Home at Last

by Shirlee McCoy

  “You can worry about that once you’re up in the saddle. I’ve got Chance ready for you, but you can ride the gray if you prefer.”

  “Is Chance the roan?”

  “Yes. I thought about saddling both mares, but Heavenly said your dad used to have a gelding you rode. Apparently, he was just like Chance. Gentle. Older.”

  “Like us?” she managed to joke even though her heart was slamming against her ribs and her stomach was churning.

  She did not want to do this.

  She didn’t.

  And she had a right to say so, to refuse the boots and the saddled gelding and the evening ride.

  “There’s not much gentle about me, and there’s nothing old about you,” he said, opening the front door and letting cool air drift inside. “And, it is a beautiful night. Why let fear keep you from enjoying it?”

  “I can enjoy it from the easy chair. Or the porch swing. Or the back stoop,” she responded, but she found herself slipping into the boots and following him outside.

  Fall was there. Skimming the surface of the air, and she lifted her face to it, closed her eyes.

  Saw Matt again.

  You deserved better than me.

  Her heart thudded, and her eyes flew open.

  Flynn was standing near the porch railing, arms crossed, cowboy hat shading his face.

  “We can ride another night,” he said. “How about a walk instead?”

  “No. Heavenly was right. It’s a good night for a ride.”

  “You don’t have to do this for your daughter,” he responded.

  “I have to do it for me,” she replied, forcing herself to walk down the stairs and around the side of the house. The barn was in the distance, dark red against the purple-blue sky, surrounded by fields of golden cornstalks and lush green fields. This was the patchwork quilt of color she remembered from her childhood. The hallmark of a working farm. The earmark of a well-tended property.

  That should make her happy, but it only made her sad.

  For all the lost years.

  All the time she’d stepped back and let Matt do his thing while the colorful world she loved faded into grays and browns and dusty tans.

  She might have forgotten a lot.

  But she remembered that.

  * * *

  Sunday looked like she was walking to the gallows, head down, feet dragging, arms hanging stiffly at her sides.

  Flynn almost told her again that she didn’t need to ride to enjoy the evening.

  Almost.

  But this was a part of a life she’d loved and recalled fondly before the accident. A part that she’d described so clearly and so exuberantly to her daughter, Heavenly could recall the details without being prodded.

  The roan gelding.

  The love of fall.

  Flynn would have liked to have seen Sunday when she was a kid, riding through the fields she helped her parents tend, her arms brown from the sun, her face glowing with health and happiness.

  He could, if he let himself, picture her as a teenager, galloping across the river, hair flying out behind her.

  Because, of course, she’d have been galloping.

  No easy trot for the Sunday who’d existed before she’d nearly lost her life.

  The horses were tied to a post outside the barn, heads down, munching straggly grass that grew in the shade. The gray mare and the roan were saddled and ready. Both were gentle, but the roan had easy manners that made riding him a pleasure. At fifteen, he was young enough to still be ridden hard and old enough to enjoy a peaceful walk.

  If Flynn were going to choose a mount for Sunday, he’d have chosen Chance. But he let her decide, leaning against a fence post as she approached the gray mare and scratched her between the ears.

  “She’s a pretty horse,” she said.

  “Yes. She is.”

  “And you look great riding her.”

  “I’m flattered you think so,” he responded, smiling as her cheeks went bright pink.

  “What I mean is, that you seem really comfortable on her, and you should probably ride her tonight. Because that makes sense.”

  “I kind of figured that was what you meant.”

  “Okay. Good, because I wasn’t saying you look great.” Her blush deepened. “Not that you don’t.”

  She stopped. Took a breath. Shook her head, her flyaway hair catching rays of sunlight.

  “I’m done now.” She pressed her lips together, and he laughed.

  “No need to be so disgusted with things, Sunday.”

  “I’m not used to opening my mouth and putting my foot in it.”

