Home to Hope Mountain. Joan Kilby

the Hayley we saw this morning,” Summer said.

      “Her?” Now that his annoyance at being startled had passed, Adam recalled blue eyes, a full mouth and fresh, natural beauty.

      “They call her the ‘horse whisperer.’” Tom’s voice was tinged with a hint of awe. “I can vouch for her expertise. My brother suffered from debilitating anxiety attacks after being trapped in his car by the fire. Hayley and her horse therapy healed him.”

      “Do you have her number?” Adam asked.

      “No, Dad,” Summer moaned. “She’ll just be another dopey do-gooder who tries to get me in touch with my feelings.”

      Behind the sullen facade Adam caught glimpses of a desperately unhappy teen, and his heart broke. How had his little girl come to this? Where had he failed her? He was floundering, with no idea how to fix her. Therapy from a horse whisperer sounded flaky, but he had to help Summer, and right now he was feeling desperate. “You’d get to be around horses.”

      “I want to ride, not...” She chewed on her thumbnail. “I don’t even know what’s involved.”

      Tom had been searching his computer files for the contact details. Now he wrote down the information and passed it across the desk. “She’s not great at answering her phone but you’d probably catch her if you go out there.”

      “Apparently she’s our neighbor. We won’t have time to stop in today but we’ll call on her tomorrow.” Adam pocketed the slip of paper, then placed a hand on Summer’s shoulder. “Now it’s time to face the music.”

      “What do you mean?” She looked up at him, panicky.

      “If you ever want to have another horse you have to show me you intend to clean up your act. First, we go to the gift shop so you can apologize to the owner. Then we visit the police station.”

      “Please don’t make me go back to the shop,” Summer moaned.

      “Come, sweetheart,” he said, tugging her to her feet. “We’ll do it together.”

      * * *

      “STEADY, ASHA,” HAYLEY MURMURED to the dapple-gray mare backed against the rough-hewn log rails of the corral. Slowly she advanced across the muddy ground, gently slapping long leather buggy reins against her legs. She lowered her shoulders, relaxed her mind and tried to radiate calm.

      Shane, her black-and-white Australian shepherd, lay just outside the fence, his muzzle on his front paws, his eyes alert to every movement.

      Asha snorted, eyes wild. She arched a neck marred with jagged scars and danced away from Hayley, tossing her silver mane and tail. Feeling her frustration rise, Hayley stopped. Nearly a year on, she’d made almost no progress with the registered purebred Arab.

      Asha’s scars meant the show ring was out of the question, but she could still be bred and used in the Horses for Hope program—if she could be handled. Aside from the loss of income, which was certainly an issue, Hayley was hurt and baffled that she couldn’t connect with her own horse—especially given that her nickname was the “horse whisperer.”

      Tipping back her battered Akubra hat, she pushed strands of dark blond hair off her forehead. At least no one was around to witness her humiliation except for Rolf and Molly. Her father-in-law was busy installing a hot water heater outside the garage where she’d been living since the fires destroyed her home. Earlier he’d put in a water tank to collect rain off the roof. Rolf wasn’t paying attention, but no doubt her mother-in-law was watching through the single small window at the back of the garage. Molly would be sympathetic, not critical, but still...

      Molly emerged from the garage carrying a steaming mug. Her rounded figure was clad in a loose floral top and stretch pants, and she stepped gingerly over the muddy ground in her town shoes. “Coffee?”

      Hayley hung the coiled reins over a fence post. “Thanks,” she said, accepting the hot drink. “I can use a break.”

      “Maybe you’re pushing her too hard. That horse has been through so much. You should be easier on her.”

      That was Molly-speak for You should be easier on yourself. But Hayley had to keep trying; it was what she did. “Left alone, Asha will never get better. I’m not hurting her. I’m trying to help her.”

      “How is the rebuilding coming along?” Molly asked, changing the subject.

      “Slowly.” Which was to say, not at all. “But I’ll get there.”

      The 1880s homestead built by her great-grandparents had burned to the ground in the bushfires along with the stables and outbuildings. All that remained was the house’s brick chimney and the concrete block garage, a modern addition.

      Hayley had cleared the car parts and junk out of the garage and put in a table, an old couch that pulled out to a bed and a makeshift kitchen. With the new hot water tank she would have the luxury of hot running water. A few pots of geraniums, her attempt at beautifying her dwelling, stood on either side of the door.

      The fire-ravaged clearing was still charred and black in spots. Temporary horse shelters, a corral and a small paddock had been built between the garage and the dam for her five remaining horses. Besides Asha there were Sergeant and Major, who were brothers, both golden brown geldings with white socks; big old Bo, a palomino Clydesdale; and Blaze, a chestnut mare who’d disappeared the night of the fires. She’d been found three months later by a cattleman in the high country, running with a herd of wild horses. Several months had passed before Hayley realized Blaze was pregnant.

      Despite the devastation, Hayley loved the property where her pioneer ancestors had homesteaded. She and Leif had started their trail-riding business here with the goal to expand to a dude ranch. Her plan to rebuild and fulfill their dream was all that kept her going.

      And until that day came, she gave victims of the bushfires therapy using horses. Like her ancestors, she’d dug her heels in and said, “My land, my home. Nothing and no one will take it away from me.”

      “Leif would’ve been so proud of you,” Molly said. She and Rolf lived in town, on a small block of land that had been spared the vagaries of the fires. They’d asked Hayley to come and live with them, but although their three-bedroom brick home was comfortable, it was no place for a cowgirl.

      “I need an assistant part-time in the café now that winter’s over and the tourists are trickling back,” Molly added. “Do you want the job? You could probably use the extra money.”

      Hayley adored her in-laws. Since the fires they’d been a lifeline. The hard part was keeping them from doing too much. “You and Rolf have been great. I appreciate the offer, but I couldn’t fit it in around my Horses for Hope program.”

      “Leif wouldn’t want you to struggle so hard,” Molly insisted. “He’d hate seeing you all by yourself out here.”

      “Yes, well...” Leif had battled the fire threatening Timbertop, the big estate on the other side of the ridge, and he’d lost. She still didn’t understand why he’d been there instead of at home, defending their property and their animals. Everything they’d worked for, built and loved, was gone while Timbertop’s double-story log home and the surrounding forest had escaped untouched. But that had been Leif’s way, always helping others. He was a hero and she loved him for it, but... “Leif is dead.”

      The words fell flat on the quiet mountain air. In the blackened, twisted eucalyptus that circled the charred clearing, a kookaburra called to its mate. An answering laugh echoed deep in the woods. There was no mate and little laughter left in Hayley’s life—she just felt numb. But she carried on, because that was what she did.

      Molly glanced at the dark clouds gathering overhead. “I heard on the radio we’re in for a storm.” She called to her husband, “Rolf, are you about done? Rain’s coming.”

      “We could definitely use it,” Hayley said. The reservoirs and water tanks needed to be replenished,