If Wishes Were Horses.... Judith Duncan

the time they reached the crest of the hill, dusk had settled and a mountain breeze had blown up, carrying the clean smell of rain. The light wind rustled through the leaves, making shadows dance under the high, bright quartz yard lights.

      Swinging down from the saddle, Conner pulled the reins from around the horse’s neck, then led his mount toward the darkened barn, unbuckling his chaps as he went. He paused briefly outside, straightening the horse’s mane as Big Mac took a long noisy drink from the watering trough. Having drunk his fill, the horse tossed his head, flinging water and making his bridle jingle. Noticing the first glimmer of stars overhead, Conner led Big Mac through the wide barn door, reaching for the switch mounted on a panel.

      Light sprang from four bare bulbs quartering the long alleyway between the big box stalls, casting the cavernous structure in murky light. The sudden burst of illumination startled a flock of barn sparrows in the rafters, and Big Mac raised his head and paused, pricking his ears as three birds darted through the open door. Responding to a tug on his bit, the horse started moving again, his shod hooves making a hollow clip-clopping sound on the thick plank flooring, the sound echoing in the stillness of the barn.

      Conner led his horse past the row of stalls to the far end of the barn, where he looped the reins through an iron ring mounted on the wall. Bone weary, he undid the buckle at his waist and stripped his chaps away, hung them on a hook, then stripped the horse of his tack.

      By the time he led Big Mac into the wash area, most of the vibrant color had faded from the sky, and a deepening darkness pressed against the open door. He picked up the hose and turned on the tap, the sound of running water percolating loudly through the silence. For some reason, that sound made Conner very aware of how alone he was, and he didn’t like it much. He should be used to that by now; it was a feeling that had become his shadow over the years. And one he did his damnedest to ignore.

      Trying to focus on what he was doing, he hosed his horse down. Satisfied that there wasn’t a trace of sweat left anywhere, he turned off the water and picked up a lead shank. Then he looped the rope around the horse’s neck and led him back to his big box stall, the horse’s hooves repeating the hollow clip-clop on the heavy planks. There was a fresh flake of hay and a measure of oats ready and waiting. Removing the lead, he gave the horse a smack on the rump; then he dragged the heavy door shut, shooting the bolt as he hung the lead shank on a hook by the door. He was feeling so damned beat up, he wasn’t sure he had the energy to make it to the house.

      At the doorway, he paused, resting his hand on the frame as he stood staring out. Through the row of trees, he could see the darkened shape of the big old Victorian ranch house, the windows black and empty. Not even a glimmer of light to call him in. Knowing his mood was heading into a dark, empty place, Conner pushed away from the door, set his jaw and turned back toward the lighted shed row. He wasn’t ready to face that empty house just yet. And there was always tack to fix.

      A big old gray tabby cat was already curled up on Big Mac’s saddle blanket, and she rose up and arched her back in a mighty stretch when he turned on the light in the tack room. He scratched her neck, then unsnapped his cell phone and set it on the ledge as a reminder to put it on the battery charger.

      Selecting three new, unused headstalls from wooden pegs on the bare plank wall, he carried them to the workbench in the corner, then reached for the brown bag containing new snaffle bits and new reins. He always had extra tack on hand during branding—and getting these assembled was a job he should have taken care of days ago.

      Turning on the dust-covered radio, he reached for the tray that held his leather tools. Above the soft country music coming from the radio, he could hear the wind change outside, and the fresh smell of rain spilled into the barn. A few moments later, the first raindrops spattered against the small window over the workbench. And Conner could tell by the way it was coming down that it was going to be a steady, all-night rain. Just what his grassland needed.

      As he turned his head, his gaze caught on the old faded picture that hung above the workbench, the glass and frame also covered in dust. It was a picture taken of his father and stepmother years ago, shortly after Mary had come to live at Cripple Creek. She was astride a black horse, the wind ruffling through her dark hair. And she was laughing down at his father, who stood with his hand braced on the neck of the horse looking up at her. That dusty, faded picture had hung there for well over three decades—and was identical to the one that Conner’s father had always carried in his wallet. It was, in an odd way, a significant marker in Conner’s own life. He sometimes wondered how he and his father had gotten so lucky. Because Mary McFie had changed both their lives.

      Conner had no recollection of his natural mother. She had died when he was just a baby, and John Calhoun, a taciturn, reserved, unsmiling man had raised his son alone. Then when Conner was four, a pretty district nurse had come to Bolton, and within weeks, Mary McFie and John Calhoun were married, setting the entire district on its ear. And not only had John Calhoun found a woman who changed his life, Conner had gotten the only mother he had ever known. She had fought John over the raising of his son, treating the somber little boy as if he were her own, and she had made a home for both of them. Once Mary came, it was as if a light had been turned on in their lives as she taught John Calhoun how to laugh. And then when Conner was five, Scotty was born, and Conner had learned what being a family was all about. He could understand why his old man had always kept a copy of that picture close by. It marked the beginning of a whole new life.

      He was just replacing the screw in the last bridle when his cell phone chirped. Conner glanced at the clock on the radio. Ten-thirty. Strange time to get a call.

      He reached for the phone, flipped down the mouthpiece and hit a button with his thumb. Bracing his arm on the top of the workbench, he put the phone to his ear. “Cripple Creek.”

      There was a brief pause before a tiny voice spoke. “Uncle Conner?”

      Going very still, Conner glanced at the clock again, an uneasy feeling unfolding in his gut. It was a Tuesday, a school night. And his eight-year-old nephew was calling from Toronto, which would make it half past midnight there. He straightened and turned to face the door, his hand tightening on the phone. Keeping his voice quiet and easy, he spoke. “Hey, Chucker. This is pretty late for a call. How come you aren’t in bed?”

      There was another brief pause; then the boy spoke, a funny catch in his voice. “Remember how you told me—remember after Dad died and when I was only six, you said that if I ever was…um…was…um, you know, worried about anything, I was to call. Do you remember saying that?”

      The uneasy feeling turned to something sharper, and suddenly Conner’s heart felt too big for his chest. His whole body tensed, he licked the sweat off his lips and spoke, forcing himself to use the same quiet tone to answer. “Yes. I remember.” He hesitated, looking for the right words, then spoke again. “Maybe you should tell me what’s got you worried, all right, sport?”

      “Just a minute. I hafta close the door.”

      There was the sound of a door closing, then a rattle as the boy picked up the receiver. “I’m in the kitchen and I don’t want Mom to hear,” he whispered into the phone.

      Conner made himself relax his jaw. “Where’s your sister—is she there with you?”

      “No. She’s asleep in bed, Uncle Conner. It’s only me.”

      The anxiety in Conner’s gut intensified, and he walked over to the tack room door, then rested his hand on the overhead frame. Bracing himself, he asked the question he dreaded asking. “Is something wrong with your mom, Cody?”

      “Yeah,” came a soft whisper. Then louder. “I think so. I think something’s wrong. I sometimes hear her crying at night, and she’s acting funny and she doesn’t go to work anymore. And she forgets things and she yells over dumb stuff.” He hesitated, then spoke again, a definite wobble in his voice. “I’m kinda scared.”

      A cold sensation spread through Conner’s middle and his insides bunched into a hard knot. When he had told the kid to call if he was ever scared or worried, he had done it to offer the boy some reassurance. And he had meant what he’d said. Only