  “It wasn’t a foot. Maybe just a big toe.”

  “Well, whatever it was, it didn’t taste good.” She approached the roan and ran a hand over his black mane.

  He turned his head, nuzzling her cheek with his lips, probably looking for a handout, but Sunday seemed pleased. “You’re a nice old boy, aren’t you? I guess if I’m getting back in the saddle, you’re the one I should ride. I hope you don’t mind an off-balance jockey.”

  “He’s a steady fellow, and he’ll move as slowly as you want him to.”

  “Right. Well, we’ll see how it goes.” She reached for the saddle horn, her shirt riding up her side, revealing creamy flesh and white scars.

  Instead of pulling herself up, she leaned her forehead against Chance’s shoulder.

  “Sunday,” Flynn began.

  “Don’t. Okay? If you tell me I don’t have to do this again, I’ll decide you’re right, and then we’ll have to spend another evening trying to get me up in the saddle.” She glanced around, found the mounting block that Heavenly used, and pulled it into position.

  Then she grabbed the saddle horn again.

  This time she seemed ready. Muscles straining, she put her foot in the stirrup and tried to throw her leg over the horse’s back.

  He gave her a quick boost, and she was up, wobbling a little as she settled into the leather.

  He almost told her to be careful, but she wasn’t a child. She knew the dangers. She’d ridden before. Many times.

  And riding horses was like riding a bike.

  Once you learned, you never forgot.

  At least, that’s what Emmerson had always said.

  “Have you ever ridden a bicycle?” he asked casually as he adjusted the stirrups straps.

  “Yes.”

  “Since the accident?”

  Her soft laugh surprised him, and he looked up, realized she was smiling down at him, sunlight kissing her cheeks, humor dancing in her eyes. “You’re more afraid than I am, Flynn. Admit it.”

  “If you break your neck, your kids will have my head on a platter.”

  “What about your brothers?”

  “They’ll take care of the rest of me,” he admitted, and she laughed again.

  “Well, at least I’m not alone in my terror. It’s good to have company.”

  “It’ll be better once we’re out of the barnyard.” He hoped.

  He was more worried about her than he’d been about Heavenly or any of the other kids.

  But, then, they were kids.

  They fell. They got back up.

  If Sunday fell, she might shatter, all the pieces the doctors had so carefully knit together coming apart again.

  “I’m going to be fine,” she assured him, and he realized he’d been standing there too long, staring up at her.

  “Right.” He untied the reins and handed them to her, then mounted Whisper. The mare pranced sideways excitedly, and he reined her in, set the pace slow and steady. Out of the barnyard, across the grassy field. Trying not to glance back too often to assure himself that Sunday hadn’t slipped from the saddle or lost control of Chance.

  He’d been on the farm for over a month now, and he knew it well. He led Sunday through a small copse of trees and out into another field. Beyond it, the river flowed languidly, still low from the early summer drought. A shallow slope led to its banks, and the horses easily navigat
ed it, splashing through knee-high water and out onto the other side.

  They were close to Emmerson’s land now, and he could see the old farmhouse, boarded up and abandoned, the old oak that Emmerson had planted for his late wife, dropping early fall leaves onto the ground.

  There was no fence here. It was beyond the horse pasture Flynn had created, but several signs marked the boundaries of the land.

  FOR SALE. FIVE HUNDRED ACRES.

  He’d had no idea that Emmerson’s property was so large.

  “It’s a shame what his son let happen,” Sunday said, riding up beside him with a confidence that surprised him.

  She looked good, straight-backed and strong, some of the frailty that was obvious when she was walking hidden when she rode.

  “His son never cared about farming or equestrian pursuits. He wanted an easy life, and this”—he waved a hand at the overgrown land—“isn’t it.”

  “It’s a shame Emmerson didn’t leave the property to you,” she said, clicking softly and turning Chance to the right, heading toward the stables. Gray with age, they stood as a testimony to Emmerson’s skill. He’d built them himself, and even now, they stood sturdy and strong, the wood weathered but uncompromised.

