Author: Heidi Vanderbilt
Category: Other
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Visa had called wondering when her payment would arrive. There were three hang-ups. When she looked at caller ID, she found only toll-free numbers. Then Kristine had called.
“Billie? This is Kris. How’s Hashtag doing? Are her cuts healing okay? Call me back.”
Billie promised herself that she would call her back later in the morning after she checked on the mare’s wounds.
The last message was from Richard.
“Hey there, Billie Snow. I’ve got you on my mind. So, call me back, okay?”
He’d called around nine. It was now almost three in the morning. She stretched out on the futon in her clothes, intending to sleep until dawn, but bounded up again. At the table, she shuffled through the clutter of papers, books, and handwork projects, dividing stacks and re-stacking them. She found a strand of rope she’d been tying into a halter then abandoned, and tossed it aside, maybe to work on later. She found notes from an essay she once thought she’d write, about moving to Arizona and starting a horse business. She found some knitting patterns she’d misplaced, for felted slippers and a ribbed watch cap. She stared at the cap pattern a minute, trying to remember if she’d planned to make it for Frank or someone else. There had been other men but none she had knit for. The cap looked like something she could have made for Frank when they were together. Maybe the pattern dated from her time in Manhattan. She slipped it onto the top of a shelf of books in case she decided to make it for him now.
Grabbing a Sharpie, she scribbled a list of things she wanted to be sure she had in place before she left for Tennessee. Should she bring Gulliver with her or leave him? She’d need someone to take care of the place while she was gone. She’d have to let Kristine know she’d be away and make special arrangements for Hashtag if the mare still needed extra care.
She fell asleep at the table with her head on her folded arms. Gulliver woke her, pawing to go out. She looked at her watch. She’d slept until nearly eight o’clock. When she opened the door, Starship bellowed and banged his feeder. She slipped into her flip-flops and followed her dog outside.
She scolded herself that she should have gotten up earlier, but she was barely awake as it was. After she fed the horses, she changed Hashtag’s bandages, bent over, sweat making itchy prickly splotches on her face and neck that dried so fast they stung. The horse was healing. The lesser scratches had already almost vanished, and most of the deep ones were improving. There were two places, however, that worried her. One was a laceration close to the mare’s left eye, swollen and oozing pus. Billie cleaned it with a gauze pad soaked in Betadine, a procedure Hashtag objected to by tossing her head every time Billie tried to touch it. It took almost a half hour of target practice to clean and disinfect the cut. Billie gathered up the used gauze pads from the ground, squeezed them into a wad, and stuffed them into the hip pocket of her shorts so Gulliver wouldn’t get them.
The other spot that worried her was in Hashtag’s right front armpit, where several strands of barbed wire had tangled, creating a mess of intersecting gashes with islands of flesh between them. She wasn’t sure what to do. She’d like to get Doc out. But Kristine had told her she didn’t want any more vet bills and that the accident had been Billie’s fault. Billie could have referred her to the part of the boarding contract that said the horse’s owner was responsible for any sickness or injuries, but she was afraid Kris would take her horse away if they argued.
Billie sighed and filled her cupped palm with Betadine, turning her skin the color of dried blood. She pressed it up against the mess of flesh. Hashtag squealed and raised a hind foot, kicked the air, then set her hoof down. Billie followed that with a splash of peroxide.
“I’m sorry, girl, but we’ve got to get you better, okay?”
The climb back up the hill to the casita in the late morning left her winded and Gulliver panting. His paws seemed to be feeling better, although she could still see bright pink skin when she looked past his scraggly hair. She opened the fridge and took out two ice cubes, dropped one into his water bowl, and sucked on the other then ran it around her neck, over her brow, and up the insides of her forearms. She put more ice into a glass, added water and drank, refilled it, and drank again until the glass was almost empty. She set it on the counter and went to call Kristine to report her mare’s progress.
