All the King's Horses (16 page)

“Uh, no.” I cocked my head. “Is she doing something with it?”

He shrugged. “She said something about getting Blue into it.”

I blinked. “Blue? Seriously?”

“She’s allowed to work with him, ain’t she?”

“Yeah, yeah, she is. But…the trailer…” The day I took Blue from McBride’s place flickered through my head, and even the post-sedative attempts at getting him to load weren’t pretty. “I’m just going to go check on her.”

I left the office and headed back out to the parking area, walking just a little faster because I had visions of all the disasters that could unfold once Blue realized he was getting into the trailer. As I stepped out of the barn, I couldn’t see Amy, just Blue. He stood behind the trailer, his front feet at the bottom of the ramp and his neck stretched out as far as it could go. His jaw moved like he was chewing something.

Well, that was promising, I supposed. I’d never seen Blue so calm within spitting distance of a trailer. He wasn’t in a great hurry to get in it, but he wasn’t freaking out either.

I approached slowly but not silently. I wanted to be sure he heard me so I didn’t scare him. My feet crunched on the gravel, and as I got closer, Blue lifted his head and looked at me.

He still seemed entirely too calm. How strange. And he wasn’t loose; his lead rope drooped a little from below his halter, then curved upward to where it was either tied or held.

As I came around the side of the trailer, I found Amy. She stood on the other side of the divider, casually leaning on it and holding the other end of Blue’s lead rope. Hair pulled back in her baseball cap, she was dusty, she was sweaty, and she looked just as amazing as she ever did.

She smiled. “Hey. Hope you don’t mind me using the trailer. I would have asked, but you were gone.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I reached up and scratched Blue’s withers. “How’s he doing?”

“Oh, he’s thinking about it.” Amy shrugged, smiling down at Blue as he strained to reach a tiny pile of oats on the mat inside the trailer.

“How long have you been working on him with this?”

“Just started,” she said. “Well, okay, like an hour ago.”

I nodded, watching Blue. “Looks like he’s making progress.”

“It’s getting less scary, at least,” she said. “But we’ll see how long it takes for him to get all the way in and stand quietly for a road trip.”

“One thing at a time, right?”

“Yep.”

“Just watch him when he backs up,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Has a bit of a problem with rearing.” I gestured at the top of the trailer. “Could be an issue in here.”

Amy smiled. Without a word, she came down the ramp. She gave the rope a tug, and Blue raised his head.

“Back,” she said, her tone firm but not sharp as she stepped toward him and tugged the rope again. “Back up.”

And I’ll be damned if Blue didn’t take one step back, then another. After five straight, quiet steps, she looked at me and grinned.

“What were you saying about having problems with him?”

“I stand corrected, apparently.” I held out my hand. “Mind if I give it a try?”

“You’re the boss.” She handed me the coiled lead rope.

I looked at Blue. “Back.” I stepped toward him and kept the rope taut. “Blue, back up.”

He resisted for a second but then did as he was told. Not exactly straight like a show horse would be expected to do, but he sure backed up, and he didn’t rear or fuss. When I asked him to stop, he did so just as quietly.

“Wow.” I handed the rope back to Amy. “How long did that take you?”

“Couple of days.” She led him back to the trailer’s ramp and took her place by the divider again. “Maybe it’s an issue with the bit. He really hasn’t given me much trouble backing in a halter, but I haven’t tried bitting him up and then doing it.”

“Hmm.” I watched Blue strain for the pile of oats in the trailer that he couldn’t
quite
reach. “Maybe that’s the next step, then.” I looked at Amy. “He ground-drives very nicely, but that’s where I ran into the rearing issue.”

“Want me to try ground-driving him?”

“If you—”

I stopped as Blue took a step onto the ramp. Then another. He was still outside the trailer, but he’d gained some ground. His head and neck, plus the very point of his shoulder, were inside, and his front feet were on the ramp.

“Good boy.” Amy patted him as he munched triumphantly on the oats that were now well within reach.

“So what else is on his agenda?” I asked. “Now that trailering is a little less traumatic?”

She smiled. “Well, let’s not celebrate this one yet. He’s only partway in.”

“Still…”

“We’ll celebrate when we can drive him around the block and unload him without drugging him within an inch of his life.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“But I’m also working on some other stuff with him.” She finger-combed a tangle out of his short black mane. “Mostly just getting him used to being handled. Ground manners. That kind of thing.”

“And he’s getting better?” I asked. “In general?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Much. He’s not walking over the top of me anymore, and he’s just been quieter across the board lately.”

“Good to hear,” I said. “Oh, and if you want to ground-drive him, the surcingle and reins are in the tack room. There’s a bridle hanging right next to the surcingle. I last used it on Star, so you might have to adjust it for him.”

“I might give that a try tomorrow. He’s been—”

Blue took another step. One rear foot made it onto the ramp. Then the other. Amy and I both watched in still silence as he tried to reach the next pile of oats. His front left foot started to lift off the ramp, but he kept trying to reach the treat on his own.

Then, he put his foot down.

Inside the trailer.

A back foot moved up the ramp. The other front food landed in the trailer.

“Good boy!” Amy patted his back again. “Good boy, Blue.”

“My God,” I said. “There might be hope for him yet.”

“Yes, there is.”

Moving slowly and carefully, Amy ducked under the divider and came up on the same side as Blue. She let him finish his oats, which of course meant giving him a chance to vacuum every square inch of rubber mat within reach in case he’d missed one.

“Okay, buddy,” she said, bringing his head up. “That’s enough for one day.” She stepped toward him. “Back up.”

He backed up. His steps were slow, not quite as steady as they’d been when we backed him on level ground, but Amy didn’t push him as he carefully navigated the ramp.

