“Be careful, Poncho, you wouldn’t want to scar that pretty face,” he yelled over the rumble of the horses and the crowd. “Your sponsor would drop you.”
The pair raced for the white wooden ball—fifty yards to go to the goal. Wright miscalculated Poncho’s next move. Instead of sending the ball forward, he took a false swing, passed the ball, reined his horse to a stop, swerved to his right, circled back for the ball and redirected it diagonally toward the goal.
Wright turned to his left. Smoothie seemed to sense the strategy. He slowed and then with brilliant agility, jumped sideways and galloped ahead, almost sending Wright off the saddle. He gripped the powerful beast hard with his legs.
Wright visualized the hypotenuse, the shortest distance between him, Poncho and the goal, and didn’t see the accident coming. Smoothie had accelerated to full speed when it hit. In their maneuvering, the rest of the field had caught up to the men, and his own teammate’s horse couldn’t stop and plowed into Wright and Smoothie. The full-speed T-bone crash sent men and beasts flying and landing in a heap. Wright saw clouds floating in the blue sky and wondered why he felt no pain. Then it hit, hard.
It happened so fast, he thought for an instant one of the horses had rolled over the top of him. The sound of a breaking bone was undeniable. He slammed into the ground and found himself face down on the turf. Unable to breathe, he scanned his body for pain—it was everywhere. He forced his body to relax and finally took a breath, then another.
His breathing slowly returned enough so he could push his chest and face off the turf and inspect the carnage. The crowd and the thundering hooves were silent. His teammate’s Thoroughbred was on the ground beside him, but it jumped to its feet with the rider dangling by a stirrup. The rider was able to dislodge himself and stand without injury.
“You okay, mate?”
Wright looked up at Poncho, sitting on his horse with his mallet stick over his shoulder, trying to control his frothing horse with the reins in the other hand. The agitated horse danced from side to side.
Wright started to nod but heard Smoothie struggling behind him. He turned to see his horse lying on his side, kicking and trying to stand. Smoothie let out a painful cry as he fought to roll himself up, flailing his head from side to side. Wright arm-crawled to his horse’s side and wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck.
“Whoa, boy, whoa,” he cried.
The horse writhed, still trying to stand—his agonizing whinny echoed in the silent arena. Smoothie’s massive chest bellowed, fighting for air and freedom. His nostrils flared and his eyes opened wide.
“It’s okay, boy. It’s okay.”
At the risk of getting crushed under the horse, Wright pulled his body over Smoothie to keep him from fighting and causing more damage. The horse’s broken leg dangled at an awkward angle, and Wright’s heart sank.
“Oh, Smoothie, I’m sorry, my old friend. I’m so sorry.”
It took only seconds for the other riders and the Polo Club’s vet to join them, while the horse’s excruciating cries seemed to stretch out for an eternity.
“We have to put him down, sir,” the vet said.
The vet thrust a skillfully placed syringe needle into the horse’s jugular, injecting a strong tranquilizer. The Thoroughbred’s pounding heart rapidly spread the medication to the beast’s brain, and the horse’s muscles relaxed. Smoothie laid his head on the turf, panting like massive bellows stoking a forge fire.
Wright caressed the horse’s neck and watched the vet draw the blue death serum into the large syringe. Smoothie cried as though he knew what was happening. The vet held the syringe up as the lethal liquid caught the sun with a flash of cobalt. Wright shook his head and searched his brain. If there were a way to save the beast he would have spared no expense.
Poncho had dismounted, and Wright could feel a hand on his shoulder. He looked at his rival with tears in his eyes and searched Poncho’s face for help. But Poncho solemnly shook his head. Every rider knew the danger. Every rider pleaded for help when it happened to his horse. But they all knew the answer, even though they didn’t want to hear it. A shattered leg bone is a death sentence to a horse—always had been, always would be. It wasn’t that the bone couldn’t be fixed, it was that the horse couldn’t survive the recovery time supine and to stand, the horse needed all four pillars. Many a compassionate owner had tried saving his horse, only to sentence the animal to six weeks of torturous suffering and finally death. Putting it down immediately was the humane thing to do.
