Time For Love

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.

CHAPTER FIVE

KATHY COULDN’T STOP thinking about Dylan, the horse savior, and his ranch full of misfit horses. He may look like a cowboy, but he acted like a four-legged rehab counselor. Both she and Chance had been put at ease during their “session.”

“Mama, what are you doing?” Truman stood at the corner of Harrison and Taylor on the town square, his feet buried in reddish-brown leaves. He tugged on Abby’s leash, while she strained toward Kathy.

“I’m walking Mr. Hammacker’s dog.” Perhaps walking was the wrong word. For every few steps she encouraged Dolly forward, the dog sat down, or tried to. Kathy had to be quick with the leash, while doing her best not to choke the little dear.

But forget about Dolly. Truman was here. Talking to her. And thoughts of dogs and ten extra dollars in her pocket evaporated as she tried to think of what she had to offer Truman. All her pockets contained were a Band-Aid, some kibbles and lip balm—nothing to entice a young boy.

Dolly flopped to the ground in defeat, the flopping not worrying Kathy since the dog’s legs were extremely short and her belly extremely large.

Truman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the clinic?”

Of course her bright, young son would know where Kathy was supposed to be. “I got a second job as a dog walker.” He should be proud of her.

“You’re not very good at it.” He pointed at Dolly, who’d closed her eyes, rolled onto her back and extended her paws heavenward.

If the dog hadn’t blinked at Kathy, she might have thought she’d killed her. “It’s my first day.” Kathy glanced at Truman hopefully. She’d walked Grandpa Ed’s elderly Labrador a time or two as a kid, but that dog had been trained to military standards—Kathy hadn’t needed any skills of her own to do a good job of it. And since Abby had been given to Truman while Kathy was in rehab—and presumably been trained during that time, as well—she had little knowledge of how to convince a dog to walk. “Can you help me?”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Truman’s face turned as pale as spoiled milk. He spun around and ran in the direction of home, Abby at his side.

Kathy waited until her son was out of sight to sink to the cold curb next to Dolly. Memories assailed her in a swarm of guilt and remorse.

“Mama, it’s time to go to work.”

“Can you help me get dressed, Truman? Mama feels sick.”

She’d vomited more than once on her precious son during her dark days.

“Mama, what are you doing on the kitchen floor?”

“I fell, baby. Can you help me get to bed? I don’t think I’m going to work today.”

She’d missed so much work they’d fired her.

“Mama, it’s time to leave for school.”

“Can you help me by staying home today, Tru?”

Becca homeschooled him now.

“I’m such a loser, Dolly.” She’d stolen her little boy’s childhood. She couldn’t blame him for trying to defend it now that Becca and Flynn had given it back to him. “I’ve never told anyone what I did to him. How I took away his innocence by being a drunk.”

The small brown dog climbed into Kathy’s lap and licked her chin.

Kathy stroked Dolly’s short, silky fur. “That won’t make up for the fact that you’ve only walked a block, you know.”

It didn’t make up for it, but it was a start. And that was what Kathy needed. A start.

A late-model, faded green Buick pulled up in front of her. It was the ladies of the town council—Agnes drove (although she could barely see above the dashboard), Mildred rode shotgun (although her eyes behind her thick lenses were vaguely unfocused) and Rose sat in back (ballerina prim as ever with her white hair in a tight bun at the base of her neck).

“Do you need a ride, dear?” Agnes asked, which may or may not have been code for We stopped to make sure you weren’t sneaking a drink.

“No, I was just sitting here...” Feeling sorry for myself. An answer that would earn her more questions from the councilwomen than less. The peaked green gable of the empty Reedley home was visible above the Buick. “Admiring the Reedley place.”

Agnes and Rose looked at the unkempt craftsman-style home on the other side of the street.

And then Agnes turned back and said the darnedest thing. “I have a key to that one. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

“Oh, no. I’m not in the market for a place.” Kathy didn’t want a look-see of this house. When she moved out on her own, she wanted to go someplace where no one would report back to Flynn. But what could she say except yes? They were already pulling away, assuming she was interested.

Agnes parked the car in the Reedleys’ driveway. They’d moved away not long after the grain mill exploded. That catastrophe had started a mass exodus since the mill had been the town’s primary employer. Harmony Valley had less than a hundred residents now, most of whom were elderly, too set in their ways or financially unable to leave. Flynn’s winery was slowly bringing people and services back to the geriatric town.

Walking at a speed Dolly appreciated and one that fit Mildred’s walker pace, Kathy followed Agnes along the front yard’s gently curving path to the steps. The bushes were overgrown and the paint was peeling. It needed some TLC. A man like Dylan would know how to fix things.

Where did that thought come from?

From the fact that Dylan took her guff and gave back some of his own. From the way he stood by a colt he thought the odds were stacked against. That was why she’d held his hand earlier in the stable, because he didn’t give up on horses the way others did. A man like that would know how to take a neglected house and make it a home. He’d see things that others didn’t. And the things he did notice wouldn’t make him run away. And okay, she had to admit, he was attractive in a rough-around-the-edges type of way. All of which meant... It meant...