She looked at me and gestured at the side of the trailer. “There’s a coffee can on top of the wheel well. Could you hand it to me?”

I picked it up and held it out to her. She scooped out a handful of oats and offered it to Blue.

As he ate it, she praised and patted him again.

Tousling his forelock, she said, “Maybe tomorrow, we’ll try getting
all
the way into the big scary box.”

“Looks like you’re well on your way,” I said.

She nodded. “I just didn’t want to push him today. Better to quit while we’re ahead and not have to deal with scaring him all over again on his way out.”

“Good idea.” I patted Blue’s rump. “Well, whatever it is you’re doing, keep it up. He’s doing great.”

“Thanks.”

I smiled, then turned to go.

“Dustin.”

I turned around.

Amy smiled. “Thank you. For letting me do this.”

“Thanks for doing it,” I said. “You’re making great progress with him.”

Neither of us spoke. We just exchanged smiles, and then went back to our own tasks.

And maybe it was just because my initial impression of her was so far off from reality, but she couldn’t possibly have imagined what it did to me, seeing her working with Blue like this. How much more attractive she was now that I’d seen her gentle, experienced hand working with the horses. Nothing put me off a woman more than apathy and indifference toward animals, and by the same token, nothing made her more attractive than…well, than this. Exactly what Amy was doing now with Blue.

I wondered if she had any clue at all what she was doing to me.

Chapter Eleven

Amy

I knew it would happen sooner or later, and one night it finally did. The numbness that had encased me since well before—and especially since—my husband’s death finally cracked.

No, it didn’t crack. It shattered.

It was maybe an hour or two after I’d finished the late-night feeding. All afternoon, the clouds had gathered on the horizon, and the sharp scent of ozone stung my eyes and nose, and I knew what was coming. I didn’t even take Blue out today because I was too edgy, too wound up, and I’d have made him nervous.

As I came in from the barn for the last time, a few drops tugged at my hair and slipped under my collar and thudded on my shoulders, and my heart thundered as I pushed open the front door. Thank God for the vodka I’d picked up the other night. I was two shots into the bottle when the lightning came, and two more when the sky broke open.

I finally crumbled because it rained that night.

Not the kind of rain that whispered in the background like white noise. Not the kind where I’d step out the next morning and notice the grass was wet but not actually remember the rain falling the night before.

No, this was brutal, hard rain. Bullets on the roof, whip lashes against the windows, until the gutters choked and sputtered and the splashing on the porch drowned out the wind that tried to get a howl in edgewise.

And I couldn’t breathe. And the alcohol wasn’t enough. And I sat on my bed, knees against my chest and hands over my ears, begging the rain to stop, because Sam had died in a storm like this. The pounding drops muffled the thunder until I could barely even feel it, never mind hear it, but through the cacophony of splashing and crashing, nothing—not even shot after shot of vodka—could silence the phantom motorcycle. It was forever riding away, fading like it would eventually disappear into the distance, but no matter how far it went, I could still hear it. Could still feel it. Could still sense the resonating purr that no storm could wash away.

The words I’d shouted at the slamming door that night were bitter on my tongue, my eyes still stinging and my long-since-healed cheek still throbbing, and every flash of lightning was the arc of squad car high beams that had come through the living room window just before the news came that I’d gotten the wish I hadn’t really meant.

God, I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t!

Thunder shook the walls around me, and it was too close to that night, too much like the long, angry hours before I knew Sam was dead. Too close.

I couldn’t tell the liquor from my crashing sanity, and I couldn’t tell the remembered sounds from the real, but I had to get away. Away from this noise that was going to drive me the rest of the way out of my fucking mind, so I jumped out of bed. I didn’t know where I was going, what I was doing, only that I was moving. Out of the bedroom, down the hall, across the tiny living room, and out the front door.

I felt more than heard the door bang shut behind me, and by the time it did, I was soaked to the bone and cold and I could still hear that damned motorcycle over the phantom voices that wouldn’t stop telling me he wasn’t coming back.

I dropped to my knees. Cold mud soaked through my already rain-saturated jeans, and gravel bit my skin, but I was only distantly aware of it. Water slid between my fingers and down the backs of my hands and forearms, and tried to creep under my palms, but they were pressed too tightly against my ears for anything but the sound of rain and a motorcycle to break through.

The storm stole my husband’s name from my lips, drowning it in thunder and blowing it away into the night, and my throat was raw and I couldn’t tell my tears from the rain on my cheeks. Week after week of numbness, and now it broke open with a flood of grief and pain and guilt I couldn’t hold back if I tried, and I didn’t try because I was drunk and exhausted and broken and not nearly drunk enough.

Warmth met my shoulders. Surrounded me. Pulled me off balance, but then caught me, and someone was there. Beside me. Holding me. Speaking over the rain and sheltering me while I shivered and cried and screamed for Sam to forgive me.

Warm fingers closed around my wrist and pulled my hand away from my ear, and the shivering and shaking worsened as the storm and the engine reached deafening levels.

“Amy.”

My name came as a whisper, soft and gentle, and I couldn’t understand how I heard it in the midst of all this unrelenting noise.

Tears and rainwater stung my eyes, but I blinked until I could see his face. Faint, warm light from somewhere illuminated familiar features.

“Let’s go inside.” Dustin’s voice was as soft as his touch. He didn’t have on his hat, and water ran through his hair and down the sides of his face. “Come on.”

With his help, I stood on shaking, rubbery legs. The world wobbled beneath me, and I grabbed on to him for balance. My hands only met bare skin, though. Why wasn’t he wearing a shirt? Then the world lurched again, and I stumbled, and I forgot about his lack of a shirt or why we were out here, and just tried not to fall as he led me toward the house.