A fresh start—for both of them

As a kid from a shattered family, Kathy Harris couldn’t wait to get out of Harmony Valley. Yet here she is, back home, determined to rebuild her life and regain her young son’s trust. But she doesn’t expect to work miracles—unlike Dylan O’Brien, the enigmatic cowboy rumored to be a healer of misfit horses.

As they work to save an injured colt, Kathy starts to believe in a future with Dylan that she never thought possible. But one of Kathy’s new rules is no more secrets…and Dylan has a big one. One that could destroy the life he and Kathy are building together.

Dylan took his eyes off the mare to meet Kathy’s gaze.

There was an intensity in his eyes she hadn’t experienced in a long time, as if he could see inside her soul, as if he wanted to know her secrets. “Sugar is misunderstood. Same as you.” That grin. It spun a thread that spanned between them. One that beckoned: trust me.

An alarm rang through her veins.

Kathy stepped back, breaking the connection, denying the call. She didn’t let men get close. Besides, what decent man would want to get close to a woman like her? “I don’t date.”

Dylan brought Sugar to a halt with a slight flip of the lead and gave Kathy his full attention.

If she’d thought his gaze was intent before, she’d been wrong.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Harmony Valley!

Things aren’t as harmonious here as they once were. Jobs have dried up, and almost everyone under the age of sixty has moved away in the past ten years, leaving the population...well, rather gray-haired and peaceful.

But things are changing since three hometown boys made good. They’ve returned home, started a winery, and now others are moving back, such as Kathy Harris, Flynn’s sister who was first introduced in Summer Kisses (Book 2).

Horse whisperer Dylan O’Brien used to be known as a miracle worker. That was before a stallion he was working with went berserk and nearly killed someone. Now he’s using rescued horses to help people deal with issues of confidence, stress and addiction. This isn’t the environment his ex-wife wants his son to be raised in. But it’s the path Dylan feels he must take to make peace with his past.

I hope you enjoy Kathy and Dylan’s journey, as well as the other romances in the Harmony Valley series. I love to hear from readers. Check my website to learn more about upcoming books, sign up for email book announcements (and I’ll send you a free read), or chat with me on Facebook (MelindaCurtisAuthor) or Twitter (MelCurtisAuthor) to hear about my latest giveaways.

Melinda Curtis

MelindaCurtis.com

Time for Love

USA TODAY bestselling author

Melinda Curtis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Award-winning, USA TODAY bestselling author MELINDA CURTIS lives in California’s arid central valley with her husband, an ancient Labrador and a “Shorkie” puppy. Because their three kids are all in college (bad planning on their part), you’re more likely to see pictures of Melinda’s dogs on social media than her kids (the kids appreciate this).

Melinda enjoys putting humor into her stories, because that’s how she approaches life. She writes sweet contemporary romances as Melinda Curtis (Brenda Novak says of Season of Change: “Found a place on my keeper shelf.”), and fun, steamy reads as Mel Curtis (Jayne Ann Krentz says of Cora Rules: “Wonderfully entertaining.”).

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Nothing in my life would be possible without the love and support of my immediate family, extended family and close friends. A special thank-you to my husband of thirty years for putting up with me, even when I wanted to bring home a puppy to our now empty nest.

To Misty, a beautiful Appaloosa mare with a mind of her own. She was the inspiration behind Sugar Lips, and the love of my life when I was a girl.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN KATHY HARRIS was a teenager, she’d dreamed of being a fashion designer, a professional basketball player and an airline pilot—anything to get out of her small hometown.

So much for dreams.

She shoveled another pile of manure into the wheelbarrow.

She was back in Harmony Valley, the smallest of small towns in the remotest of remote corners of Sonoma County, California.

She made a clucking noise with her tongue and gave Sugar Lips a gentle shove in her chestnut haunches. The former racehorse turned brood mare nickered softly and ambled to the other corner of the paddock. Kathy scooped her manure-filled shovel again, beginning to feel warm in her jacket despite the brisk breeze that had the last reddish-gold leaves of fall swirling around her feet.

“You must be Kathy.” An unfamiliar, masculine voice.

Kathy looked toward the veterinary clinic where she worked, trying to identify the source, but the afternoon sun was in her eyes and all she could see was a silhouette of a man—tall, broad-shouldered, a baseball cap on his head.

“I’m Dylan.” His voice was smooth as molasses, sweet as honey to a fly. It drew her closer. “I’m here to help with the horses. Dr. Jamero said you’d be back here.”

Dr. Gage Jamero was Kathy’s boss. He ran a small-animal clinic for the locals and a horse obstetrics unit at the rear of the property. Kathy hadn’t seen Gage in action yet, but she imagined him to be an equestrian midwife, high-strung mares being his specialty, although his tales of Sugar Lips hadn’t lived up to her reputation. The mare may have been a hellcat during her first pregnancy, but most of the time she was more like a tired kitten.

He’d hired Kathy despite her just getting out of rehab. She kept the animals, big and small, fed and watered, and cleaned the clinic, inside and out. Out being her preference. That was where the horses were and where she felt she could breathe.

The fifteen-hundred-pound kitten nudged Kathy forward, causing her to drop the shovel. “Knock it off, Sugar.”

Dylan, whose face she still couldn’t make out with the sun in her eyes, laughed. It was a friendly laugh. An I-don’t-know-you’re-an-alcoholic laugh. Whoever Dylan was, Kathy dreaded telling him the truth, as she did with anyone. And she was blunt about the truth nowadays. She’d hid her addiction too long. She hid very little lately, only her most painful of secrets.

Kathy hefted the shovel and walked toward Dylan. The mare trailed behind her. They both stopped in the shadow of a sixty-foot-tall eucalyptus tree near the paddock gate. Its silver-green leaves rustled like tissue paper in a gift box on Christmas morning.

Dylan’s appearance didn’t match his voice or his laugh. His silhouette was deceptive, too. Who’d seen those cowboy boots coming? Broad shoulders, yeah, but he was linebacker-solid beneath that navy vest jacket and those blue flannel sleeves. His laugh might have been friendly, but his scrutiny of her was not. A fringe of soft brown hair beneath his red ball cap contrasted with sharp gray eyes, a strong nose that looked as if it’d been broken at least once and a firm slash of a mouth.

Someone had already told him who she was—what she was.

She swallowed back the sudden bitterness in her throat, tugged off a work glove and extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Kathy, and I’m an alcoholic. Four months sober.”

She expected his mouth to turn down. She expected his eyes to drift away from hers. Instead, he smiled. The smile transformed his face from intimidating to accepting to handsome. “Good to meet you, Kathy.” His grip was warm and firm, almost too firm.

She retrieved her hand, resisting the urge to shake the bones back into place. “Are you delivering another mare to us? Gage didn’t tell me we were expecting a new guest.” The veterinary clinic made most of its money from their high-end racehorse clientele.

Dylan hooked his arms over the metal paddock rail, still smiling at her. “No, I didn’t bring any horses. I came to assess the ones here and work with them a few days a week. If things work out.”

Suddenly, she remembered Gage mentioning him. “Oh, shoot. You’re the miracle worker.”

“Horse trainer,” he corrected, gaze dropping to his scuffed and stained cowboy boots.

Sugar rubbed her long, elegant chin back and forth over Kathy’s shoulder. Kathy resisted the urge to check for slobber streaks on her pink jacket. “Go on, have your fun, Sugar. Your spa days are over. This man’s going to save Chance and put you through your paces.”

Sugar blew a raspberry at Dylan.

“Never mind her.” Kathy patted Sugar’s cheek. “She’s a tease.”

Dylan blew a raspberry of his own, smiling not at Kathy but at the horse. The mare sniffed the brisk air, then stretched her head toward Dylan, bumping Kathy out of the way.

“Careful,” Kathy warned Dylan as Sugar gummed the navy flannel sleeve of his shirt. “Sugar prides herself on being unpredictable.” She’d already chewed the finger off one of Kathy’s gloves. Good thing Kathy’s finger hadn’t been in it at the time. “Her papers say she’s a Thoroughbred, but I think she’s part mule.”

“It’s okay. She and I understand each other.” Dylan scratched beneath the crown of Sugar’s halter. “Dr. Jamero is busy with a patient. He said you could show me around.”

“Of course. You’ll be wanting to see Chance.” Kathy put the shovel into the wheelbarrow and pushed it outside the paddock, thanking Dylan for opening and closing the gate. “We’ve got two pregnant mares stabled, plus Sugar and her colt, Chance. We have room for eight horses back here, pregnant or otherwise, and expect to be booked up come spring.”

Dylan walked with a slight limp, but with a gracefulness that reminded her of Sugar when she trotted around the paddock. Another contradiction in a man so big and muscular.

The stables were up a gentle incline from the clinic. The walk was quiet except for their cowboy boots on pavement. Dylan stopped in the stable’s entry and breathed in deeply, as if reveling in the smells of home. It smelled of hay and manure. Kathy was growing used to those aromas, but she still spritzed herself with perfume every morning.

“I thought Dr. Jamero only took in mares ready to deliver,” he said.

“Chance is Sugar’s.” When Dylan didn’t say anything, Kathy’s suspicion sensor went off—like a finger tap-tap-tapping her temple. She cast a sideways glance his way. “Didn’t Gage tell you about Chance?”