  “He left me his life insurance policy,” he responded, following her lead across a crumbling asphalt driveway and into a weed-choked field.

  “Really?” She reined Chance in, stopping a few feet from the old stables. Her arms were shaking, and he thought the ride was taking more out of her than she would ever admit. It took stamina and strength to control a horse. Even a docile one.

  “Yes. And it was enough to get me and my brothers through college. Two of them, anyway,” he said, wishing he hadn’t brought that up. Not wanting to get her thinking about Matt or the past. “And for me to put a down payment on my ranch.”

  “That’s interesting.” She dismounted messily, legs bumping, arms grabbing. Chance didn’t even swish his tail or twitch his ear. Just turned his head and nuzzled her hair once she was finally down.

  “I worked for him for five years, and sometimes he couldn’t pay me. Heck, most of the time he couldn’t. I’d get ten dollars here and there. Maybe fifty in a week.”

  “What I meant,” she said, the reins in her hand as she walked to the stables, “is that it’s interesting that you had money to help your brothers. Matt told me that the reason he wasn’t going to college was because he didn’t have the funds, and he wasn’t going to ask your father.”

  Dang. He knew he shouldn’t have taken a walk down memory lane.

  “He probably didn’t want to ask me, either,” he muttered.

  “Don’t lie for him, Flynn.”

  He didn’t respond. Out of respect for her and for his brother.

  “I’ll take your silence to mean you offered him the money, and he didn’t accept.” She didn’t sound angry. She didn’t sound sad. She sounded worn out, exhausted, ready for all the crap that had come before to be out in the open so she could move on from it.

  “That was a long time ago, Sunday.”

  “And he was lying to me from the beginning. I’ve read through my journals so many times, and I’ve tried to tell myself that the suspicions I jotted down in them were unfounded.” She shrugged, pushing open a stall door and glancing inside. “It’s a shame no one has purchased this property. It’s a lovely piece of land. Quiet. With a gorgeous view.”

  “You’re changing the subject,” he pointed out. There was more that needed to be said. He was certain of that.

  “We’re supposed to be enjoying an evening ride,” she responded. “Not rehashing the past.”

  “Sometimes it helps to talk about things.”

  “Sometimes, it helps to be quiet.”

  She reached for the saddle horn, no mounting block in place, and somehow boosted herself up. By the time she did, she was breathing hard, her face pink from effort, sweat beading her brow.

  But she looked triumphant sitting there, the fading sun shimmering on her skin, the stables behind her. The world at her feet.

  If she’d been someone else, if he’d been someone else, he’d have leaned over and kissed her, because everything about her was natural and organic and sincere.

  He respected that, admired it, would have wanted to learn more about it and about her.

  If they were different people.

  But they weren’t, so he kept his distance, following as she and Chance led the way back to the river.

  Chapter Eleven

  First horse ride in years? Done.

  Sunday could check that off her list.

  And not only had she ridden a horse, she’d brushed him, put up his tack, and stabled him. Sure, it had taken her forever. Sure, Flynn had finished with Whisper twenty minutes ago. Sure, the barn was quiet and empty and she was alone, because everything took her so dang long to do. Her arms felt like jelly. Her legs were shaking.

  But she’d done it.

  All of it.

  Herself.

  And that felt good.

  Good enough to celebrate if she hadn’t been so tired, and if she’d actually had someone to celebrate with.

  She could call a friend, but most of them had families, and they all had lives, and, really, she couldn’t remember whom she’d been closest to before the accident.

  Or even if she’d been close to anyone.

  Aside from Beatrice, she couldn’t think of one person who stopped by recently just to see how she was doing or to offer a ride or a willing ear.

  And even Beatrice had things to do on Friday nights.

