A Gentle Rain (8 page)

He shrugged and looked at a sheaf of notes. "She's about five years old. Come out of a ranch around Apalachicola. Been roughed up pretty bad. Owner beat her with barbed wire. Sheriff confiscated her. Couldn't do nothing to rehabilitate her, though. She's head shy and mean as a snake. But lord, they say she can turn on a dime. Look at them hindquarters. She's got the booty to be a fast horse. Tough mare. A Cracker."

"Cracker?"

"Yeah. Ayers line, this says."

"Got a gait to her?"

"Naw. Couldn't coon rack if you paid her to. Oscar! Put a lead on that gray mare and bring her thisaway so these folks can get a better look. But be careful!"

As we watched, an auction worker tried to get a line on the mare's halter. First she snapped at him, then she tried to kick him. He swiped the line at her and hooked her halter ring. She threw her head sky-high. The lead line zipped through his hands. He hollered and blew on his palms.

The broker sighed. "See there? Dog food. She's dog food."

He walked off.

"Dog food!" Lily moaned. "No!"

Joey gazed intently at the mare. "Don't be scared ofus," he called. "We love you just the way you are. We know what it's like to be different."

The mare pricked her ears and looked at Lily and Joey, like she understood. My gut twisted. Gimme five minutes alone with the man who'd beat a horse that way, and I'd put some scars on him. But the mare was a lost cause.

I'd seen her kind, before. You can't rehab an animal that hates people that much. She'd be a danger to everybody at the ranch. If I tried to breed her with Cougar, she might hurt him. Besides, she didn't even have a coon rack to pass on.

"Poor baby," Lily whispered, never taking her eyes off the mare.

"We love you, you're not dog food," Joey called.

"Let's buy her," Dale whispered.

I shook my head. "Nope. Just say a prayer for her. Maybe Jesus'll find her a good home. That's all we can do."

"Maybe Jesus sent you to take care of her!" Dale said hotly.

I just walked off I couldn't save every wounded soul. Not the mare's, not Joey's, and sure not my own.

My yearlings sold easy, for over one-thousand dollars each. They went to good homes, on ranches I could vouch for. I wished them all a nice life with a pat of my hand, then took a seat in the bleachers to watch the rest of the sales. My crew sat on either side of me, eating sugar-dusted funnel cakes and drinking chocolate Yoo-hoos, except for Cheech, of course, who ate candy bars and bottled iced tea from his snack bag.

The gray mare went up for bids near the last, along with old horses and the lame ones. I hated this part of the auction, and so did my hands. We usually left before it started. But Lily and Joey wanted to see the gray mare one more time.

When two workers led her into the ring-well, not led, exactly, since she dragged them-the auctioneer banged his gavel. "Fifty. Do I hear fifty dollars?"

Yep. Dog food prices. The meat brokers started lifting their hands.

"Fifty," Lily called out. Then she covered her mouth and hunkered down. Mac and the rest of us craned our heads to stare at her. Mac said, "W-what are you d-doing, honey?"

Tears filled her eyes. "They're gonna turn that sweet baby into dog food. I can't let them. I just can't."

"L-lily! We c-can't b-buy... Glen said we're not s-smart enough to t-take care of our own h-horses ... and he doesn't want to p-pay their feed b-bill-"

"Fifty-five," a meat broker called out.

Lily moaned. She looked at me. "Ben! Fifty-five dollars isn't very much, is it?"

Not for nine hundred pounds of dog chow, I thought grimly. "It's not the cost of the mare, Lily, it's the danger. She might hurt somebody."

Joey looked at me anxiously. "Maybe she's just special, like us," he said in a small voice. "Like you always say, Benji. Special. Maybe she just needs a chance."

Oh, Lord.

"Sixty," a second meat broker called out. Lily grabbed Mac's arm. "Glen doesn't have to know. We could pay for the mare's food. Ben wouldn't tell."

Mac got even more worried looking, like his face was in a vise; he could see Lily wanted the mare, and whatever Lily wanted, he'd try to give her. But he didn't want to make his big brother mad. Glen was his legal guardian, after all.

