Abby rinsed out the jar, filled it with fresh water, and arranged the flowers. She set them on the two-seater table next to the window. “There. Doesn’t that look nice?”
“Very.”
Abby narrowed her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Of course. I’m great. What do you mean?”
“You’re being weird. Weirder than usual, I mean. I figure it has something to do with Gideon.”
Jamie felt blood rush into her cheeks. “I don’t—”
“Oh, spare me.” Even when scolding, Abby sounded like she was narrating a steamy romance novel. Apparently she’d once worked as a telemarketer. Jamie guessed she’d been very successful at it.
“I know you two are tight. But, lately, you’ve hardly been in the same room together and you seem a little spikier than usual. Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” Jamie said. “I’m about to get my ass handed to me if I don’t hose down the kennels for Haylee before lunch. And I’m not spiky.”
“Relax. Who do you think sent me? And yeah, you’re spiky. Your hair. Your voice. That thing in your eyebrow. Anyway, I’m not trying to pry—”
Jamie guffawed. “Right.”
Abby’s peaches-and-cream skin grew pink. She lifted her chin. “Look. Haylee’s worried about you. You two are like sisters—”
Jamie sniffed. “Not lately.”
Not since her reunion with Sage, and little Sal’s arrival.
And Aiden.
And the new baby they were about to have together.
“I know things have changed.” Abby hesitated. “That’s why I thought I’d let you know that I’m here, if you need someone to talk to. About . . . Gideon. Or anything.”
Since Abby and her quiet younger sister had arrived on the ranch as summer workers, they’d kept mostly to themselves. Huck said Abby was magic in the garden and Daphne was sufficiently impressed with the way the two cleaned guest rooms that she allowed them to practice baking. Abby’s pies were as good as anything Jamie had ever tasted.
But that hardly made them bosom buddies.
“I’ve been a big sister for a long time.” Abby fussed with the flowers in the pasta jar, adjusting and rearranging the long stems. “According to Quinn, I’m pretty good at it. That’s all. Okay, quit glowering at me, I’m going.”
But before she left on a waft of blossom-scented air, she gave Jamie’s arm a quick squeeze. “You’ve got lots of friends, James. If you want them.”
Abby’s use of Gideon’s pet name for her, which should have been annoying, felt unexpectedly tender instead.
Jamie swallowed, watching the other woman step gracefully out of the cabin. Everything about Abby was soft and sweet and feminine. She couldn’t possibly be as innocent as she looked—there was something about the way Quinn clung to her that suggested a rough past for the two of them—but she still radiated a sort of girl-next-door freshness that Jamie would never have.
Is that what Lana was like? She pictured Gideon, tall and dark, standing next to a pretty woman with big eyes and a shiny ponytail and a little boy with a shy smile. They’d look like the photos that came with picture frames, a happy family, laughing into the sunset.
No one deserved that more than Gideon. And if there was a chance of that for his child, Jamie ought to be standing on the sidelines, cheering her head off.
“Rah-fucking-rah.” She gritted her teeth. “Geez, James. Pull your head out. You never had a chance with him anyway.”
She was too broken for someone like him. She was a person made up of mismatched pieces, like God had thrown all his spare parts into a box, shaken it up, and then done the best he could with them.
Chaos cocked his head comically at her and whined.
She took a deep, centering breath. “You,” she said, once she was steady again, “be quiet.”
She was making a second visit to the house on the ridge this afternoon. She hoped she wouldn’t need to use her tools again.
After that, if all went well, she was sending the dog back to his proper home.
She’d do the right thing. And she’d be happy for Gideon. She could do that.
* * *
Jamie got into her ten-year-old Toyota 4Runner and fired it up, revving the engine with relish. She felt irrationally loyal to the battered, gas-guzzling monster. Up high, surrounded by metal, she felt safe, and the beast had been a means of escape more than once. Plus, she owned it outright. It was probably as close to owning a home as she’d ever get.
Chaos was safe on the ranch with Abby and Quinn right now, since they knew about him anyway, and she was on her way to find out if that’s where he’d be staying.
She hadn’t seen Gideon all day. For all she knew, he might never speak to her again. That was fine with her. They each had wounds to lick. Maybe, in time, they’d be able to talk about it. Maybe not.
She had to accept that.
She plugged a Keith Urban disc into the CD player and opened the windows, letting the fresh air whip through her hair, filling her with courage. Green grass, blue sky, the clean smell of rain-washed earth.
This was paradise, she reminded herself. And she was doing a good thing, in making sure the puppy was safe. Every living thing deserved a safe and happy home.
The owner of the house on the ridge had done his best to remain anonymous. But for people like Huck, who knew more about bypassing locked walls than Jamie ever would, there was no such thing as personal information. He could find out the brand of deodorant your first-grade teacher used, if he wanted to.
Huck’s special skills were a closely guarded secret, and he used them judiciously. Sometimes, when justice and the law didn’t line up, and animals couldn’t be protected, Sanctuary Ranch became a stop on an underground railroad that could whisk them away. Huck helped “lose” these animals, if necessary, helped save them from a lifetime of misery and place them instead in loving homes.
It had taken him only five minutes to hack into the county records and get her everything she needed.
The owner of the house on the ridge above Driftwood Creek was a man named Roman Byers, age sixty-nine, who’d been a film agent in L.A. around the same time Jamie had lived there. He’d retired five years ago after legal issues related to a workplace accident.
Huck had offered to dig deeper but Jamie didn’t care. Everyone in Hollywood had legal issues, eventually.
Byers was a big shot.