Dylan shot her a quick look, one eyebrow quirked, as if to say, What? You doubt me? “I’m here to evaluate. I like to see for myself.”

Two equine heads poked over stall doors.

“This is Trixie.” Kathy pointed to the tall gray mare who nickered a welcome. “And that’s Isabo.” A tired-looking bay who seemed too long in the tooth to be having babies. She stretched her nose toward Kathy.

“They like you.” Dylan sounded surprised.

His reaction pressed her pause button. Was it surprising because she was an alcoholic? A woman? Or...

There was a loud thud in one of the rear stalls.

“That would be Chance.” Kathy hurried to the stall. “I hear you, baby.” She slipped inside, moving slowly, surveying the stitches and bandages on the chestnut colt’s lower neck and chest. He pranced nervously through the straw, eyeing Kathy as if he’d never seen her before. The stitches beneath his round cheek were oozing and needed attention. “What’s up with you, baby? Are you lonely?”

Despite the long gashes, Chance was beautiful. He was only a few months old, his head barely reached Kathy’s, and yet he held himself with the proud dignity of a long line of racing Thoroughbreds.

Chance froze, staring at the stall door. A moment later, he began kicking, striking out at anything within range—imaginary foes, walls, Kathy.

A large hand gripped Kathy’s shoulder and yanked her out of the stall.

“Let me go. I can calm him down.” Kathy struggled to free herself as Dylan dragged her back several feet.

In the paddock outside, Sugar whinnied.

“You’re not going back in there.” Dylan’s voice became clipped and seemed to harden until his words hit her like gravel spitting from beneath a semi’s tires. “That. Colt’s. A. Killer.”

Kathy twisted free of his hold. “That colt is why you’re here.” She was shaking. Shaking with anger and fear and adrenaline. She was shaking and it wasn’t because she needed a drink. She and Chance had a lot in common—social handicaps. He by his appearance and outbursts. She by her reputation as a drinker.

She tugged Dylan out of Chance’s line of sight. Sugar trotted back and forth along the paddock fence.

“I heard about this colt, but not from Gage.” Dylan raised his voice to be heard above the huffing and hoof strikes Chance was making. “Mountain-lion attack.”

Kathy nodded. “Since the drought, they’ve been coming closer to civilization looking for food. Chance and Sugar were in a remote pasture at Far Turn Farms. They moved them here a few weeks ago.” She pitched her voice high, as if she was talking to a baby, taking a few steps back until Chance could see her again. “He’s just a scared lamb.”

At the sight of her and the sound of her voice, Chance’s outburst seemed to lose some steam, just like when her son, Truman, would throw a tantrum as a toddler. A bit of gentle reassurance and everything would be okay.

“He’s not a lamb. He’s nearly as large as you are.” Dylan’s face was set in hard, disapproving planes, a cookie cutter of most people’s reaction to her past mistakes. She didn’t want to admit how disappointing it was to see that familiar expression on his face, especially since she’d just met the man. “I’ve seen that look before. Don’t go in there. He’s a lost cause.”

The stall latch was cold beneath her fingers. “That’s what some people say about me.”

* * *

THE COLT WAS a deal-breaker.

“Your sister’s not what I expected based on what you told me,” Dylan O’Brien said an hour later to his prospective employer, Flynn Harris. “Kathy’s grounded and honest. You don’t need me.” The words knotted Dylan’s insides. Flynn’s paycheck would help get him back on track. He’d met recovering alcoholics in much worse shape than Kathy. Sure, she might benefit from a session or two with him. But the colt...

“I disagree.” The resemblance between Kathy and her brother was strong. The same straight nose. The same fair skin and keen blue eyes. Although where Kathy’s hair was a fiery red, Flynn’s was a burnished red-brown. “My sister’s good at hiding stress. She has a lot on her plate right now—a new job, reestablishing a relationship with her son, plans to take college courses online—and she wants to move into a place of her own.” Flynn’s voice was wound tighter than a fresh spool of kite string. “Dr. O’Brien...”

“I’m not a psychiatrist.” Best get that out in the open straightaway. “And I’m not a licensed therapist, either. I’m just a guy who’s good with horses and people. Besides, my clients usually come to me.” To Redemption Ranch, where a combination of straight talk and working with horses helped give them confidence to face life’s challenges without alcohol.

Was he really talking Flynn out of a paycheck?

With hefty child-support payments, a large mortgage and a near-empty bank account, Dylan couldn’t afford to turn down work. But the colt made it necessary. Those eyes. They doubled the knots in his already knotted insides.

They stood on a winding road on Parish Hill. Harmony Valley stretched beneath them with grid-like streets, small slanted roofs and tall mature evergreens, interspersed with trees that were losing their leaves for the winter and neat rows of grapevines. The early-November breeze had more force and nip to it up on the hill. Dylan shoved his hands into his vest-jacket pockets.

A white truck with a dented fender pulled up behind Flynn’s.

“That’s Gage,” Flynn said.

Dr. Gage Jamero got out. He was taller than Dylan, but just as direct. “Well, what did you think of the colt?”

“The colt neither of you told me about?” A sour taste bubbled from Dylan’s knotted stomach into his throat. Flynn had mentioned using the horses at the clinic only as a way to disguise Dylan’s visits with Kathy. “I didn’t like the look of him.”

Gage took Dylan’s measure. His lip curled. “Bandaged and stitched up, you’d look like Frankenstein, too. But he’s not a monster.”

“He lashes out like one.” Even as he said the words, Dylan realized that wasn’t quite fair. The colt could’ve easily hurt Kathy. It hadn’t. He’d waited outside the stall until she’d come out safely the second time. But all he could think of was how the feral look in the colt’s eyes was similar to that of one hulking, raging black stallion. He shifted his stance, taking most of the weight off his right leg.

“Sorry, Gage, but first and foremost, Dylan’s here for Kathy.” Flynn’s fortune might be new, made in the dot-com world, but his work boots showed serious wear and he seemed to sincerely care about his sister, no matter how misplaced his efforts were. “She’s been in and out of rehab twice since June. My wife, Becca, and I have been helping, but it’s not enough.” Flynn’s words slowed. “Kathy used to laugh. I never hear her laugh anymore. She needs a sober companion and we hear you’re doing great things with alcoholics at your ranch. Please.”

“Sober companions are usually with their client 24/7.” Dylan bit back a definitive turndown. He always had trouble walking away from those in need—horse or human. He’d admired Kathy’s honesty and her guts. But the colt... “I can only get up for an hour or two each day. I won’t be much help if I’m not with Kathy when she’s hit with her biggest stress inducers. And as for the colt...”

“You’re afraid,” Gage said baldly. “I’d heard...”

“If you’ve heard about Phantom—” and what horse person in Sonoma County hadn’t, since he’d almost killed a vet technician under Dylan’s watch? “—you know that horses are dangerous.” Dylan’s hands fisted in his jacket pockets. “But I’ve heard of you, too.” The young vet had built a reputation for working with high-strung pregnant mares. “And you know that some horses are redeemable and others...”

A smile took hold of Gage’s features, one that mocked the possibility that Phantom could be redeemed. “How’s that knee of yours?”

“About the same as your ribs.” Dylan’s volley unhinged Gage’s expression. Gossip worked both ways. Recently, a nasty mare had sent Gage flying into a wall. Too many similar hard knocks must have scrambled the vet’s brain for him to agree to this cockamamy plan of Flynn’s.

Their verbal jabs, uncomfortable and unkind, echoed between them like a bell ending a fight. Silence fell on the hill. Or maybe it was the bell starting another round, because Gage came back swinging. “Chance didn’t let you near him, did he?”

Flynn stepped between the two men. “That’s enough. We’re here to help one another.”

The vet rubbed a hand through the tuft of black hair already askew on his forehead. “Yeah, Flynn’s right. We need one another. Chance is still young enough to save.” The unspoken comment being Phantom wasn’t.

Dylan’s fisted hands pressed deeper into his pockets. Both men scrutinized him, asking without verbalizing, Are you the one? The one who can make things right? Dylan had once believed his own hype—that he was a miracle worker when it came to horses.

Oh, yeah. Dylan’s father was having a good laugh in whatever part of the afterlife he’d been sent to.

Flynn sighed, gazing back over the valley. “So Kathy showed no warning signs? Not even a hint of weakness that she’s in danger of relapsing?”

Dylan didn’t immediately respond. A red-tailed hawk flew overhead, its mournful cry an echo of Kathy’s shocking sentiment—some people considered her a lost cause. Why?

Flynn pounced on Dylan’s hesitation. “You did sense something.” He went into older-brother protective mode. His chest thrust out and his voice railed at the clouds. “Don’t toy with me. Name your terms.”

“You can’t keep her from backsliding.” Dylan was far too experienced with trying exactly that to pretend different. “Only Kathy can do that.”

Flynn took a step toward him, eyes narrowing. “But you can make sure she gets the support she needs.”

“Under what pretext? A horse trainer? She doesn’t own any of the horses at the clinic. There’s no legitimate reason for me to spend time with her.” Dylan resettled his baseball cap and his standards. “I don’t deceive my clients. That’s why they trust me. I give it to them straight up.”

“You can’t tell Kathy who you are. She hates it when I meddle in her personal life.” Flynn ran his fingers through his short hair. “That’s why having Gage hire you to work with the colt is a perfect alibi for you to interact with her.”

