Candace Carrabus - Dreamhorse 01 - On the Buckle (21 page)

I slipped into my boots, and first went to the kitchen and grabbed all the whipped cream. Then, I found socks, jeans and a couple of tee-shirts.

That was when I realized there was something was missing.

“My underwear is gone,” I said. “He took all my underwear.”

~~~

“JJ wants everything that’s mine,” Malcolm told me later. “Or anything he thinks I want.”

Did my underwear fall into that category, or me, or what?

We were in his living room, sitting in front of a fire. I watched him from my perch on the couch where I sat Indian style, a heavy tartan blanket around me like a teepee. He’d changed into shorts and had a well-worn easy chair pushed back with his bare feet up.
 

When we’d gotten to the house, he’d showed me where the shower was and brought me a set of his own sweats. Way too big, but comfortable and comforting all at once.

I sipped warm brandy. Topped with a generous dollop of whipped cream, it would do. Between that and the fire and the fact that it was three in the morning, the edge was beginning to wear off. I’d finally stopped shaking after standing under a steaming shower for forty minutes, but I liked the fire’s cheery crackle, even if Malcolm had a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“But why you? Why does he want what you have?”

Malcolm lowered the footrest and turned his scotch glass between his palms. “He thinks we owe him. His father took off one day. He’d been mowing hay with my father down in the south end of the farm, and said he needed to go home for a while. Their place wasn’t far, so he left his truck and headed into the woods. He was never seen again. Ever since…Dad thought we should take care of JJ.”

He took a moment to stare into the fire. “Dad would give him money, but he’d spend it on beer, and later, drugs. He gets in fights.”

I touched the side of my head where JJ had hit me. My fingertips played over a bump at my hairline. It was similar in size and location to Sandy’s bruise. “Does he wear a ring on his right hand?”

Malcolm narrowed his gaze. “Something that was his father’s. Why?”

“No reason. Go on.”

“For the last couple of years, I’ve tried to help him out by giving him odd jobs.”

That was a misplaced sense of loyalty if I’d ever heard one. Yep, Malcolm was too damned nice for his own good.

He shook his head, looked at me. “If I’d had any idea this would happen—”

“Forget it,” I said. “It wasn’t your fault. Nothing happened.”

He took a big swig of his scotch. “That’s not true, Vi. He hurt you. You should get an order of protection.”

“No thanks. I’m okay, really.” Was the “Big Fat Lie” sign blinking on my forehead again?

He shook his head again, whether in frustration with me or his history with JJ, I couldn’t tell.

“I’d hoped with time…nothing’s changed. Nothing. He belongs in prison, but I doubt they’ll hold him long. Even if you pressed charges, his mother or some stupid girl would bail him out.”

I felt the bruise on the side of my head again. Some stupid girl all right.

- 22 -

I slept for a couple of hours on the couch. Noire woke me at dawn with a damp snuffling nose and a few well-placed licks. Malcolm snored in the easy chair. Great, now we’d slept together. I gathered my things, including my whipped cream from the fridge, and started the day. I wanted to lose myself in work. That way, I wouldn’t think too much. If I did, I might get in my truck, start driving, and never come back. What would it take for me to say
enough already
?

Malcolm brought me a cup of coffee, and a ham, egg, and cheese sandwich around seven. He took over walking Barbie. Watching him move away from me—his stride covered ground without making him look like he was in a hurry—I knew the idea of driving off and not returning was a joke. I was a long way from
enough already
. After all, he’d waited up for me. No one had ever done that. Not to mention charging to my rescue loaded for bear. I owed him one. Or two.

I took my sandwich and drink to Cali’s stall. Strange place to eat, a horse’s stall, I know, but I liked being around her. She dozed with one hind leg hooked behind the other, eyes at half-mast, and I admired the glossy darkness of her coat. Hours of grooming went into making her look like a just-poured cup of hot cocoa. Sometimes I thought I could smell chocolate when I was around her.
 

I sat on the floor where I could feel her warm breath glide over my hair. My body ached from being tossed and whatever chemical was left after the adrenaline had done its job.

Cali sniffed what I had and turned her lip up—she didn’t like coffee. Noire didn’t either, so she sat with her back to me, but kept darting hopeful glances at my sandwich. The horse and the dog smelled each other. They got along, and seemed to agree on most things—like the worth of coffee—though I had no real idea what they communicated to each other with those noses. Maybe I should take up sniffing people. Not their crotches, of course, but the animals seemed to glean a great deal of information that way. Cali liked to smell my neck for some reason, but it was hard to stay still while her whiskers tickled my earlobe.
 

Malcolm brought Barbie into the barn. She liked to pause just inside the doors, as if taking the measure of the interior before agreeing to enter. More likely letting her eyes adjust to the difference in light from outside. I heard him mutter an irritated “C’mon,” and she continued.

Me and my buddies, the deputies, got to chat yet again. They managed, just, to not smile when I listed the missing five bras and eight pairs of panties. They dusted for prints—but everyone knew whose they’d find—and said I could clean the place up.

Hank and Clara showed up shortly after to do just that. She put a plate with a slice of apple pie on it in my hands and insisted on taking home everything that could be put in a washing machine.

“I can do that,” I told her.

“Suppose you could, but I’m going to.” She sat next to me on the tack-room steps while I ate the pie. “You okay?”

I shrugged.
 

“You want and come stay with us tonight? We got room.”

I gave that a minute while I tried to imagine getting comfortable in the upstairs bed. “I will. Thanks.”

