Loe raamatut: «A Harmony Valley Novel»

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.