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