That he’s the type of man I’d be proud to call a friend, she told herself firmly. With Truman and her sobriety her priorities, love was the furthest thing from her mind.

There was a small lockbox hanging from the front doorknob and Agnes had a key. “The town council reached out to several homeowners who’ve left town to determine which properties are for sale or rent. This one’s available either way.”

“One of many we’re finding.” Rose had stopped to examine a rosebush by the steps. “This bush really should be cut back. Cynthia used to get beautiful blooms. Yellow tinged with pink.”

While Rose and Kathy helped Mildred up the steps, Agnes opened the door and said, “We’ve been inundated with house keys. It got too confusing, so Flynn bought us a set of lockboxes.”

“Brilliant,” Rose said.

No one ever applied that word to Kathy.

She and Dolly followed the trio inside the house. Their footsteps disturbed the layer of dust on the hardwood floor. Rose tap-danced toward the kitchen. Dolly sneezed.

Kathy hadn’t wanted to enter, but the house was charming. Sunlight slanted through the windows, catching the dust motes. Built-in bookshelves flanked either side of the brick fireplace. Kathy could almost see Truman playing with Abby in front of the fire. The other corner would be perfect for a Christmas tree.

“If you like it, we can show you the rest,” Agnes said.

Kathy had no money to speak of, certainly not enough for a down payment on a house or even first and last months’ rent. So it made no sense when she said yes.

* * *

SINCE HIS WIFE’S DEATH, Wilson liked things just so.

He had a routine with the television—morning talk shows, afternoon movies, evening crime shows.

The kitchen was organized for ease of use and by the time of day. The first cupboard over the dishwasher held the utensils he needed to make breakfast—spatula, frying pan, a small plate and fork. The cupboard in the corner held his lunch supplies—napkins, peanut butter, bread and a knife. The cupboard next to the stove held his dinner needs—a small saucepan, a bowl, a soupspoon. The spice cupboard held his stash of alcohol, hidden behind a tin of cinnamon and a bottle of vanilla. In the corner, near the door that led to the backyard, was a red braided rug with Dolly’s food and water feeders. He let her out at three-hour intervals—six, nine, twelve, three, six, nine. And took a nip of alcohol each time.

Then his carefully organized life had been thrown a curve. Diabetes required a different diet—vegetables were in his fridge for the first time since Helen had died. It also required lots of pokes—fingers for blood-sugar readings and his abdomen for shots. Becca stopped by twice a day to help him with the pokes and blood-sugar readings. And now, on top of everything else, Dolly needed walking.

Kathy had shown up promptly at three thirty during a commercial break. The change in schedule required a second nip of rum. Now it was after four. Wilson rocked in the living room, waiting for her to return. He couldn’t watch the late-afternoon movie if he was interrupted, so he watched nothing at all.

One thousand twenty-three rocks later, there was a knock on the door. Kathy brought Dolly inside and removed her leash.

When she’d arrived, Kathy had looked as worn-out as Wilson’s brown carpet. Now her expression seemed bright and cheerful.

“You’re late,” Wilson said, holding out a ten-dollar bill.

“I know we agreed on twenty minutes. I didn’t think you’d complain if it took me longer.” She produced a treat from her pocket and fed it to Dolly.

“Should you be doing that? She’s supposed to be losing weight.”

“It’s okay. Dolly needs protein after all that exercise. And...” Before he knew what was happening, she’d crossed the room and hugged him. “Thank you for believing in me.”

What began as a loose, comfortable gesture ended with her jerking away from him. She stared at his face as intently as a traffic cop studied a driver caught weaving. She stared into his eyes, his dry-as-a-wheat-field-after-harvest eyes.

She smelled the rum.

“My wife was an alcoholic,” Wilson blurted. What was he doing telling her this? No one knew. No one had to know.

Kathy, the recovering alcoholic, stood frozen, the joy stolen from her face. Her bright red hair made her skin look white as a sheet.

Wilson almost felt guilty. Almost. But he wasn’t hurting anybody. And he wasn’t drinking to excess.

But she knows, she knows, she knows. He wavered from nonchalance to near panic. No one knew his secret, because no one needed to know.

What if Kathy told someone? “Living with Helen was the hardest thing I ever did. She said she needed chaos to stay sober. It... I used to be an engineer at the mill. I like things just so.” If only he could hold a shot glass in his hand. Even an empty one made him feel more in control.

Kathy’s gaze cataloged the family pictures around the room. Helen in her Sunday best and pearls. Their kids—two of his, three of hers. Grandkids. Kathy didn’t speak. She was waiting for him to admit that he had a problem. That was what recovering alcoholics did. That was what Helen had done.

Familiar anger shuffled through his veins. Wilson didn’t have a problem. He didn’t overindulge and drive drunk. He’d never flown into a drunken rage and beat his wife. He wanted a little nip now and then. That didn’t mean he had a problem. Not like Helen. Not like Kathy. They couldn’t control their urges.