“For the record,” Gage said, “I’d prefer Kathy knew what you do, Dylan, and why you’re here.” Maybe the vet hadn’t been knocked around so much, after all.

Flynn fisted his key fob. “I’ll double your normal fee in exchange for your silence.” His offer was so unexpected, so overwhelming, so blatantly ensnaring, that it sucked the air from the mountain.

Take the money.

Dylan’s mouth hung open, his principles leaking like drool from a Saint Bernard’s jowls. Such a paycheck would go a long way toward making everything all better. And yet Kathy’s clear blue eyes came to mind, along with her gut-wrenching honesty. A shaft of guilt, barbed and sharp, lodged itself in his chest. She’d hate Dylan for being a man who could be bought.

Take the money.

“A simple search online and she’ll know the truth,” Dylan said, mouth dry.

“I’m betting she won’t look you up.” Flynn’s eyes reflected the guilt Dylan was feeling. “She asked about a sober companion, but then talked herself out of it. Addiction runs in our family. Our mom.” His voice didn’t trail off; it shut off. And it took Flynn a moment to get it working again. “That’s why I don’t want Kathy to do this on her own.”

The sour taste was back, along with the crimping knots in his gut. Children of alcoholics had a higher probability of having emotional problems. Add in an addiction of their own, and their risk of relapsing was higher than average.

“Do we have a deal, O’Brien?” Flynn extended his hand. “If not for me, then for her young son. If Kathy relapses, Truman may never open up to her again.”

The money. Kathy’s opinion of herself. The risks she took with the colt. An image of his own young son’s face, hopeful and trusting, came to mind.

“Please help me help her,” Flynn added. “In secret. At least through the holidays.” A handful of weeks away.

Take the money.

Dylan knew he’d regret this. The lies. The deception. The unanswered questions. He accepted the assignment anyway, with a handshake and a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.

CHAPTER TWO

“I’M HOME.” KATHY entered the front door, shedding her pink jacket.

No one greeted her. The house smelled of savory pot roast steeped in bittersweet memories.

Her grandfather had passed away four months ago, but memorabilia from his military career still hung on the living room wall—medals, pictures, certificates of service—along with black-and-white wedding photos and baby pictures. Add in the 1970s furniture and color scheme, and everything looked the same as when he’d been alive, except there was no dust, no newspaper piles, no faint smell of hair tonic. Flynn said he’d update the place once he was done grieving. Until then, the house looked the same as it had twenty years ago.

It’d been almost two decades since their mother left them here, since Kathy had sat in Grandpa Ed’s lap while he braided her hair (a skill he’d learned in the military for making horses presentable). He’d told her she was going to be just like all the other girls in Harmony Valley. But she was different.

She was surprised every time she opened the pantry and discovered it was full. She was wary of strangers, even smiling ones in town. And her heart stuttered every time she saw a woman with red hair or heard a female with a smoker’s throaty laugh.

She’d stayed close to home in those early years, under the watchful eye of her grandfather. Eventually, when her mother didn’t come back and Kathy reached her teens, she felt confident enough to push the small-town limits that had kept her safe for so long.

Kathy missed Grandpa Ed’s booming voice as he chastised her teenage self for wearing skirts that were too short. She missed his barked rules and pieces of advice, however unwanted they’d been at the time. She could still feel his strong arms around her when she had come home after only a few months at college, alone, an emotional wreck and pregnant. He’d talked her into keeping Truman. It’d been the best decision of her life.

Until the text messages started...

The screen door banged behind her. Abby, her son’s small, mostly black Australian shepherd, trotted over to greet Kathy.

“It’s you,” Truman said flatly, standing in the foyer. He was eight, but he might just as well have been eighteen for all his sullenness. Everything about him was dirt smudged and disheveled—from his unzipped blue jacket, slightly askew on his thin shoulders, to his sneakers, laces dangling, the color of spent earthworms. “I thought you were Uncle Flynn.”

Her chest felt cavernous, as if somewhere along her alcohol-blazed trail the heart she’d given to her little boy had been lost. “I brought you a chocolate bar.” When he was younger and she’d disappointed him, she would bring him gifts and sweets, and he would fling his arms around her as if she had never failed him. Today she’d had Phil, the elderly town barber, go in and buy the bar for her at El Rosal. Kathy pulled it from her jacket pocket, distressed to find the dark chocolate soft beneath her fingers.

Without looking at her, Truman turned up his nose. “I don’t eat treats before dinner. Aunt Becca says I can only have one treat a day, and I already had cookies.”

Kathy remembered baking cookies with Truman last Christmas in this kitchen. He’d stood on a stool, mixing the dough, chattering a mile a minute. When they slid the cookies in the oven, Truman had hugged her tight and then run to play checkers with Grandpa Ed. If only she’d known how fragile their bond was, she wouldn’t ever have let him go.

“How about a hug?” Kathy dropped the candy onto the low wooden coffee table and extended her arms, knowing they’d remain empty, but still stubbornly hopeful. So very hopeful. “Your mom’s had a long day.”

“I hug you every night at bedtime, like I’m supposed to.” So young to be able to wound her so deeply.

Kathy couldn’t seem to draw a breath.

Abby sat quietly in front of her, soft eyes patient for affection. She’d been Becca’s dog until last summer, when Kathy went into rehab and Truman moved in here. Kathy reached in her pocket for a doggy treat. Presents worked great with animals. With her son? Not so much. Not anymore.

Truman walked past Kathy to the kitchen. “Where’s Aunt Becca and Uncle Flynn?”

“I don’t know,” Kathy said. “I smell dinner, though. We should check to make sure it doesn’t burn.”

He shook his ginger-haired head. “Becca never burns anything.” Another accusation. Another oxygen-robbed moment.

Unlike her sister-in-law, Kathy was a horrible cook. Granted, in the past two years she’d been operating the stove under the influence, but she was convinced you either had the cooking gene or you didn’t. The more Becca’s perfection contrasted against Kathy’s flaws, the stronger Kathy’s desire to get a place of her own became. All she needed was rent money—and Truman by her side.

Becca hurried down the hall toward them, looking put-together-cute in yoga pants and a thin green sweater. For sure, she didn’t smell of manure and disinfectant. “I didn’t hear you two come in. I was on the phone checking on a client.” Saint Becca, the town’s caregiver to the elderly. She kissed the top of Truman’s head.

Kathy’s ears filled with a rushing noise, much like the time she’d got caught by a submerged branch at the bend in the Harmony Valley River and nearly drowned. She turned away.

“Did you meet Felix’s new litter of kittens?” Becca asked Truman.

Kathy couldn’t resist turning back.

Truman beamed. He used to smile at Kathy like that, before she’d lost control of the drinking. “I also saw Bea’s baby goats. She calls them kids.” He giggled.

“I’m going to wash up.” Kathy fled down the hallway. She locked herself in the bathroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror. What an afternoon. A confrontation with a handsome, heartless stranger, followed by another example of how she’d been replaced in Truman’s life.

She needed...something. She didn’t want a drink. Alcohol didn’t solve anything. But she wanted her son to look up to her and love her, like he used to. Like he did to Becca. She wanted them to be a family again, to have a bond with her son that no one could break. If only he would agree to spend time with her. Alone time. Together time. Precious time. He’d see she was the mother he’d once loved wholeheartedly.

The shower beckoned. She knew the family wouldn’t hold dinner for her. She could eat alone. But that was the coward’s way out. And her grandfather hadn’t raised any cowards. He’d passed on words of wisdom to her and Flynn after their mother left them here for good—pep talks he’d most likely used on the military men who’d reported to him during his career.

She met her gaze in the mirror. “Don’t let life push you around. You can win back Truman’s love and trust.”

She could.

The more often she said it, the better chance she had of believing it.

* * *

FEAR DID AWFUL things to a man. It drained Dylan of energy and hope, and now of morals.

His old man would have said he’d let a horse best him. And then he’d have followed that up with a besting of his own. His dad’s bloodshot eyes had been wilder and more menacing than any horse.

Still thinking of the promises he’d made in Harmony Valley, Dylan drove down Redemption Ranch’s thinly graveled, potholed driveway, illuminated only by his headlights. A small car turned in behind him. He parked in front of his paint-peeling, two-story clapboard house. Motion-activated lights flipped on—one from the front porch, one over the separate garage and one near the corner of the double row of stables. They illuminated his crabgrass and scraggly shrubbery.

Home, sweet home.

Phantom let out a shrill whinny, more a warning than a welcome.

Dylan leaned against the dented tailgate, pushing all his concerns—for the black stallion, Kathy and a damaged colt—to the side.

“Daddy!” A brown-haired, stubby-legged five-year-old boy tumbled out of the backseat as soon as his mother unbuckled him. Zach wrapped his wiry arms around Dylan’s legs. “I want a pony ride.”

Eileen stood at the car, arms crossed, a frown on her face. He’d considered her kind and beautiful once—short wavy brown hair, whiskey-colored eyes and a button nose. And she had once loved him, back when she’d considered Dylan the man who hung the moon, the horse miracle worker whom everyone wanted to hire. “Cutting it close, Dylan?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Dylan kept his voice chipper for his kid’s sake. He hadn’t enjoyed his parents’ fights when he was a boy—he refused to put his own son through the same. “I had a meeting run over.” He’d stayed too long in Harmony Valley, stopped at the bank and then run into the feed store for a bag of oats.