“Shhhhh,” Wright said, rubbing the side of Smoothie’s massive jaw. “Shhh.” Anger rose in his belly. With all his research and development of innovative medicines, he was helpless. In two short decades, his company had advanced medications that people could have only dreamed about. “You will be free soon, my friend.” Wright had no idea of the afterlife, but horses and dogs must go somewhere where they can run free. He pictured Smoothie in full gallop across a green field with tail and mane flowing in the wind.
He looked back at his rival, who dipped his head with understanding. He gave Smoothie another look and saw the undeniable break. He gave the approving nod to the vet.
The sharp needle slid through the thick hide. The vet aspirated to make sure he was in the major vein and then injected the blue fluid into the blood vessel. Smoothie lifted his head, wanting to fight one last time. His heart and mind were willing, his body unable. He snorted, and Wright could feel the massive body relax and let go.
Smoothie gave up the fight.
Wright dropped his head on the horse’s neck and wept.
“You were a good warrior, be free, my friend, be free.”
Wright looked up at the vet and nodded thanks and did the same to Poncho, who still held his shoulder. Poncho could have scored in the mayhem, but, instead, he pulled up short. Polo was a gentleman’s game after all.
CHAPTER 9
THE KISS
The local eye surgeon had not been able to explain Nick’s pain. Nor could he interpret why the scarring over Nick’s eyes was cracking and dissolving, like ice on a frozen river after a long winter. None of the doctors understood why Nick had regained his sight. But Nick knew, and all his friends knew. Ibrahim had once again ushered in a miracle. It was impossible to explain but impossible to deny.
The Wright’s Kids Foundation flew Maggie and Nick to Singapore first-class, so they shared a pod. Their seats reclined flat, and he looked at Maggie lounging next to him. The return of his sight made traveling easier, even though his vision was still a bit fuzzy. Nick and Maggie had met in San Francisco, and now they were midway over the North Pole headed for a short layover in Hong Kong. He pinched his eyes closed and then stretched them wide. The flight attendants had dimmed the lights so passengers could sleep. For a moment, Nick worried that his vision had decreased. He hit a button on the small console between them to turn on the reading light.
“You okay?” Maggie asked. “Still trying to get used to your peepers?”
“Yeah. Just got me a new pair the other day and still figuring them out,” Nick said in a Texas drawl, then laughed. “But I’ll tell you one thing, little lady, you’re sure a sight for sore eyes.” He didn’t want to admit to Maggie of his fear that his returning vision was some sort of fluke and wouldn’t last.
“I’m so happy, Nicklaus—so grateful for your miracle and thankful you could come with me to Singapore.”
“Yeah, my schedule was so full, it took my secretary days to rearrange it.”
Maggie touched his face and ran her hand over the top of his close-shaved head. “When did you buzz your hair?”
He could tell by the tone of her voice she preferred his blond hair long. “It was a few months ago, after the last time you were in Memphis. I was feeling life was futile. I don’t know, it seemed like the easiest thing to do. Don’t like it, huh?”
“It’s different is all. You’re still very handsome,” she said, giving his stubble a rub. She rested her head on the soft foam
pillow and pulled the furry blanket over her. “Have you ever seen such luxury?”
“I never knew flying could be so nice,” Nick said. “I could get used to it if traveling was always like this.”
“I looked up the price of the tickets before we left and felt a little guilty,” Maggie said. “These tickets were twelve thousand dollars…each. You know how many kids I can feed on that?”
“Well, I’m not complaining. It must be God’s will.”
“Huh?” Maggie gave him a puzzled look.
“Sorry. I’m being a little sacrilegious. It was something that Chang said to me before I left. He said, ‘I hope you come to a place where you realize that living your will, not His no longer works for you, and you can say that the only way that works is Your will, Father, not mine.’ So, I was thinking that flying first-class was His will.” Nick looked at her and grimaced with an apology.