Fifteen minutes later, she hung up, relieved that Kristine wasn’t going to take her horse away. She’d agreed to leave her with Billie if Billie agreed to care for her injuries without charging extra. It meant more work with no more pay, but if Hashtag left, so would her board fee.
Billie stood in the tub, reaching to turn on the shower, when her cell phone buzzed against the sink where she’d left it. She leaned over, saw it was Richard, and let it go to voice mail. She’d call him later, when she was feeling cleaner and clearer about what she wanted.
Billie watched through the window of DT’s Bar and Grill as Richard parked his super shiny Dodge dually and got out. The window beside her booth was open about six inches to allow airflow so the bar’s evaporative cooler could do its job. The air inside was so chilled she wished she’d worn jeans instead of shorts, and brought a jacket. Outside, she heard the squeal of Richard’s electronic beeper locking the truck. Her own truck, parked beside his, canted a bit to one side like a resting horse. One of the leaf springs had quit a few years back and she’d never replaced it. Its windows were open, the doors unlocked.
While she watched, Richard patted his hip pocket, checking for his wallet or cell phone then, apparently satisfied that he had what he needed, he turned toward DT’s. When he spotted her through the window, he grinned. On the seat beside her, Gulliver wagged his tail.
Richard entered in a blast of late afternoon sunlight and heat then slipped into the seat opposite her. “Hi, little dog. You sure must rate to be allowed in here.” He reached across the table and offered his palm to Gulliver.
Billie smiled. “He’s not allowed in, but DT said it was okay as long as no one complains.”
She nodded at a couple of wranglers with handlebar mustaches and sunburned hands wrapped around platters of huevos rancheros and glasses of icy horchata. Beneath the wranglers’ table lay a couple of blue heelers. And at the other side of the room, a half dozen bikers with fat tattooed arms sticking out of leather vests, their white hair in ponytails, fed bits of bacon to a fluffy Pomeranian the size of a soap bar.
“I guess you’re safe for now,” Richard said with a sigh.
They ordered burgers and curly fries, side salads, and sodas. As they sat talking she found herself imagining a life with him. Breakfasts, dinners. Maybe not for long, but for a while. He had money, kids, and calluses on his palms from his life with horses. It might not work out with him, but for a while it might be good. He did have a wife, Billie knew, but he had said she was on her way out of the picture, living in Tennessee. The kids divided their time between their parents. It was a work in progress, he had said.
“I was married once.” She enjoyed Richard’s small flinch when she said it. “My ex is in Tucson now on business. We met to discuss an article I’ll be writing for his magazine.”
“He works for a magazine?”
“It’s his magazine. Frankly. He’s Frank.”
“Wow, really? I see that magazine everywhere. You still work for him?”
“No. I quit writing when I left him. But I hired back on last night.”
When their food arrived, Richard ordered another Coke, ate some salad, then asked, “What’s your article about?”
“Walking horses.”
“I don’t think I knew you were a writer.”
“Like I said, I took a break from it for a few years. Now I’m back on this new assignment.” She waited, watching him look out the window. When he looked back at her, she said, “I’m hoping you can help me.”
“Always have a native host,” Frank had said when she first worked for him. The weird phrase stuck in her mind. That was what she needed now, someone who lived, litera
lly or figuratively, where she was going. Someone who knew everything she needed to know. Someone who could bail her out or who knew someone who could.
“I want to describe how the breed evolved, who owns these horses, and how they’re trained.”
Richard shifted in his seat, cocked himself away from her, and crossed his legs. Billie sensed that he was a door about to slam shut. “You want me to help you how?”
“Just with some background,” she said. “And maybe some contacts. People I could talk to who would explain things to me.”
“I don’t know…”
Billie reached across the table and touched him, her fingers on his forearm, the same touch she would use to ask a horse to settle. She left her fingers on his arm until he covered them with his other hand, pressed briefly, and let go.
“Let’s go to my house,” he said.
“Let’s.”