“You’re lucky.” Eileen slammed the rear car door. “We’re late.”

“I’ll have him home on time.” Traffic permitting. The highway between Cloverdale and Santa Rosa was often crowded and slow-moving.

“You’ve let the Double R go,” Eileen said coldly, before getting back in her car and driving away, puffs of dust a trail of annoyance in her wake. They’d divorced a few years ago. She’d wanted him to get over himself and find a “real job,” one with nine-to-five hours and generous benefits. Then she’d met deep-pockets Bob and filed for divorce.

“Dad.” Zach squeezed his legs. “I already had dinner. I’m ready to race.”

“Come on, sport. Let’s saddle Peaches.” Dylan took his son’s small hand and led him to the tack room, ignoring the end-of-the-day ache in his knee.

Barry, the former jockey turned caretaker, waved at them from his apartment window above the garage.

Zach leapfrogged forward. “Was Peaches a racehorse?”

If only Dylan had a dollar for each time Zach asked him this. “Peaches? She prefers to walk regally in the arena.” Plod along happily was more like it.

An owl hooted in an oak tree. A white barn cat with a crooked tail followed them. Horses stretched their graceful necks between stall bars, sniffing, nickering and stomping in greeting—Sam, a former jumper who balked at fences; Rickshaw, a half-blind bay; Marty, a headstrong trail horse; and so on down the line. Horses that were untrainable or unlovable—at least in their last owners’ eyes.

“Peaches is a good racehorse.” Zach defended his faithful steed, running ahead as if he’d been born wearing cowboy boots. “I could race her.” He opened the tack room door in the middle of the stable aisle.

Zach couldn’t kick that pony into a trot if he wore spurs and shot off fireworks, but Dylan wasn’t telling his son that. He followed Zach in, took Peaches’s bridle from its hook, then hefted her small saddle and blanket.

“Where was Peaches when Phantom kicked you?” Next Zach hurried toward the farthest stall on the end. The last stall had signs posted—Danger! Stay Back! “If Phantom ever came after me, I’d just hop on Peaches and race away.”

In the last stall, a shrill whinny pierced the air. The other horses drew back into their stalls.

Startled, Zach searched the gathering gloom as if expecting the black stallion to charge out of the shadows. Dylan kept walking, reminded of the courageous way Kathy had entered the colt’s stall today. But his knee throbbed a warning and Dylan kept his eyes on the bars over the stall windows where Phantom was stabled.

“Phantom is mean,” Zach said in a hushed voice.

“He’s just a horse.” A large brute of a horse with incredible speed and the bloodlines of Thoroughbred royalty in his veins. “You know, even if you try to be careful, accidents happen.”

“He’s mean.” Zach’s brown hair was crisply cut and gelled into place, just the way Eileen liked it. Shifting Peaches’s gear in his arms, Dylan ruffled Zach’s hair, eliciting a giggle from his son.

Zach, with his ready smile and buoyant attitude, was the balm to Dylan’s setbacks. With his son in his life, Dylan could bear any burden and ride out any storm. Financial worries would be weathered. Physical setbacks overcome. Shattered dreams rebuilt. Maybe even his faith in a horse could be restored given time.

Peaches loved Zach and greeted him when he opened the stall door by nudging his pressed jeans pockets. Peaches was an ancient palomino Shetland pony, formerly a mascot at Far Turn Farms.

Giggling, Zach pulled out some baby carrots from one pocket and held them in the flat of his hand. “She knows I have treats.”

Peaches lipped them from his little palm while Dylan saddled her. It took only a few more minutes to slip her bridle on, hoist Zach into the saddle and hand his son the reins.

It was full-on dark now. And quiet. Quiet enough that Dylan imagined he heard Phantom’s huff of disgust as he led Peaches toward the arena. He flipped the lights on, chasing away the bogeyman. Then he opened the gate and set the pair free.

Peaches, per her usual modus operandi, walked slowly toward the fence and began her circuit. Small puffs of dirt rose from each footfall.

“Dad. Dad. Daddy.” Zach twisted in the saddle. His grin was so bright it could have lit the arena. Forget the arena—it sparked a feeling of joy in Dylan’s chest that chased away the day’s concerns. “Say it, Daddy. Say it.”

Dylan grinned. “Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen. The Cloverdale Derby is about to begin.” Dylan latched the gate. “Peaches and her jockey, Zach O’Brien, are the odds-on favorite tonight. And—” he drew out the word as he climbed atop the highest rung on the arena fence “—they’re off. It’s Peaches in the lead.”

With a whoop, Zach leaned over the pony’s golden neck and jogged the reins as if they were galloping. “Come on, Peaches. You can do it.”

The pony continued plodding along.

“Keep going, Dad.”

Dylan could go on like this forever. “They’re heading into the first turn with Peaches ahead.”

* * *

LATER THAT NIGHT as Dylan pulled into the driveway of Eileen’s prestigious home in her prestigious neighborhood in Santa Rosa, Zach was fast asleep in his car seat in the rear of the truck. Eileen’s outdoor lighting cast a glow over the perfectly manicured yard, limelighting verdant shrubs and small tufts of autumn color.

Eileen and her husband, Bob, came outside to meet them. They wore matching red plaid flannel pajama pants, green T-shirts (his: Santa; hers: Mrs. Claus) and red suede slippers. Cute, but not exactly Dylan’s thing. Not to mention, Thanksgiving was still weeks away—never mind Christmas.

“I expected you an hour ago.” Eileen’s voice was as hot and toxic as a smoking muffler. So much for her ho-ho-ho. “You didn’t answer my texts or my calls.”

“I left my phone at the barn. There was traffic.” That last part was a little white lie. He’d taken Zach for ice cream. Dylan unbuckled his son from his seat.

Eileen elbowed him aside and lifted Zach. “You’re always either late or canceling on him.”

“I’m trying my best. I brought you a check.” He tried to keep his voice even, but his throat felt as potholed as his driveway. “It’s tough to get a business going in the early years. I have to hustle clients where I can.” His income wasn’t big, but it was fairly steady. Big paychecks loomed on the horizon—if he could help Kathy, if he could help the colt, if he could harvest Phantom’s sperm. If. If he could rediscover the nerve to work with severely untrainable horses, he could make the dream of a steady income a reality.

Bob took Zach from Eileen and tucked the little man to his shoulder as if he’d had years of practice. Something cold solidified in Dylan’s stomach. And it wasn’t rocky-road ice cream.

“I’ve talked to my lawyer.” Eileen was on a roll tonight. She snatched the check from his hand. “You can’t be late anymore. Not you or your money.”

“Not now, honey,” Bob said. “Let’s get Zach to bed. He’s got school tomorrow.”

Dylan hadn’t forgotten it was a school night, but... “It’s only eight thirty.”

Bob sighed, as if he knew better what Zach needed. He walked toward the house with Dylan’s kid.

Eileen’s mouth worked in that way it did when she was having trouble swallowing back bitter words. She was rarely successful. She spewed words at him, as sour as a green cherry, as hard as its pit. “You need to do better, Dylan. Or things are going to change.”

Like things hadn’t changed when she left him and took his son away? How could they get any worse?

Bob stopped and turned to face Dylan. Zach murmured something. Bob murmured back, stroking Zach’s little shoulders. The cold fist in Dylan’s gut expanded. The other man met Dylan’s gaze over the hood of the truck.

The cold fist sucker-punched Dylan from the inside out.

He knew how things could get worse.

They could take Zach from him. Not for Saturdays. Not for Wednesday nights.

Forever.

CHAPTER THREE

“DO YOU KNOW how hard it is to see the screen and type with you in my lap?” Kathy’s arms bent as she tried to navigate the online university’s website around Abby’s sleek body.

They sat at a desk in her bedroom. Growing up, it had been Flynn’s room—geek command central and off-limits to Kathy. The posters of Batman, “World of Warcraft” and Bill Gates may have come down, but it still felt like her brother’s room. Navy plaid wallpaper and tired green shag contrasted against her teal leopard-print comforter and pink slippers.

When she’d gone into rehab, Grandpa Ed was still alive. Flynn had been staying in this room, and so Truman had been put across the hall in Kathy’s childhood space. After Grandpa’s death, Flynn and Becca had married and then moved into the master bedroom. And so Kathy took this room—not wanting to upset Truman by asking him to switch spaces.

The dog turned and licked Kathy’s cheek, as if to say get on with it. While outside her window, birds sang a happy good-morning. She was convinced there was one bird that had designated itself as her alarm clock. Regular as a rooster, that little guy. Tweet-tweet-tweet as the sun approached the horizon.

“I’m just not excited about a business degree,” she whispered to Abby. Accounting, economics, business law. Ugh. But Flynn insisted that she needed a college diploma to rebuild her life, and he said she could do anything with a business degree. Lacking a clear idea of what she wanted to do with her life, Kathy had bent to her brother’s will. She’d get a business degree to prove to him she was serious about creating a solid future for Truman. If only she could make herself complete the college application form.

The dog faced the screen again, her black fur soft against Kathy’s arms. She smelled of freshly dug dirt and green grass...and freedom.