“You’re impossible, Nicklaus Hart,” she said and swatted at him. “Did you like working with Chang? He sounds like quite the character.”
“Yeah, he’s amazing—so kind. What I liked most about him is that he spent so much time pointing out what was right with me—not highlighting what was wrong. He said that we all have a true self—one that is made in God’s image. We’re meant to live in the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.”
“Why do you think we don’t live in that true self more?” Maggie turned serious.
“Chang liked to point out that we all have filters over our vision of that true self…kind of like the scarring over my eyes…filters that block or change that vision of ourselves. They can be caused by all sorts of things that point us in the opposite direction.”
“So true.”
“He said that our journey in life is to remove these blinders, these filters, and rediscover who we really are.”
Nick adjusted the pillow under his head.
“We explored some of those things in my own heart. I’m still trying to understand it, but he reminded me that it is a day by day, moment by moment discovery—to see and live in that true self.”
“I think I want to meet this man.”
“You talking about Chang or the new me?” Nick poked her playfully.
“I’m not saying.”
“Speaking of meeting people, have you talked with this Mr. Wright Paul yet?” Nick asked. “What do you know about his foundation?”
“I haven’t talked to him, but the people who work for him are sure nice. They said we would definitely get to meet him. Mr. Paul will hand out the check at the ceremony,” Maggie said. She reached into her briefcase on the floor, pulled out a folder, and handed it to him.
The file was covered with a large graphic—a blue and aqua earth, stamped with a hand print and the text Wright’s Kids next to it. The artist rendered Kids in a first-grader writing style with a red crayon.
“I searched for Wright Paul on the internet,” Maggie said, “And he appears super generous and wealthy beyond belief. I guess he’s made a ton of money in pharmaceuticals. Honestly, it’s hard to find much information on him. Doesn’t seem like one of those guys trying to make every news magazine cover or toot his own horn.”
Nick opened the folder. The first document he saw was the congratulatory letter to Maggie and the Hope Center for successfully securing the four-million-dollar grant. The letter was signed by Mr. Paul himself, not rubber-stamped. Nice touch. He scanned through the remaining papers that listed past and present nonprofits that had received grants. Many well-known nongovernmental organizations were there. Nick nodded. “Pretty impressive.”
In the back of the folder was a listing of the board of directors that included philanthropy’s heaviest hitters. The last picture and bio listed was of Wright Paul himself. Nick tried to focus on the picture. His near vision was worse than his distance but Paul looked super young and casual. The top two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned. He was tanned and fit and looked like he’d just come in from surfing. “Man, he looks young,” Nick said.
“I heard he is around your age…forty-six or -seven.”
“Oh, so, really young.” Nick grinned. “And equally handsome.”
Maggie turned away, and Nick thought he’d offended her. “You okay?”
But when Maggie turned back, she was smiling as though she had a secret.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
She put her hand on his upper arm. Her touch was warm and inviting, and he shifted to get closer. The intimacy brought an unexpected response as her eyes filled with tears. His old psyche would tempt him to pull away or defuse the situation with humor. She seemed resistant to explain and said nothing for a while. Her silence made his stomach churn.
She wiped her tears, revealing the depth of her dark eyes, and sniffed. Nick assumed she was missing her kids from the Hope Center. Since the death of her husband, John, four years earlier, she had become the sole director of the orphanage and hospital. She was a loving mother to over two hundred orphans. She also directed medical teams rotating in and out providing care to the poor of Guatemala, a job that weighed heavily on her tiny five-foot frame.
She finally spoke. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
The way she said it, Nick thought bad news was coming. “Maggie, what is it? You’re scaring me.”
Her tears fell again but she managed to say, “I suppose I am acting a little strange. It’s just…” Now she was crying and smiling at the same time. “It’s just that I thought I would never consider having another relationship besides John. I was okay with living the rest of my life alone. Of course there’s so much to do, I didn’t have time to think about it.”