Mac looked at me. "Ben?"

"Damn," I said under my breath.

"Sixty, going once, going twice," the auctioneer called.

"Sixty-one," Lily yelled.

Mac nearly fell over. "L-Lily! I gotta call G-Glen f-first."

"Sixty-five," the meat buyer countered.

Lily leaned over to Miriam, who was pretty much chewing the hell out of a toothpick. "What comes after sixty-five?"

"Miss Lily, you don't need a mean, crazy horse-"

"Sesenta y seis!" Cheech yelled at the auctioneer.

"That means `sixty-six,"' Bigfoot yelled.

Possum, who had huddled down between the seats, held up one hand plus one finger, then flashed one hand plus two fingers.

"Sixty-seven," the auctioneer confirmed.

I hung my head and groaned.

"Seventy," one of the meat brokers yelled. He looked miffed. The mare was prime chow. We were crowding his dog-food action.

"What comes next?" Lily asked wildly.

Bigfoot and Joey conferred. "Seventy-one," Bigfoot yelled.

Now the top bidder was truly pissed. "Eighty," he yelled. Everyone in the stands was staring at me. Including Tami Jo Jackson, who laughed.

Mac clamped a big hand on my arm. "I'll w-work extra to p-pay the m-mare's upk-k-eep, Ben. I guess I don't care if Glen's m-mad at me this once. Lily wants that mare. Help."

"Going once," the auctioneer boomed, lifting his gavel.

"Ben, what comes after eighty?" Lily cried. "Is it a lot? You can have my loose-change jar. Forever."

"Benji," Joey said urgently. "Can't we save the mare? I'll help take care of her."

"Going twice," the auctioneer said.

Damn. Another mouth to feed. One that'd probably bite me.

"One hundred," I called.

The auctioneer pointed to the meat bidder. He scowled and shook his head. The gavel came down. "Sold to Thocco Ranch for one hundred dollars!"

The mare dragged the auction hands to a wall and bounced them off it.

"Mercy!" the auctioneer boomed.

Every rancher in north Florida looked at me like I needed my head inspected.

I did.

Chapter 4

Kara New York

Sedge and I stood at the enormous windows of his Manhattan apartment. I looked up at him gently. "It was you who said I should get out in the world. To take some risks."

"I didn't mean you should seek out your birth parents. You're hoping for answers that may be disastrous for you."

"I'll take that risk."

"But my dear, this situation isn't only about you. It will soon be announced"-he hesitated, studying my reaction gently-"that Charles and Elizabeth Whittenbrook are to receive an honorary, posthumous, Nobel Peace Prize for their work in environmentalism."

The Nobel. I sat down slowly on a chair by the picturesque window.

He touched a soothing hand to my hair. "The award will be presented in Sweden, in mid-October. Just a few months from now. You should be there. It would be their dearest wish for you to accept the award in their honor."

I looked up at him miserably. "Of course I'll be there. But what you're really saying is that I shouldn't tell my birth parents who I am. To protect Mother and Dad's legacy."

He nodded. "You're their only child. Can't you find in your heart to remain solely and simply, Kara Whittenbrook?"

"But I'm my birth parents' only child, too. I have two sets of parents to consider."

"One of which wanted you desperately and the other of which gave you away willingly."

"I don't know that, yet."

He lowered himself into an armchair beside mine. "Can we agree that you'll keep your identity secret at least for now? After you meet your birth parents you may not want them to be part of your life. Please, just don't reveal your name to them right away. I beg you. For your parents' sake. "

After a moment, I nodded wearily. "For my parents' sake."

Kara

Atlanta

"I'd like the 1995 two-door silver hatchback, please," I said loudly, as massive passenger planes roared overhead, streaming the scent of jet fuel across the gray Atlanta skies. A spring thunderstorm had left the air wet, heavy and warm. Thus far, the Peach State looked more like the Soggy Generic Metropolitan Industrial Area State, to me. Complete with urban blight, heavy traffic, and a convenience store with barred windows on every corner. But perhaps the parking lot of a used-car dealership five minutes from one of the world's largest airports did not provide an authentic view of the South's capital city.