More than happy to postpone signing up for college courses, Kathy gave the dog a kibble from a teacup on her desk, then scratched Abby behind her pointy ears. “You’re just here for the food.” She didn’t much care why Abby kept her company. She enjoyed the affection, even if the conversation was one-sided.

Her bedroom door swung open. Truman’s gaze swept the carpet and corners of the room. “Abby?”

Truman never came in here. He barely acknowledged Kathy’s existence. She couldn’t have moved if someone had shouted, “Fire!”

He finally noticed where his dog was. “Abby.” Disappointment. Betrayal. Truman’s cheeks flushed. He patted his jeans-clad thigh urgently. “Abby, come.”

Neither Kathy nor Abby moved. In fact, the dog gazed back at Kathy, as if encouraging her to speak. And what would she say? Abby sighed and stared at the computer screen again. Or, more accurately, at the teacup below the computer screen.

“Tru.” His name came out as deep and hoarse as the bullfrogs’ songs down by the Harmony River. Kathy stared in the vicinity of her son, cleared her throat and tried again. “I like your T-shirt.”

It was a green-and-purple tie-dyed shirt with a black running-horse weather vane screen-printed on his chest.

He gazed up and down the hall, either looking for support or making sure no one caught him talking to her. “The mayor gave this to me. It’s Uncle Flynn’s winery logo.”

Of course it was. Everyone in Harmony Valley was embracing the winery and its attempts to revitalize the town. But hello, people, should her son be wearing a shirt advertising alcohol?

It doesn’t say Harmony Valley Vineyards, said the voice of reason.

It promotes underage drinking, said the fearful side of her, the one that had been riding shotgun on her shoulder since rehab.

“It’s just a shirt,” Kathy said defensively, bringing her internal argument into the open.

Truman gave her the my-mom-has-lost-it look. He lost his patience and raised his voice. “Abby. Come here. Now.”

Abby jumped from Kathy’s lap and trotted to Truman, circling him and nudging him inside the bedroom. Her herding instincts were to unite, not divide.

“I don’t have time for games,” Truman grumbled, making his escape. “It’s time for lessons.”

Kathy listened to their footsteps move into the kitchen, made immobile by the fact that that was the most successful interaction she’d had with Truman since she’d come home a few weeks ago.

Grandpa Ed used to say, “First the battle, then the war.”

She stood and did a battle victory dance.

“Smooth moves.” Flynn stood in the doorway with that older-brother grin that little sisters hated. “A bit ‘Put a Ring on It’ and a bit ‘Harlem Shake.’ What are we celebrating?”

“Shh.” Kathy yanked him inside and closed the door. “Truman talked to me.”

They high-fived.

“How’re you feeling today, Kathy?” His grin faded. His gaze took inventory.

“Stop. You aren’t my sponsor.” She widened her eyes and breathed on him. “I’m sober.” No bloodshot eyes. No fire-starting breath.

“You’d tell me if you were tempted, right?” He asked her that every morning, but there was an urgency to his question that hadn’t been there in the weeks since she’d come home.

Had she sleepwalked to a liquor store? She thought not. “Of course I’d tell you if I was tempted.” Nope. If she was tempted, she wouldn’t tell him. Not in a thousand years. He’d try to lock her up in rehab quicker than you could say, “Reboot my computer,” and she’d lose what little ground she’d gained with Truman.

“I was thinking of hiring someone to find Mom,” Flynn said out of the blue.

There must have been a bomb blast, because Kathy couldn’t feel her limbs and it was quiet. Deathly quiet. Not even the bird alarm clock made a sound.

“I made peace with my dad.” Flynn’s voice cut through the aftershock. “Maybe it’s time we made peace with Mom. I could get her into rehab. Truman needs you to have a strong support system and...”

“Don’t you dare bring her around me or Truman.” Kathy’s lips felt numb. The words she had to say formed too slowly until she felt robbed of what little power she had left. “I mean it.”

Flynn spoke in his brother-knows-best voice. “It’s been nearly two years since I’ve heard from her. I just thought...”

“She doesn’t deserve your compassion.” She deserves to rot in hell.

* * *

THE TROUBLE WITH selling your soul to the devil was that there was a debt to be repaid. Or, in Dylan’s case, several.

He had thirty days. Thirty days to deliver the semen orders he’d sold for Phantom. Thirty days until his next mortgage and child-support payments were due. Thirty days to make progress with Kathy and the injured colt.

Dylan leaned on the porch railing at Redemption Ranch. Wisps of mist clung to the brown grass in his pastures as the first rays of daylight crested the Sonoma Mountains. Steam rose from the cup of coffee cradled in his hands. In the distance, tall, sturdy eucalyptus trees created a natural border to his property. Whoever had planted those trees had wanted a visual marker, a boundary, that said, This is mine. If Dylan couldn’t keep up with the payments, he’d have to sell off a parcel of the land to a developer. The trees would go. Cookie-cutter houses would fill the pasture. Noise would invade his borders.

As a kid, he’d longed for peace. He’d longed for silence. He’d longed for a place where his father’s belligerence and words and fists couldn’t touch him. Couldn’t hurt him. At his mother’s church, they’d talked about forgiveness and redemption. Those concepts were as unreachable back then as the stars. But today?

Does Phantom deserve redemption? He’d thought so once. But one shot was all he’d have.

Put him down. His father’s command, chilling and frozen in his memory.

“What’s wrong, Dylan? Knee bothering you?” Barry came down the outdoor steps from his garage apartment. With his shoulder-length, snowy hair and diminutive height, the former jockey could pass himself off as one of Santa’s elves.

Dylan let his gaze drift back to the tree-lined horizon. “My knee’s fine.” Aching in the brisk morning, but that was his new normal.

“Then let’s work Phantom.”

Dylan’s grip on the coffee mug tightened. He gazed out over the pasture, but he saw a different scene now, one from long ago. A boy wearing pajamas shut in a stall with a crippled horse and a gun.

“We need to make a withdrawal.” Barry gestured toward Phantom’s stall, the only one that had an outdoor paddock attached. “We can’t keep taking orders if there’s no product to sell. Lots of breeders are anxious for Phantom’s genes.”

Because they expected Dylan to destroy the champion. “Maybe tomorrow. Or next week.” Dylan forced himself to set the coffee cup down. “Maggie Mae should be in heat soon. We can’t collect the goods from Phantom without a mare in her cycle.”

“Excuses.” Barry’s hands swung Dylan’s reasoning aside. He probably waved off flies with less vigor. “It’s been six months, son. It’s time to get back in the saddle.”

“Maybe I’m the wrong person for the job. Maybe I’ve lost my touch.”

“The only thing you’ve lost is your nerve.” Barry propped a foot on the front porch step. “If I had quit riding races after one fall, I would have never won the Kentucky Derby. I had a gift for the ride. I’m too old now to compete, but if my body was able, I’d still be out there every week.”

“You’d have to give up beer and chili-cheese fries.”

“After twenty years of racing, I earned every extra pound.” Barry patted his still-svelte gut. He was only fifteen pounds over his racing weight. “But don’t go changing the subject. You’ve let that horse get into your head.”

Dylan didn’t argue that point. Everyone thought he’d lost his nerve after the accident, that he was afraid of Phantom and others like him.

Damn right he was afraid. But not of the stallion. He was afraid of what would happen if he couldn’t complete the collection procedure this time.

Barry took his silence for cowardly fear. “If you think he’s so dangerous, why did you buy him?”

“Because they were going to put him down.” Because Dylan felt partly to blame for Phantom’s attack, seeing as how he’d held the lead rope. “Because they were practically giving him away and his stud fees can save us.” On its own, his idea to run a ranch where unwanted horses could be rehabilitated and recovering alcoholics could build confidence wasn’t a profit-making proposition. “We barely make ends meet.”

“There you go again. Money,” Barry grumbled, pausing to face Dylan. “Money doesn’t make you a good man. Or a good father.”

“The bank and the family-court judge don’t agree.” Nor did Eileen. Dylan had to be a good provider, a better one than his own drunken, volatile father had been.

Barry made a noise that Dylan took for disapproval. He glanced back at Phantom’s stall. “When I fought in the Vietnam War, they sent me down into the tunnels because of my size. I acted like a man and said I was brave, but the truth was, I was scared. And probably just as scared as the Vietcong I was sent down there to kill.”

“All right. All right.” Message received. Dylan and the horse were both probably scared. “I’ll pay Phantom a visit.” And yet Dylan didn’t move.

Barry headed for the stables. “I’m going to open up his paddock door and muck out his stall. The Dylan O’Brien who used to live here would take advantage of that time. And if that Dylan O’Brien still lives here, he needs to make an appearance.”

A white cat wended its way between Dylan’s legs, then moved slowly down the porch steps, pausing at the bottom to look back at him and flick her crooked tail.

Even Ghost knows it’s time to do this.

One by one, horses extended their heads to Dylan as he passed their stalls. He paused to greet Peaches, leaning in to look at the little palomino. She extended her nose to reach his hand, as if to say she had complete faith in Dylan. She’d been Phantom’s stable mate through his racing career and his retirement to stud. Dylan grabbed her halter and brought her along just as Barry tripped the lever that opened Phantom’s stall to the paddock.