Dex Two arrived and busied himself grooming Miss Bong while I finished cleaning stalls. Sandy called to see if I was all right. She said she had a few things to take care of, and since we were closed anyway, did I mind if she didn’t come in? Of course I didn’t. She sounded distracted, so I let her go, but I did want to find out more about her “boyfriend,” to compare bruises.

While I adjusted the girth on Anna, the only horse in the barn besides Gaston or Cali who had a prayer of keeping pace with Miss Bong, another car drove in. This one, a champagne-colored Caddy. A young girl bounded out of the back seat before the driver stepped out.

“Daddy, daddy!” the girl called, running down the aisle.
 

Malcolm stepped out of a stall and scooped her into his arms. She whooped with delight, and buried her face against his shoulder. That was a fine place to be, I knew. And he smelled good too. Like soap and starch, and manly sweat. Sweat, but not fear.

My own fear the night before had been palpable, to me, anyway. If I didn’t guard my thoughts, it would ooze through my pores again, and I could pluck it off my bare skin with two fingers.

“Nicky, my girl,” Malcolm said on a sigh. He hugged her tight, and I think he took a big gulp of her little-girl scent.

Nicky, his daughter. I got that unfamiliar rising feeling in my chest again, seeing them together.

“Look what I have!” she said. She started to give him something, then snatched it back. “Close your eyes.”

He put her down, did as she said, and held out his hands, palms up. She put the item in them, and he looked at what lay there. A shadow crossed his face. It was gone in a blink.

Nicky jumped up and down. “It’s a cell phone. My own cell phone.”

He glanced to the front of the barn where a woman had emerged from the car. She was petite with severely coifed blonde hair that was too yellow to be real and shellacked to a bulletproof sheen. She must be Brooke. She wore cinnamon-colored jodhpurs, expensive and highly polished black paddock boots, and a gauzy, pale-green, sleeveless ratcatcher. Her arms were tan and toned, and her butt looked like she spent most of her time on a stair-stepper—when she wasn’t at the hairdresser.

“Why don’t you go find Mike, Nicky,” Malcolm said. “I’ll catch up.”

“But Daddy—”

“Go on.”

She made a face, but did as she was told, walking my way with her head down, the cell phone hanging from her wrist by a pink strap. Malcolm intercepted Brooke.

“A cell phone?” I heard him say to her.

“Hey there,” I said to Nicky before she ran into me.
 

She stopped and stared at me. She must have her mother’s eyes, I thought. They were dark, and she had glossy brown hair that reminded me of Cali’s shiny coat. It was pulled into a ponytail with a purple ribbon. She wore jods and paddock boots and a ratcatcher, just like her mother.

“Who are you?”

“Viola Parker. I work here.” I put out my hand.
 

“Oh, your name rhymes with—”

She stopped herself for some reason, and did not return my shake. Instead, she just stood there, looking lost. I glanced at her parents. Brooke had her arms crossed. I could hear bits of their conversation.
 

Malcolm said, “A cell phone—for an eight-year-old?”
 

Brooke asked, “What do you care?”
 

“I’d like to see your phone.” I said. If I could hear them, she could too. “Mine’s in the tack room. Let’s see if they’re the same.”
 

With a glance over her shoulder toward the other end of the barn aisle, Nicky shrugged and followed me.

We sat on the loveseat. I opened my phone and held it next to hers. “Wow,” I said, “yours is way better than mine. Look at how big the buttons are.”

She nodded. “I can make it ring like a horse’s whinny.”

I widened my eyes. “Seriously? Coolio.” Mine rang when I got a call. That’s all I expected.

“None of my friends have phones, though, so I can only call Mommy.”

“Oh,” I said. “Let me see it for a minute.” She gave it to me, and I poked around the menus for a moment, pushed a few keys.

“What are you doing?”

“Programming in some numbers. Here, let me show you.” I put it back in her hands. “Push and hold the number two like this, and that will dial your daddy’s house, okay? And on the number three, I put his cell phone.”

She looked at it like it had turned into a pink lollipop. “Thanks, um—”

“Vi. Just call me Vi.”

She stared at the phone, looked at mine, then at me, and back at her phone. “Can you put in your number?”

“My number?” This is why I don’t mess with kids. They’re always one step ahead of me. “What would you want my number for?”

She shrugged. No reason. But somehow, more numbers made it better. It wasn’t that long since I’d been a kid.
 

“Okay.” She handed the phone back to me. I put in my cell number. “Now, what if one of your friends is going to call, but you don’t want anybody else to know?”

“What do you mean?”

“See this?” I pointed to a button on the side. “Watch.” I lowered the volume until the screen indicated the phone was on vibrate. “Give me your number.” She did, and out of habit, I added it to my address book. “Put your phone in your pocket.”

She cast me a skeptical look—no one can do skeptical like an eight-year-old—but did as I suggested.
 

“Stay here.”

I went into the barn aisle, stood where I could see through the tack-room door window, and dialed her number. When her phone started vibrating in her pocket, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Her face went from shocked surprise to delight in a breath. She smiled, pulled out the phone and answered.

“Is this Miss Nicola Malcolm?” I asked.

She put her hand over her mouth and giggled. This is why parents don’t like me to mess with their kids.

“How’d you know my real name?”
 

Good guess. I made my voice very serious. “Miss Malcolm?”

“Yes?” she squeaked.

I heard a shuffle not far away, shot a quick look—Malcolm was headed toward me. “Shit.”

“What?” Nicky shouted at her end.

“Gotta go. Later, kiddo.” I clicked off.

She pointed at me. “You said the “
S”
word.”
 

“Quiet.” I made a cutting motion across my throat.

She closed the phone and busied herself near the bridles.

“How are you doing?” Malcolm asked.

He managed to convey more than one meaning with his question—how was I doing with what had happened the night before? How was I doing with Brooke and Nicky there?

“Okay,” I said. “Keeping busy.”