CHAPTER 19
THEY SAT OUTSIDE Richard’s log house in the starry dark on deck chairs, a bowl of popcorn on the ground between them, a goblet of Zapara Viognier in Billie’s hand, and a bottle of Dragoon IPA in his. They watched the first of the monsoon storms gathering in the southwest. Lightning played across the sky, each bolt separated from its thunder by several seconds. Gulliver, curled up on Billie’s stomach, trembled with each crash. Richard stood up from his chair and disappeared into the house. She felt herself relax, a small easing of the muscles at the corner of her mouth, as if she’d been holding onto a little smile she could now release. She closed her eyes.
Whatever he’d done in the past, at least he was easy to be with. He didn’t constantly try to impress her, didn’t talk too much or make goofy jokes like most of the men she’d dated since leaving Frank. In spite of the tension that had nearly swamped them earlier in the day, he had invited her to dinner, then to stay on after they had eaten, stretched out on the chairs, watching the first big storm of the summer play out a few miles to the west.
Lightning flared behind her eyelids. Her hand tightened on Gulliver’s back, holding him closer before the bang. Still, he yelped and shivered.
Richard touched her shoulder. She opened her eyes.
“Try this.” He handed her something folded inside a plastic baggie. She unzipped the bag and pulled it out.
“What is it?”
“It’s a ThunderShirt,” he said. “We used to have a cat who was terrified of storms. He died a couple of years ago. It might help Gully.”
She pulled it on him, and he stopped shaking almost instantly. She settled back with her now dozing dog on her belly, her wine in her hand. Richard sat back down beside her.
“How would you describe Eudora?” Billie asked.
“Well, I’m not sure. You know, she raised me.”
Billie turned her head to look at him.
“My mother was away a lot, and when she was home, well, let’s say parenting wasn’t her greatest skill. I practically lived at Eudora and Dale’s barn in Bell Buckle, hanging out with their kids, training the horses, playing with their dogs. I ate and often slept at their house. Their son was my best friend, even though he was a few years younger. We fished the cricks and played ball together. We went to the same school in different grades and took the same bus. So Eudora was pretty much my mom.”
He lapsed into a long silence watching the sky, stretched and crossed his legs at the ankle.
The time between the next flash—two bolts that flew at right angles from each other, one into the ground, the other across the sky—and its thunder was noticeably less. “It’s getting closer,” Richard said. “Did Gully react to it?”
“Nothing,” Billie said. “I’ll get him one of these shirts in Tucson when I go in.”
“You can keep this one,” Richard said.
He folded his hands behind his head. She was aware of him watching her. The kids were in their rooms, their windows shut to keep the cooled air inside, their curtains closed. In the storm’s flashes, she saw his profile, the fringe of his eyelashes, his lips.
When he reached out and rested his hand against her cheek, she turned toward him and slipped her arms around his neck.
“The kids,” he whispered. “We can’t go inside. Come with me to the barn?”
She nodded her head against his chest. Standing, he pulled her to her feet.
“Do we need to tell them?” she asked.
“No. They know that’s where I’ll be if I’m not here.”
He led her past the pool and down the dirt path toward the barn, Gulliver in his ThunderShirt trotting at their heels.
“Be careful!” she said. “Snakes! This is when they’re out at night.”
But he had already reached the barn door. He opened it and half pulled her through, down the aisle past Morning Glory’s stall and into the office where he kissed her again. “There’s a cot,” he said. “I can open it for us.”
“Chair!” She pushed him into the dusty recliner in the corner, slid her hands upward under his shirt then down to his belt. She undid his zipper, straddled him.
He pushed against her. “Take your shorts off. I want to be inside you. God, Billie,” he groaned.
She stripped then hovered above him, hardly moving. She heard a horse shuffle around in its stall, another horse snort, and Richard’s sharp intake of breath as he entered her.
She wanted to look at him as he moved inside her, but in the dark barn office, she could barely see him, only feel his hands on her hips, her breasts, then on the sides of her face, his fingers in her hair.