Phantom charged into the gray light of morning as if he was the last vestige of darkness racing toward the horizon. Or perhaps he just missed the starting gates of his youth. He skidded to a stop at the far end of the paddock, nearly sitting on his haunches, then began his patrol of the perimeter. He made a circuit, rearing in front of Dylan, ready to strike him as he’d done months ago. His eyes rolled, until the whites showed, and Dylan’s gut twisted, but he stood his ground.

Phantom’s front hooves landed in the dirt. He let out a shrill whinny, prancing in front of them. The stallion bared his teeth and made as if he was going to lunge, but he never extended his nose between the paddock rails. And his tail was raised proudly, not swishing with anger.

Peaches, bless her, snorted. She was accustomed to the stallion’s theatrics. The pony knew he used to have more bark than bite. Maybe he still was a big faker. Mostly. Maybe he was just a more dramatic faker. Mostly. Dylan began to hum “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” noticing that the stallion’s hooves needed trimming.

Barry slid the gate to his stall closed. “That horse needs a different tune. That one’s getting old.”

“I like it.” Dylan led Peaches around the paddock. Phantom followed, rearing, kicking and announcing to the world that he was one upset dude.

A lifetime of living with horses, years of horsemanship training, and after one tremendous failure, Dylan had grown too cautious. “You almost had me, Dad,” he whispered to the mist. His father excelled at breaking things—bottles, bones, boys. “You almost had me.”

Phantom’s hoof struck the metal rail.

He still might.

* * *

“FAR TURN FARMS is only giving us a few more weeks with Chance.” Gage’s words echoed ominously in the near-empty clinic.

Behind the partition separating the animal cages from the hallway to the office and exam rooms, Kathy stopped refilling a cat’s water dish to eavesdrop. Gage wasn’t an ominous-announcement type of guy.

“You got that horse-whispering fella,” Doc replied in his rumbly voice. Officially, the Harmony Valley Veterinary Clinic was owned and run by Gage. Unofficially, it was run by his wife’s grandfather, Dr. Warren Wentworth. Doc had founded the place in the fifties, closed it after his wife died, then reopened it when Gage came back this year and married his granddaughter. “What’s his name? Dylan? He used to be good. That should be enough.”

Kathy stepped into the hallway. “Are they taking Chance back?” He’d been bred to win the Triple Crown. With no permanent physical damage, in a little more than a year the colt could be a contender.

Gage and Doc exchanged glances that seemed to say, How much should we tell her?

It was Gage who spoke. “Chance...well, he only has a few more weeks to show he’s salvageable.”

“Salvageable?” Kathy’s voice escalated. “Don’t talk about him as if he’s disposable.” As if no one would care if he went away forever. “We’ve been nursing him back to health. He’s so much better. He has...he has...a right to live!” A right to a home and security. And people who loved him.

That was what Grandpa Ed had provided Kathy. He’d washed his hands of her mother and stepfather, paying them to stay away from Harmony Valley. He’d given Kathy the stability and safety a child should have. No more sneaking bills from her mother’s wallet after she passed out and then slipping away to the convenience store to buy milk and snack cakes for dinner. No more being locked in an apartment for days at a time while her mother disappeared on drunken binges, all the while wondering if she’d ever return. No more nights spent huddled beneath a thin blanket when there was no heat.

“Nothing’s been decided yet, girl.” Doc’s shaggy white hair brushed the upper rim of his thick eyeglasses. He was a man fully grounded in the why-worry-about-tomorrow philosophy.

“That’s right, Kathy. And you can help Dylan with Chance.” Gage spoke as if Kathy was their ace in the hole. He nodded at Doc. There was something they weren’t telling her.

Well, there was something Kathy wasn’t telling them, too. And it sickened her. Dylan thought Chance’s fate was inevitable. He’d said as much the first day he came.

Kathy hoped that Dylan was wrong. Because if it was, her odds at being salvageable were no better.

* * *

“I CAN’T WALK.” Wilson Hammacker gripped the arms of his tan recliner as if that would keep him anchored in his living room in Harmony Valley. “I have no toes.” His toes. His toes! He still dreamed that they were attached to his feet.

“You have special inserts for your shoes.” Becca Harris held up what were essentially plastic socks with marble-size plastic toes attached. Becca was young and pretty, and for some reason she wasn’t squeamish about needles, surgery scars or false toes. “You were released from rehab. So now it’s time to get back out in the world.”

“I am not going to walk anywhere outside this house.” Wilson knew he sounded like a child. But in the past year, he’d lost his wife, been diagnosed with diabetes and had his toes amputated. “I’m a recluse and happy with that status.”

“Dolly needs her shots.” Becca pointed to his wife’s rotund dachshund, who, upon hearing her name, rolled onto her back on the brown carpet for a tummy rub.

Wilson couldn’t reach that low to rub her tummy without losing his balance. “I paid you to take care of me for a month. Take her to the vet.”

“You said it. I’m paid to take care of you.” Becca’s smile was as resilient as the woman herself. “I’m also paid to help the Mionettis. I’m due there in fifteen minutes.” Becca was the only caregiver in a town where the majority of residents needed caregivers. “If you don’t feel up to driving, I can drop you two off.” She knelt at the base of the recliner and took his hand. “Don’t be afraid. You walk around here just fine.”

“Without shoes.” And only because he’d insisted Becca move his living room furniture so that he could stagger on his heels, feet pointed out like a duck, from one chair-back to another. “What if I fall?” His old bones were as fragile as his wife’s teacup collection.

“You’ll get up.” She slipped a prosthetic set of toes on his right foot. It was cold against his skin, but soft, and smelled of new plastic. “Comfortable?”

Wilson arched his foot as he’d been taught. Five fake toes moved as one. “As comfortable as I could be without my own toes.”

Becca slid on the other prosthetic.

His petulance lingered. “If Helen were alive, she wouldn’t make me go.”

“I’m sorry your wife’s not here.” Becca put his shoes on next. Her touch was firm, yet gentle. It reminded him of his mother, gone thirty years. “But you have to take better care of yourself. You’ve seen what can happen when you let the diabetes get out of control. And who knows what’s wrong with Dolly.”

He let the conversation about control drop. “Nothing’s wrong with that dog but old age.”

“Besides needing her shots, she’s a bit round.” Becca stood, tossing her brown braid over her shoulder. She held out her hand. “Come on.”

The thing about Becca was she didn’t put up with nonsense. You paid her in advance and then you were stuck with her. She showed up, listened to your complaints and did what the doctor ordered, even if that wasn’t what you wanted. He’d hired her to help him transition to this new reality. Shots? She didn’t sweat a bit. Finger pokes? Performed efficiently. Whining? She ignored it. Helen would have loved her.

He gripped the armrests again. “Once you get to a certain age, the rules shouldn’t apply to you anymore.”

Becca captured his hand and helped him to his feet. He took a step and then another, relearning the gently rolling feeling of something extending beyond the balls of his feet.

She hurried about, gathering her purse and Dolly. “Just because you’re old doesn’t mean you can cut corners on diabetes. We’ve got to get your blood sugar down, especially in the afternoon.”

“Poke-poke-poke. That’s what diabetes is. I hate it.” He much preferred drinking.

“Was all that skipped poking worth losing toes over?”

He’d like to say no, but that would be admitting that his current predicament was all his fault.

CHAPTER FOUR

“I NEED A minute with you alone.” Gage met Dylan in the Harmony Valley clinic’s parking lot. There was a stubborn tilt to the vet’s chin. “I know this is awkward. You’re here primarily for Kathy. But the colt, Chance, he needs your help.”

Dylan’s training had already failed one horse. He hesitated to make any promises. “I’ll do what I can, but that colt...”

“Is a fighter.” Gage grinned, but it was a fighter’s grin, an I’m-gonna-get-you-to-my-side-eventually grin. “I delivered him. I know what he was like before—happy-go-lucky, trusting, curious. And sometimes, he remembers, too.”

The vet could rationalize the situation all he liked. The fact remained: the colt was a danger to himself and others. He’d forever be unpredictable.

“Please.” Gage glanced away, as if he felt uncomfortable asking Dylan for anything. “Far Turn Farms called today and said if he isn’t suitably socialized in three weeks, they’re putting him down. They’ll destroy him for no other reason than the fact that he’s operating on survival instinct.”

Dylan agreed with all the things Gage said, but odds were the colt was like Phantom. Controllable until someone did something stupid. Was it worth the risk? Dylan had to be responsible.

Yet even as the thought ran through his head, Dylan felt defeat tumble in his gut. When had he stopped believing in redemption—not just in himself, but in horses, as well?

Instead of being the voice of reason, Dylan found himself saying, “It’ll take more than me working with him a few hours a day.” Which just proved what an idiot he was, giving the man false hope. The world was run by profit-and-loss statements, not heart and hope. That was what his old man used to say.

The vet’s attitude shifted subtly, like a horse who’d just realized what you wanted was what he wanted and he stopped fighting, but was too proud to lower his head. “Whatever you need.”

Yeah, what Dylan needed was his head examined. “If he hasn’t sent me to the emergency room in an hour, I’ll make you a list of activities that might help.”

“If things don’t work out...” Gage’s jaw hardened. “Is there room at Redemption Ranch?”

