If I started a relationship with this man, I wouldn’t be able to walk away from it without a backward glance like I usually did. That terrified me. More than anything, I didn’t want to screw it up.
But at the moment, I could scarcely breathe. After what happened with JJ, I needed more space then he’d been giving me.
“I feel a little trapped here.”
His face looked stricken, and he backed off. “You’re safe with me, Vi.”
“That’s debatable.” He gave me a narrow look, and I amended, “I mean, I know I’m safe, but…” Physically safe, yes, but emotionally? No.
He nudged my knee with one of his, moving my leg slightly to the side, closing the space between us again.
“I think I know exactly what you mean,” he said.
I was sure
he was safe, but I still felt scared. “I didn’t thank you for the other night,” I said. Not much of a delay tactic.
“For what?”
“For saving me.”
My hands had been flat to the wall behind me. I moved them to his lower ribs. Big mistake. I’d thought to ease him away a little. His nearness made it hard to think. But he simply felt too right, and his sharp intake of breath when I touched him discouraged any thought of separation.
Thinking was highly overrated.
“I should have been there sooner. If he ever goes near you again, I’ll kill him.”
I blinked and took a gulp of air at the force of his tone. That was as unambiguous as it gets.
“About that kilt—”
He prodded my legs wider. “What about it?”
“It doesn’t do much to…er—” He touched my neck with his tongue, and I forgot what I was saying.
“Doesn’t what?”
“Doesn’t hide what you’re feeling very well,” I whispered. What I was feeling was a rush of heat that would soon be out of my control. I wanted that heat, wanted him right then, and more, but…surely we should stop.
I felt him smile against my jaw. “I haven’t been trying to hide my feelings.” He brushed my lips with his.
I did push against him then, for all the good it did. It was like trying to move a horse that’d stepped on your foot. It was a half-hearted attempt on my part, anyway. I didn’t want him farther away, I wanted him closer.
He moved back so he could look at me. His eyes were no more than a couple of inches from mine. I could barely endure the intensity, but I couldn’t look away, either.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asked.
Now, how the hell was I supposed to answer that? Of course he was making me uncomfortable. He leaned a little farther back when I didn’t say anything. It didn’t help.
“Vi?”
“Yes,” I said. “And no. I’m not uncomfortable the way you think.”
I should have told him to stop, to go home. But, God help me, I didn’t want him to. What was the neon sign on my head flashing now? Stop? Go? Alternating between the two?
He watched me for a sec, probably trying to figure out which it was for himself. Must have been Go, because he came close again and made a yummy sound.
Candace Carrabus - Dreamhorse 01 - On the Buckle Page 18