  Like dating a guy she’d met at a wedding a few weeks ago. She’d texted Sunday about it that morning, sending pictures of different outfits and asking for opinions.

  It seemed odd that they were the same age, and that most of the people Sunday knew from high school were either just getting married, or just starting families, or still swimming around in the dating pool.

  “And here I am, a widow with six kids.” She stepped out of Chance’s stall, offering him one last scratch on the nose before she latched the gate.

  He didn’t seem to mind that she fumbled with the latch or that she bumped the door a half dozen times while she was trying to get it to close properly.

  He hadn’t minded her sloppy riding, mounting, dismounting, or even the fact that she’d turned him in the wrong direction when it was time to go home.

  As Flynn had said, he was a gentle horse, sweet and docile and engaging with a funny way of nibbling ears every time they were close. She thought she could get used to riding him, and that maybe, in time, it wouldn’t seem so foreign to her.

  “Baby steps,” she whispered as she walked through the barn and out into the yard. The sun had just set, the last rays of it glinting above the mountains. To the east, storm clouds were moving in, but to the west, the sky was indigo blue and calm.

  She still had time before the rain came, and she was just wound up enough from the ride to think a walk might be nice.

  The orchard wasn’t far, and the apples were beginning to ripen. Soon, there’d be people combing through the branches, filling baskets with ripe fruit, paying for the privilege and, hopefully, having a blast while they were doing it.

  She was looking forward to the noisy families and happy kids. To the sweet sound of laughter drifting across the farm. The place had been dead for many years, and it was coming back to life again.

  Too late for Matt to see it.

  Not that he’d cared.

  And that was probably the hardest part. Knowing that the thing she’d loved so much was the thing he could have easily done without.

  She walked through the barnyard, dusky silence enveloping her, the dream in her mind again. The lights. The knowing that it was going to happen. That they were going to be hit head-on, and that Matt would die. That everything they had been and might have been would end on the road just minutes after their tenth anniversary dinner.

  If she’d known, would she have done thi
ngs differently?

  Would she have traveled the world with him? Given up the farm to go to Africa and Asia and Europe? Forgotten about all the kids she’d wanted to have and turned her love more fully on Matt?

  Would that have kept him closer?

  Would it have kept him home?

  She couldn’t know the answers to those questions. Not really, but she wanted them, because she wanted a reason for what he’d done. For the dying farm he’d left behind, the broken relationship, the women living in other places who might still wonder what had happened to him.

  Or maybe they knew.

  It’s possible they’d tried to contact him and reached one of his brothers, or that they’d read about the accident on the news. From what Sunday had been told, it had made national news because the truck driver who’d hit them was working on a suspended license.

  Suspended because of three previous DUIs.

  If the company he drove for had bothered checking, they’d have known.

  And Matt might still be alive while the farm continued to die, and Sunday paced the house at night, wondering when he’d come home.

  She shoved the memory away, the sharp, clear pictures of herself, pacing through the hall, glancing at the clock, peeking out the window.

  Waiting and waiting.

  And suddenly, she wasn’t walking any longer, strolling to the orchard to enjoy the remainder of the evening light. She was running, or trying. Tripping over gnarled roots, falling, getting up again. Through the orchard resplendent in fading-summer light.

  She tripped again, and this time, went down so hard she should have stayed down. It would have been the smart thing to do, to lie there in the twilight catching her breath and letting her thoughts fade with the daylight.

  The thing was, she’d always been intelligent, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever been smart. Not in a way that mattered. In a way that kept farms going and relationships strong.

  She’d memorized a million facts and juggled a half dozen schedules and kept the farm limping along, but she hadn’t put her foot down and told Matt he needed to stay home.

  Although, that one, she wasn’t sure about. Maybe, at the end, she had put her foot down.

  She could remember the accident, and the dinner, but she couldn’t remember the words they’d spoken as they’d sat across the table from each other. Lifetime friends who’s suddenly seemed like strangers.