“If I still own the Double R in thirty days, we can talk.” Why not just lay all his failures at the good doctor’s door? While he was spilling his guts, he should tell Gage how hard he’d had it growing up with an abusive father.

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized.” Gage’s gaze dropped to the asphalt, but not quick enough to disguise the disappointment in his eyes. He was likely not so much sorry for Dylan’s misfortune as its impact on his concerns.

The vet went back inside. Dylan grabbed a thin, four-foot plastic pole with a red flag on one end and headed toward the stable.

When he was a boy, they’d lived in a small ramshackle place, the land not large enough to call a ranch. His mother waitressed, and his father worked odd jobs, but mostly people brought Dad horses to break. The money was good, but it was the chance to make another living thing suffer that appealed to Dad most. His old man was old-school. Tie the horse. Beat the horse. Defeat the horse. It got to the point where Dylan heard a horse trailer coming down the drive and he ran for his bedroom. He couldn’t stand the sound of a horse’s shrill screams. They sounded too much like his and his brother Billy’s.

It wasn’t until Child Protective Services took him and his brother away and placed them on a legitimate ranch with ten other foster boys that Dylan learned there was a gentler way to work with horses. To follow the more natural path, a horse trainer had to think like a horse, see the world like a horse, be the horse. Recognize every nuanced flicker of movement for what it was—confidence, trust, anxiety, fear, defense, rebellion.

Chance couldn’t be rehabilitated in a day, if at all. And despite the colt’s incredibly clean lines and heritage, he’d probably never make it on the track. There were too many noises there, too much visual stimuli. A racehorse was a trained athlete, one who could channel his focus down to one thing—outrunning the competition. Fears, phobias, quirks. They distracted. And distractions slowed a horse down.

He came through the back gate, and Sugar ambled toward him, ears perked forward, a marked contradiction to the colt’s quick steps and threatening posture. The colt probably assumed anything over one hundred pounds had the potential to pounce on him. Which might explain why Kathy, who was short and lacked meat on her bones, was the least threatening person at the clinic.

He paused to greet the mare and stroke her sleek neck. “You probably want to tell me how important it is to save Chance, too.”

She blew air through her nose onto his chest, a sign of relaxed affection that might just as easily have translated to I love him, you dummy.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

Kathy came out the back door of the clinic as Dylan limped up the path to the stables. “Hey, wait up.”

At least one of his Harmony Valley clients sought his company. Dylan mentally shifted from horse mode to people mode. Kathy approached him eagerly. As thin as she was, as hidden as her form was beneath jeans that didn’t fit and that pink jacket, she shouldn’t have been mesmerizing. But there was an energy and confidence to her walk that said Look at me, much like a seasoned racehorse passing the stands on the way to the starting gate. For a moment, Dylan forgot his purpose and his fears, both being edged aside by the unexpected power of Kathy’s presence.

She stopped within touching distance and crossed her arms over her chest. “We need to talk about Chance.”

Dylan held up a hand. “Gage told me about the urgency with the colt. And...”

“Good. What can I do to help?”

More than anything, Dylan wanted to tell her to go back to the kennel, where it was safe. The last thing anyone needed was an injury on-premises. But the determination in her eyes registered. He knew she wouldn’t listen. “You can observe.”

“But...”

“No buts. You took risks yesterday. You can stay if you follow my lead. Agreed?”

It took her too long to nod. And there was a flash to her blue eyes that matched the fire of her hair. She might just as well have said, Agreed. For now.

As happened yesterday, they entered the stable to greetings from the two pregnant mares and a kick from the colt.

Dylan’s steps slowed. “Does he know what grain is?”

“Yes.” Kathy flashed him a small, proud smile. Dylan felt a corresponding grin try to slip past his guard. And then she added, “Because of the accident, he was weaned early.” And that wiped out any cause for Dylan to grin.

Early weaning was a strike against the foal’s odds to recover his confidence, just as certainly as one of Kathy’s parents being an alcoholic was a strike against her odds to stay sober.

I defied the odds. He wasn’t a drunk or an abusive father. But since the accident, Dylan felt as if someone had narrowed the rails bordering his life. His options and possibilities were fewer than before.

The grain bin was stored near the colt’s stall. Dylan indicated Kathy stay back and walked past the stall without acknowledging the colt. He hummed a few jazzy bars of “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” scooped out some grain into a feed bucket and shook it.

The colt wasn’t kicking. He was probably salivating for some oats. Dylan turned his back on the colt and kept up the song.

Kathy moved closer. Her footsteps were clunky, those of the recently boot-converted. She clomped like a Clydesdale and waved a hand to catch his attention. “Uh, Chance is in the stall behind you.” Skepticism colored her voice.

Had Gage told her about Dylan’s failure? “I know that.” Dylan kept his voice smooth and easy. “He doesn’t like to be looked at, though, does he?”

“No.” There was a little grudging respect. “Or touched.” She came to stand next to him, bringing the scent of flowery perfume and the aura of raw courage. Her tenacity pulsed between them, as noticeable as the notes of the song he hummed.

The colt blew an impatient breath, signaling his desire for oats.

Dylan lowered his voice. “Whenever we’re in here together, Kathy, we need to keep our voices as soft as a baby’s blanket.” He resumed his spiderly piece.

“I’m not going to whisper sweet nothings to you.” But she was. Whispering, that was.

So prickly. Despite himself, Dylan smiled, enjoying their banter. In between verses, he asked, “Have you noticed anything?”

“Chance hasn’t thrown a tantrum.” There was wonder in her voice, the sweetness of a newly converted believer in the man who’d once been the miracle worker. “What do we do now?”

“We stay here and talk where he can see us.”

She glanced over her shoulder. The colt huffed.

“Don’t look him in the eye.” Dylan rattled the bucket of grain. He hummed louder. “Do you know this song?”

“What mother doesn’t?” Her humming blended with his, filling the stable. Not surprisingly, after a while, Kathy fidgeted. He’d suspected she wasn’t the type to stand still for long. Her boots scraped loudly across the concrete floor.

“Remind me not to take you dancing.”

Her gaze dropped to her tan leather cowboy boots, so new the soles still shined on the sides. “Nobody can walk quietly or gracefully in these things.”

“There are millions who’d argue that point.”

She huffed. The colt copied her.

“Red,” he said. “You need to use your happy indoor voice.”

She huffed again.

Dylan shook the grain, giving himself a mental headshake, as well. He was here primarily to support Kathy’s foundation of sobriety. He couldn’t do that without getting to know her better. “Tell me a story about yourself, Red.”

She didn’t blow smoke at the hair-color-related nickname. “My life isn’t the stuff of fairy tales.”

The colt shuffled about the stall, pushing straw with each step. Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.

“Red,” he scolded gently. “Nobody’s life is rainbows and pots of gold.” His certainly hadn’t been.

“You should meet my brother, Flynn.” Oh, there was sarcasm there, but it was almost hidden in the most saccharine of whispery tones. “He and his friends have the Midas touch. They created a popular farm app, sold it for millions. Came home to decompress and fell in love. Tra-la-la.”

He smiled. “So you’re the ugly stepsister? Never to find Prince Charming? Blaming Cinderella for your lot in life?”

“My mistakes are my own, Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Ah, a tragedy.” Behind him, the colt’s steps slowed. “What was the cause of your downfall? Spindle prick? Poisoned apple? Evil stepmother?”

At his last joking guess, she seemed to shrink.

Finally, a clue, a path he could follow to help her overcome the triggers of addiction. He felt energized, like a hunting dog receiving a burst of adrenaline as he picked up a scent.

Dylan would have played out the conversation, probing further, except misery pinched Kathy’s forehead, flattened her lips and drained the color from her cheeks. The bread crumbs leading to the answer he sought would have to be picked up with care.

Otherwise, instead of helping Kathy stay sober, he might send her right back to the bottle’s embrace.

* * *

KATHY DIDN’T KNOW what to say to Dylan. Or how much to say.

When word first broke of Flynn’s success nearly two years ago, the texted threats had begun. I know what happened to you in college.

Nobody knew, except the man or men responsible. There’s a price for silence.

A price to pay for protecting her secrets, for protecting her son. She didn’t want people to know she’d been a victim. But more important, she didn’t want Truman to know he was a product of a brutal crime.

And so she’d sold off things to pay the piper. And yet those payments were never enough. As it went on, Kathy found it increasingly hard to sleep, hard to concentrate at work. The drinking started out innocently enough. A nightcap to ease her fears. A shot in her morning orange juice to smooth the jumpiness. All because he was watching. Whoever he was.

And then the blackmailer made a mistake...

“Can you spare a minute, Kathy?” Standing in the stable door, Doc’s white hair ruffled in the breeze.

“Sure. Be there in a minute.” Kathy glanced at Dylan, then over her shoulder, not quite meeting Chance’s gaze. He stood calmly, staring at Dylan’s back.

“I’ll be right here waiting for more of that story.” Dylan’s deep, smooth voice held her rooted in place. Since his last question, he was treating her just like Chance. He didn’t look at her directly. He didn’t make any sudden moves. He was just there, a shoulder ready to lean on.

Kathy just couldn’t read Dylan. Yesterday he’d been coldhearted toward Chance. She’d written him off as the type of man who’d consider her a waste of time, too. Today he was humming children’s songs and joking with her about fairy tales. If she was the type of woman to lean on a man, she might have considered his broad shoulders to be leanable.