A large man with coffee-colored freckles adjusted his Atlanta Braves baseball cap on his grizzled Afro and stared me down. "I got a nice, 2000, four-door compact over yonder. Only twelve-five."

"I want that ninety-five hatchback, please."

"Darling, that car's so old even dinosaurs don't recognize it."

"I want it, please. Manual transmission. Minimal greenhouse emissions. An average m.p.g. of forty, city or highway. It suits me perfectly."

"Whatever you say, darling. Just for you? Six thousand."

"That couldn't possibly be the blue book price on a car that age. You're committing highway robbery."

He scowled toward the steady flow of interstate traffic in the distance. "You want to argue about blue-book value? There's the highway, darl ng. Call your taxi back and go try to sucker some other poor, honest, used-car dealer."

I held up my conduit to the world of car prices. "I have a Blackberry, and I'm not afraid to use it."

He frowned harder. "Awright, awright. Fifty-two hundred."

"Forty-five."

"Forty-eight."

"Forty-six, and I'll pay cash."

He smiled. "Sold. Darlin', I'm impressed."

I signed the papers, handed over a stack of crisp bills, and showed my fake driver's license as proof of responsible intent. Karen A. Johnson, it said. Of New Jersey. Age thirty-two, height five-five, red hair, green eyes, one-hundred-thirty-five pounds. Just slightly overweight for a woman of medium bone structure, but more muscle than fat.

My fake driver's license came complete with a fake Social Security number. It would produce vague results should anyone in authority attempt to check it. Sedge and the Whittenbrook security people were very good at finessing fake I.D.'s.

"Thank you," I said politely, as the car dealer handed me a set of keys to my fuel-efficient used car.

"I hope you know what you're doin', darlin'."

I tugged my organic cotton bush hat down low on my forehead. "Indeed."

An hour later, wrestling Atlanta's legendary traffic, I pulled up at the Ritz Carlton Hotel across from Lenox Square Mall, in the heart of Atlanta's gleaming Buckhead district. Sedge and Malcolm occupied a suite high above the city. I, however, was now merely Karen A. Johnson, hatchback owner, who parked along the curb and received unkind stares from a Mercedes' driver.

As Sedge leaned on a cane and Malcolm fussed over the details, I loaded my tote bags, camping gear, easel, art supplies, cameras, and Mr. Darcy's macaw food.

I loaded the harp, last. It was a folic harp, not a concert model, but still stood five-foot high. I was barely able to wedge it, in its hard-shelled case, atop everything else. Its crest protruded between the front seats.

Mr. Darcy cocked his vibrant blue head at the activity and made only one sentient observation: "Mon Dieu," he said.

"May I ask why you're taking the harp?" Malcolm said.

"I'm a traveling artist and musician."

"You could take a banjo instead."

"I play many stringed instruments, but I don't play banjo."

"Where you're going, everyone plays the banjo. I've seen it in films."

"I believe that's just a stereotype, Malcolm."

When I finished my preparations I turned to Sedge, fighting emotion. He appeared to have the same problem. He cleared his throat. "I'll wait here at the hotel until you arrive safely in the wilds of north-central Florida, my dear." He nodded to the file Malcolm laid on the hatchback's driver's seat. "Your maps. Your motel is ten miles east of the Thocco ranch. You have a room with a kitchenette, reserved for a month."

"I attempted to book you in a closer accommodation," Malcolm added. "But there were only a pair of bed-and-breakfast inns in the nearest small town, Fountain Springs, and neither of them was rated by Zagat or even Triple A."

"Horrifying," I deadpanned.

Malcolm nodded.

I looked at Sedge. "Does my motel allow birds?"

"It does now. Whittenbrook Properties bought it. It discreetly belongs to you."

"No, it discreetly belongs to Kara Whittenbrook." I held up my driver's license. "I'm Karen Johnson. A tad overweight, according to this fake license, but otherwise aptly described."

"I took the physical details off your Connecticut license," Malcolm said. "They're quite accurate."