Afterward, he stroked her back as they listened to the storm. Thunder crashed closer and closer, and lightning sailed through the night sky. Gulliver whimpered.
Billie felt Richard’s fingertips exploring.
“What’s this?” he asked
She pulled away from him. “Nothing.”
“I want to see.”
He reached over and flicked on the overhead light. She watched him discover the network of thin, straight scars intermingled with a Morse code of small round bumps covering her hips, lower belly, and upper thighs.
“What is this?”
“It was a long time ago, Richard. No big deal.”
“You did this to yourself?”
“Some of it. I had some pretty hard years as a kid.”
“Some of it?”
She shrugged, stood, and reached for her shorts. She zipped the fly, gave each leg a downward tug, and almost unconsciously ran her fingertips around the hem, checking her flesh for the telltale ridges of her scars. Finding one, she tugged the fabric again to cover it. When she pulled her tank top over her head, she sensed Richard staring at the filigree of white lines on the tender skin of her inner arms.
“You really did a number on yourself,” he said.
She shrugged. “Ancient history.”
He reached for his own clothes and slowly pulled his T-shirt over his head. “What about the scars you didn’t put there?”
She turned to him, palms up in a STOP gesture. “Like I said. I had some rough times, okay? No more questions.”
The wind picked up. Branches shrieked along the sides of the barn. Sand and pebbles struck the rattling windows. Looking out, Billie saw lights come on in the kitchen windows of the house. The kids were in there, looking for their father.
“I have to get back,” Richard said beside her. “But someday I want you to tell me what happened.”
She stiffened. “Maybe there should be a scar rule for people, like you have for your horses. A limit on what’s allowed to show.”
Wind blew open the barn door and pelted the floor with blown dirt and pebbles.
“Let’s get back to the house before this storm gets any worse.”
Richard grabbed her hand and half-dragged her to the open door. Together they leaned against it to force it closed. Billie scooped up Gulliver, then chased Richard through stiletto rain that soaked their hair and clothes, turned the ground to slippery mud, and formed itself into hail that pelted them as they re
ached the kitchen door.
Billie rubbed her hair dry with the towel Richard tossed her from a folded pile of laundry stacked on the kitchen counter. She pulled her shirt away from her skin and slipped the towel underneath, using the same towel on Gulliver when she was done. Richard handed her a blue polo shirt from the laundry pile. She ducked into the pantry closet, closed the door, and changed among cans of beans, tomatoes, and bags of hamburger and hot dog buns.
When she opened the door, Sylvie was facing her father across the kitchen island. Alice Dean sat on the floor, a toy horse in her pudgy hand. The toy horse trailer lay on its side in front of her. Sylvie and Richard were obviously arguing, but Billie could barely hear them over the pounding hail.
“That’s Bo’s shirt,” Sylvie snapped.
“We got soaked,” Richard explained. Sylvie glared at him, but he ignored it. “You and I will finish this discussion later, all right?”
Another thunder crash muted whatever Sylvie said in return. She stalked to the refrigerator, opened the freezer door, and pulled out a gallon of rocky road ice cream.
“Isn’t this a great storm, Alice Dean?” Richard asked.
“Daddy, I don’t feel good.” She coughed and stretched her arms up toward him.
He lifted her and set her on his hip.
“What’s the matter, baby? You have a tummy ache?”
Billie felt a pang of loss that she would never have a child of her own to cradle and comfort.
Alice Dean coughed again. “No. My throat hurts.” She pronounced it froat.
Richard felt her forehead. “You’re kind of warm, sweetheart. Sylvie, get the thermometer from my bathroom, okay?”
Sylvie pressed her palm to her little sister’s brow then offered her a spoonful of ice cream. Alice Dean turned away. Sylvie set the ice cream on the counter and left—to look for the thermometer, Billie figured.
“I don’t suppose you know a pediatrician?” Richard asked Billie.
“Josie might know one. Josie and Sam, my neighbors? Want me to ask them?”
“Please. Just in case.”
Alice Dean rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes as he carried her up to her room.