Nick wasn’t sure what she was getting at. He raised an eyebrow, which seemed to make her cheeks flush. “Still yet,” Maggie said, “I’m only forty-five. I…uh…get kind of lonely.”
Nick nodded in understanding. He had both waited and wished for this moment and thought it would never happen.
“I guess this whole marriage thing is one of God’s mysteries, but I am John’s forever.” She pulled at the wedding ring that she still wore. “Our bands said Forever Yours—that will never change. But I had a dream a month ago that I’ve thought about a lot.”
Nick’s brain swam with many thoughts, but he knew enough to keep silent.
“In my dream, I was back home in Montana on our family’s ranch—it was so beautiful. The towering peaks of Glacier Park to the west, the open green fields expanding east. I was there, but not there…I don’t know. You know how weird dreams are.”
Nick nodded.
“I was watching my dad and John standing by the horse corral observing this beautiful Indian paint. The mare was chestnut with white patches on her right shoulder and face. She had a flowing black mane and tail and ran around the corral kicking and snorting. Growing up on the reservation, my dad would tell us stories about how a Blackfeet warrior caught the first horse. The elders said that horses came out of the water as a gift from the heavenly Father. They were so big and strong everyone was afraid of them. When brave warriors caught the young, they tamed them. The ancient people called them elk dogs because they were as large as elk but could carry a pack like a dog.”
“Elk dogs. That’s funny,” Nick said.
“In my dream, my dad and John seemed to have a long conversation that I could not hear. Finally, I saw John nod, and Dad handed him a large knife. With the knife, John cut thick bands of rope that held the corral gate closed. When the gate swung open, the beautiful mare came charging out with her head and tail held high.”
Nick wasn’t sure why she was crying, but he nodded.
“The horse circled the corral seven times,” she said.
“Seven?”
“Yes, it seemed like in my dream that was important. Many Christians believe seven is the number of completeness. Once the pony expended her energy, she came gracefully back and nuzzled John. John kissed th
e mare on the cheek and opened his hands to set it free.” Maggie demonstrated by stretching her hands in front of her. Then she let the tears flow.
Nick took her hand.
“You’ve seen movies where the Indians paint symbols on their horses,” Maggie said between sobs. “The horse in my dream had a large handprint on its right hip. We call this the pat print, because the warrior would reach down with his hand and pat the horse with praise. It meant that the horse had brought its rider back home unharmed from a dangerous mission.”
“I’m not sure I love the sound of the danger part,” Nick said. “We’ve seen too many of those situations already.”
“Right?” Maggie agreed. “I’m still trying to figure that one out. But also, painted in red on the mare’s side was a large heart.” At this point Maggie was staring into Nick’s eyes, searching. Nick stared back but didn’t know what to say. Maggie finally explained. “I believe my father and John are releasing me to find love again.”
Nick still didn’t know what to say. He believed that for Maggie; John had died and gone to heaven where they would be reunited someday. All Nick could do was take a deep breath and exhale slowly. He had loved her for a long time, but he’d never expected her to let go of John enough to have a romantic relationship.
“I love you Nicklaus Hart.” Maggie pushed herself up on one elbow, leaned toward him and gave him a warm kiss on the lips.
It was very short, but long enough for Nick’s body temperature to rise. He leaned in to kiss her again, but she held her hand on his chest. “Can we take it slow?” she asked.
His mind and his mouth were saying yes. His body was not in agreement.
CHAPTER 10
SINGAPORE
“What is your business in Singapore?” The stern customs official glanced at Maggie’s US passport.
“I’m here to accept a grant from the Wright’s Kids Foundation.” She rummaged through her briefcase for the folder. She didn’t know why she was always so nervous talking to the customs agents. Maybe they were trained to intimidate, but their demeanor was cold and authoritative. She always felt like she was sneaking in or out of the country—a con on the lam, and after two days of travel, she worried she smelled like one. She opened the folder and produced the invitation letter. The agent read it carefully and regarded her without emotion before returning her folder.
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