Time For Love. Melinda Curtis

      Unlike her sister-in-law, Kathy was a horrible cook. Granted, in the past two years she’d been operating the stove under the influence, but she was convinced you either had the cooking gene or you didn’t. The more Becca’s perfection contrasted against Kathy’s flaws, the stronger Kathy’s desire to get a place of her own became. All she needed was rent money—and Truman by her side.

      Becca hurried down the hall toward them, looking put-together-cute in yoga pants and a thin green sweater. For sure, she didn’t smell of manure and disinfectant. “I didn’t hear you two come in. I was on the phone checking on a client.” Saint Becca, the town’s caregiver to the elderly. She kissed the top of Truman’s head.

      Kathy’s ears filled with a rushing noise, much like the time she’d got caught by a submerged branch at the bend in the Harmony Valley River and nearly drowned. She turned away.

      “Did you meet Felix’s new litter of kittens?” Becca asked Truman.

      Kathy couldn’t resist turning back.

      Truman beamed. He used to smile at Kathy like that, before she’d lost control of the drinking. “I also saw Bea’s baby goats. She calls them kids.” He giggled.

      “I’m going to wash up.” Kathy fled down the hallway. She locked herself in the bathroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror. What an afternoon. A confrontation with a handsome, heartless stranger, followed by another example of how she’d been replaced in Truman’s life.

      She needed...something. She didn’t want a drink. Alcohol didn’t solve anything. But she wanted her son to look up to her and love her, like he used to. Like he did to Becca. She wanted them to be a family again, to have a bond with her son that no one could break. If only he would agree to spend time with her. Alone time. Together time. Precious time. He’d see she was the mother he’d once loved wholeheartedly.

      The shower beckoned. She knew the family wouldn’t hold dinner for her. She could eat alone. But that was the coward’s way out. And her grandfather hadn’t raised any cowards. He’d passed on words of wisdom to her and Flynn after their mother left them here for good—pep talks he’d most likely used on the military men who’d reported to him during his career.

      She met her gaze in the mirror. “Don’t let life push you around. You can win back Truman’s love and trust.”

      She could.

      The more often she said it, the better chance she had of believing it.

      * * *

      FEAR DID AWFUL things to a man. It drained Dylan of energy and hope, and now of morals.

      His old man would have said he’d let a horse best him. And then he’d have followed that up with a besting of his own. His dad’s bloodshot eyes had been wilder and more menacing than any horse.

      Still thinking of the promises he’d made in Harmony Valley, Dylan drove down Redemption Ranch’s thinly graveled, potholed driveway, illuminated only by his headlights. A small car turned in behind him. He parked in front of his paint-peeling, two-story clapboard house. Motion-activated lights flipped on—one from the front porch, one over the separate garage and one near the corner of the double row of stables. They illuminated his crabgrass and scraggly shrubbery.

       Home, sweet home.

      Phantom let out a shrill whinny, more a warning than a welcome.

      Dylan leaned against the dented tailgate, pushing all his concerns—for the black stallion, Kathy and a damaged colt—to the side.

      “Daddy!” A brown-haired, stubby-legged five-year-old boy tumbled out of the backseat as soon as his mother unbuckled him. Zach wrapped his wiry arms around Dylan’s legs. “I want a pony ride.”

      Eileen stood at the car, arms crossed, a frown on her face. He’d considered her kind and beautiful once—short wavy brown hair, whiskey-colored eyes and a button nose. And she had once loved him, back when she’d considered Dylan the man who hung the moon, the horse miracle worker whom everyone wanted to hire. “Cutting it close, Dylan?”

      “I’m here, aren’t I?” Dylan kept his voice chipper for his kid’s sake. He hadn’t enjoyed his parents’ fights when he was a boy—he refused to put his own son through the same. “I had a meeting run over.” He’d stayed too long in Harmony Valley, stopped at the bank and then run into the feed store for a bag of oats.

      “You’re lucky.” Eileen slammed the rear car door. “We’re late.”

      “I’ll have him home on time.” Traffic permitting. The highway between Cloverdale and Santa Rosa was often crowded and slow-moving.

      “You’ve let the Double R go,” Eileen said coldly, before getting back in her car and driving away, puffs of dust a trail of annoyance in her wake. They’d divorced a few years ago. She’d wanted him to get over himself and find a “real job,” one with nine-to-five hours and generous benefits. Then she’d met deep-pockets Bob and filed for divorce.

      “Dad.” Zach squeezed his legs. “I already had dinner. I’m ready to race.”

      “Come on, sport. Let’s saddle Peaches.” Dylan took his son’s small hand and led him to the tack room, ignoring the end-of-the-day ache in his knee.

      Barry, the former jockey turned caretaker, waved at them from his apartment window above the garage.

      Zach leapfrogged forward. “Was Peaches a racehorse?”

      If only Dylan had a dollar for each time Zach asked him this. “Peaches? She prefers to walk regally in the arena.” Plod along happily was more like it.

      An owl hooted in an oak tree. A white barn cat with a crooked tail followed them. Horses stretched their graceful necks between stall bars, sniffing, nickering and stomping in greeting—Sam, a former jumper who balked at fences; Rickshaw, a half-blind bay; Marty, a headstrong trail horse; and so on down the line. Horses that were untrainable or unlovable—at least in their last owners’ eyes.

      “Peaches is a good racehorse.” Zach defended his faithful steed, running ahead as if he’d been born wearing cowboy boots. “I could race her.” He opened the tack room door in the middle of the stable aisle.

      Zach couldn’t kick that pony into a trot if he wore spurs and shot off fireworks, but Dylan wasn’t telling his son that. He followed Zach in, took Peaches’s bridle from its hook, then hefted her small saddle and blanket.

      “Where was Peaches when Phantom kicked you?” Next Zach hurried toward the farthest stall on the end. The last stall had signs posted—Danger! Stay Back! “If Phantom ever came after me, I’d just hop on Peaches and race away.”

      In the last stall, a shrill whinny pierced the air. The other horses drew back into their stalls.

      Startled, Zach searched the gathering gloom as if expecting the black stallion to charge out of the shadows. Dylan kept walking, reminded of the courageous way Kathy had entered the colt’s stall today. But his knee throbbed a warning and Dylan kept his eyes on the bars over the stall windows where Phantom was stabled.

      “Phantom is mean,” Zach said in a hushed voice.

      “He’s just a horse.” A large brute of a horse with incredible speed and the bloodlines of Thoroughbred royalty in his veins. “You know, even if you try to be careful, accidents happen.”

      “He’s mean.” Zach’s brown hair was crisply cut and gelled into place, just the way Eileen liked it. Shifting Peaches’s gear in his arms, Dylan ruffled Zach’s hair, eliciting a giggle from his son.

      Zach, with his ready smile and buoyant attitude, was the balm to Dylan’s setbacks. With his son in his life, Dylan could bear any burden and ride out any storm. Financial worries would be weathered. Physical setbacks overcome. Shattered dreams rebuilt. Maybe even his faith in a horse could be restored given time.

      Peaches loved Zach and