“There’s no story to tell.” Kathy forced her feet to move away from him. “And you don’t need me for this.”

“Aren’t you curious to see if you’re his security blanket?” He shook the oat bucket. “I am.”

She was, too. But she hurried off anyway.

Doc was ahead of her on the path. He had a rolling gait, moving the way Kathy imagined she had when she’d been drunk. He led her into an exam room where another old man sat holding a leash to an overweight dachshund, which was lying on the brick-patterned linoleum doing its best Superman impression—front paws extended forward, short back legs barely stretching beyond its little tail. “This is Wilson Hammacker. He needs help every day walking his dog, Dolly.”

Mr. Hammacker had an age-spotted, shaved head and the pale skin of a shut-in. Kathy vaguely remembered him from growing up in town, but she couldn’t remember what he’d done. Not the butcher. Not the ice-cream-shop owner. Not the barber.

“I’m willing to pay.” Mr. Hammacker interrupted her thoughts with a hard-as-nails voice.

Kathy turned to Doc expectantly, waiting for him to name the clinic’s price.

“Dogs, all mighty, girl.” Doc spouted his favorite exclamation. “Take charge of your life and quote him a price. I thought you could use some extra money.”

Pride warmed her. She hadn’t expected a referral. Not from Doc. Not from anyone.

Kathy met Mr. Hammacker’s gaze. “I wouldn’t know what to charge.” Or, on second thought, if she even wanted the work. She put in thirty hours a week at the clinic, and Flynn had to drive her sixty miles round-trip to her support group once a week in Cloverdale. That was a fairly full schedule. She knew that walking one dog shouldn’t be such a big deal, but commitments were important to Kathy. She wanted to be certain she could honor each and every one she made these days since she’d already blown so many.

“This generation has no business savvy, Wilson,” Doc said, not without a tinge of humor. “Charge him ten dollars, girl. If it works out, sell him a package of walks, say seven for fifty dollars.”

Kathy waited for Mr. Hammacker to protest. When he didn’t, she said, “Before you accept, did Doc tell you I’m a recovering alcoholic?”

Doc rolled his eyes.

Mr. Hammacker didn’t bat a gray eyelash. “As long as you come on time—three thirty—and you drop Dolly off by four, you’ll do.” His wrinkled lines smoothed into a more somber demeanor. “Dr. Jamero just told me Dolly is overweight, which contributes to her back problems. And if her back hurts, then she just lies around all day. My diabetes prevents me from walking her.” He stared down at his feet glumly.

“What he won’t tell you is he’s lost his toes to the disease and he just sits around all day,” Doc said gruffly.

“No toes?” Kathy had lost a lot of things, but at least she had all her toes.

“No toes,” Mr. Hammacker confirmed, staring at his black orthopedic sneakers. His situation made it impossible for Kathy to refuse.

“Give the girl your address, Wilson, and take her cell phone number. She’ll be by later this afternoon.”

“I don’t have a cell phone,” Kathy said quickly. “Can he call here if he needs me?”

“I suppose he’ll have to.” Doc studied her over the top of his thick and grimy glasses, but didn’t question her about not having a phone.

* * *

THE FIRST TIME Dylan had helped a “ruined” horse return to productivity, he’d been twelve and in a foster home. No one was sure why the gelding began bucking when someone put a foot in his stirrup, but no amount of whipping and intimidation had worked on the animal. The horse grew to hate everyone.

Nick Webb had taken in the horse just as optimistically as he’d taken in Dylan and Billy months before. But the horses had turned Dylan’s stomach since before they’d even arrived. He couldn’t look at them without thinking of guns and his father. And unlike Billy, who’d thrived from day one with the Webbs, Dylan had kept to himself. He’d stayed away from the horses and hidden every time a truck pulled into the driveway, expecting his father to one day show up and take him back.

“That horse needs to trust someone,” Nick had said to Dylan. The man had put an old ladder-back chair near a paddock post. “Sit here until he trusts you.”

For days, Dylan had sat in that chair doing his homework and watching the other foster kids go about their chores. Bored out of his mind, he’d begun humming to himself. But he never turned around. He never looked that gelding in the eye. He couldn’t.

And then one day while humming “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” the gelding nuzzled Dylan’s head. A sense of peace descended. Dylan reached up to touch the bay’s velvety muzzle. A sense of forgiveness filled him. He stood, turning slowly. The gelding pressed his forehead against Dylan’s skinny chest. It seemed natural to hug, to scratch the base of the animal’s ears, to stroke his long neck, to rediscover the joy of a bond with a soul who only wanted to be accepted on his terms and be given unconditional love.

Without building a firmer foundation of trust, Kathy wouldn’t give up anything more to Dylan. And neither would the colt.

Dylan had backed up slowly, small steps, and as soon as he was within a foot of the stall door, the colt went into survival mode—bucking and whinnying a warning. Stay away. Don’t come any closer. I’ll hurt you.

“What are you doing?” Kathy charged into the stable, shouting and upsetting the colt even further. “Sugar’s racing around the paddock.”

Dylan snagged Kathy’s arm and led her back to the point where he’d started. “Red. I’ve been testing your little friend.”

“He didn’t fail. You did.”

A chill wind blew through the stable, sweeping in a few red-gold leaves.

“Remember your tone, Red. I didn’t say he failed.” Her arm beneath her pink jacket was bone thin and trembling. “We have to start all over. Ready?” He began the spidery tune, pausing when she didn’t join in. “If you don’t feel up to a song, how about a game?”

“Shouldn’t you be paying attention to Chance, not me?” Gossamer spiderwebs weren’t as thin as Kathy’s voice. Her fingers knotted and twisted at her waist. “I’m no one.”

That nonsense had to stop. “Red... Kathy...” He set down the bucket of oats and turned her to face him, taking both her cold hands in his. He didn’t usually hold his clients’ hands, but her small ones felt right in his. “Is Chance no one?”

She wouldn’t look at him. “No.”

“Am I no one?”

She shuffled her feet. “No.”

He gave her hands a gentle shake. “Then you are not no one.” When she didn’t react, he said, “I’m waiting for a head nod, something to acknowledge that you matter in this world.”

The movement of her chin was infinitesimal. He’d take it.

“Now.” Dylan was reluctant to let her hands go, but he did, once more presenting his back to the colt. “Chance needs to pay attention to us, not the other way around. Horses are social animals, like dogs. By saving his life and isolating him, you’ve taken away his herd. Also, his wounds hurt, and when you come in to clean them, you hurt him more. To him, the way he’s learned to survive and avoid pain is by moving and kicking.”

“Now I feel like the bad guy.”

Me, too. With Phantom. “It’s a trade-off necessary to save his life. Now we need to swing things around, let him come to us. Let’s play a game.” Get her talking again. “This one is called ‘tell me something about your name, something that no one else knows.’” He often used icebreakers to learn more about a client and how they viewed their problems. “I’ll start. My middle name is Jerraway, which is my mother’s maiden name. So if I were to use my initials, I’d be...”

“D.J.” She rolled her eyes. “You are so not a D.J. I mean, you play pool with D.J. He’s your drinking buddy.”

“Yeah, I don’t drink. My dad was a drinker.” Violent, too. Both topics he seldom shared. Time to hear about her. “Your turn.”

“Kathy is usually short for Katharine. But my mom just named me Kathy.” She paused, and when she spoke again, it was with forced optimism. “Short and sweet, no middle name.”

Mom. Definitely a hot button, possibly a trigger to drink. “Makes it easier to fill out paperwork. So, Cinderella, were you blessed with a wicked stepmother, too?”

“No.” He could swear that one syllable also meant Thank heavens for that. “Do you have any horses of your own?”

“Many. The Double R is a place for misfits.” In his mind’s eye, Phantom reared in front of him again. Dylan’s gaze sought reality and landed on Kathy’s face. “Some respond well to training and go to new homes.”

“And the others?” Her voice cracked with urgency. “Are they lost causes? Do you...get rid of them?”

For a moment, Dylan couldn’t breathe. Phantom’s territorial paddock dance came to mind, his future unclear. “I haven’t given up on one yet,” he managed to say.

His father’s voice seemed to whisper in his ear: liar.

Since, Dylan qualified. I haven’t given up on one since...

Somewhere in his head a door to a long-suppressed memory opened. His father’s slurred voice, shouting commands, making threats, moonlight glinting off the barrel of a gun.

Dylan’s stomach tumbled over and over in a sickeningly familiar corkscrew. His vision began to funnel. Sweat broke out at the base of his spine. He needed something to hold on to.

His gaze caught on a bent nail sticking out of a post a few feet away. He told himself he was like that piece of steel. Bent, but not broken. Strong despite his wounds. His stomach kept tumbling and the nail seemed to be moving farther and farther away, out of reach, almost out of sight.

The opening bars of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” drifted into his ears, bringing with it memories of velvety muzzles and forgiveness.

Kathy’s voice. A familiar tune.

But Kathy wasn’t just humming. She was singing. She was singing as she slid her small hand into his. She was singing as she gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

Behind them, the colt chuffed, oddly at peace.

Dylan’s stomach tumbled back into place. The nail still had a foothold in the beam an arm’s length away. The door to his memories slammed shut.

And for a moment, hope flowed through his veins.

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