Or had been, at least.
Surprisingly for someone in the movie industry, he’d stayed off social media. Industry photos showed him to be a striking man with the robust build of an outdoor enthusiast, a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, a chiselled jaw, stubbled cheeks, and smiling eyes.
But, as the sociopath son in her last foster home had taught her, smiling eyes guaranteed nothing. What mattered to her was how Byers looked after his dogs.
If this man tweaked her meanness-radar, if she found evidence of neglect, Jamie didn’t care how rich and famous he was, she wasn’t giving Chaos back. Haylee would back her up. In fact, she’d help get the brown dog out of there, too.
Rounding the bend, Jamie saw the narrow driveway, fronted by the metal gate she’d climbed through before. With a crunch of gravel, she pulled the truck to the side of the road and stepped out, watching the dust settle lightly in the warm air. The gate was closed but unsecured this time, the chain and padlock hanging from a post.
One of the nails in the NO TRESPASSING sign had loosened, she noticed. She stepped closer and, after a quick glance over each shoulder, gave it one sharp kick. With a ping, the sign disappeared into the tall grass.
“It’s practically a welcome mat now,” she said.
She grabbed the clipboard she kept in the side compartment of her passenger door—you never knew when you’d need to write something down—pulled her Portland SPCA baseball cap from the glove compartment, straightened her shoulders, pushed the gate open, and walked through, down the center of the narrow driveway, where a thin line of sunlight
pierced the thick trees.
The house looked just as she remembered.
She strode up the porch steps, rapped on the door, and backed away.
“Hello?” she called. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Mr. Byers, we’ve received a complaint—”
Chapter Ten
If you wish upon a star, pick one that twinkles.
—Gideon’s horoscope
“A little saddle soap goes a long way, Duke,” Gideon said, lifting the jar out of the teen’s hand. “And ditch the brush.”
He tossed him a soft cloth instead.
“You should trash this thing and get a new one.” Duke scowled at the cracked leather of the seat and then flipped the stirrups to get at the underside, nearly dislodging the saddle from the two-by-four storage rack.
“First of all, it’s Olivia’s. And they don’t make them like this beauty anymore. It’s a shame to see it in this condition, but I think we can bring it back.”
Gideon didn’t know how the kid saw anything with all that long hair in his face. But he didn’t know how the kid walked in those pants either. The mysteries of adolescence.
“How are those kittens doing?”
Duke’s scowl disappeared. “Great. Tyler and I are keeping them in our cabin. They’re starting to scratch at the top of the box. Pretty soon the little buggers will be running all over the place. Honch says we can each keep one for ourselves as long as we get them fixed. I wish we didn’t have to. I like having kittens around.”
“The way cats appear on this ranch, I guarantee you’ll see more sooner rather than later.”
Gideon had quickly learned that there was no shortage of people who believed that their unwanted family pets would be welcome additions to a working ranch. It wasn’t unusual for a wary new face to appear at the food bowls in the morning, the result of a surreptitious drop-off under cover of night.
He tried not to judge. Sometimes, due to circumstances beyond their control, this was the best choice they could make. Sanctuary Ranch had a reputation, after all. And Gideon knew better than most how easily one bad decision could snowball into a lifetime of regret.
But most of the time, the pet had become an inconvenience, a “throwaway” to use Haylee’s term.
If he did what Lana wanted, and didn’t fight for a place in Blake’s life, would his son one day feel the same? Would he think he’d been an inconvenience to his birth father, a throwaway best left for someone else to raise? Or would he be grateful that the loser sperm-donor responsible for his being had stayed the hell out of his life?
“Hey, gentlemen,” Olivia said, striding up to them. She ran a hand over the saddle, pursed her lips, and shook her head. “Duke, have you ever had a girlfriend?”
The boy raised his eyebrows, then tossed that hank of greasy hair and snorted. “Duh. Tons. It’s a relief to be here, away from them.”
A sure bet the kid was massively inexperienced, maybe even a virgin.
“Treat this old leather like you would a girl.” Olivia took the soft cloth from Duke’s hand and stroked it softly over the dry surface, moving with the grain of the leather, working in light easy circles until the conditioner was fully absorbed. “Gently, see? Slowly, like you can’t believe how soft her skin is. Like you’re hoping your breath doesn’t stink and your pit juice is still working and maybe, if you’re very lucky, you’ll get to second base with her.” Then she returned the cloth and looked at him sternly. “Not like you’re spanking the monkey. Got it?”
Gideon turned away to keep from laughing out loud as the boy’s entire face and throat turned scarlet.
Olivia turned her back on the saddle and addressed Gideon. “There’s an estate auction happening this afternoon, with some nice riding horses on the docket. Thought we’d check it out if you have time. It’s the Altman farm. We could bring Duke too, if you can spare him,” Olivia added.
Duke’s head whipped up, his color still high. “I’m done with the stalls. I brought the supplements into the feed room like you asked and swept up, too. Can I go, Gideon?”
Olivia demanded a lot from her foster kids, but when she offered a chance for some one-on-one time, they always jumped at it. She had a way with them.
“Means Tyler will have to do afternoon chores on his own. You’ll owe him.” He didn’t want to make it too easy for the kid.
“I’ll make it up to him. I’ll shovel his sh . . . I’ll muck out his stalls tomorrow. He won’t care. He knows I’d do the same for him.”
Reciprocity. Teamwork. The kid was making progress.
Gideon pretended to think about it. “I guess that’s okay.”
“Good.” Olivia slapped a piece of straw off her jeans. “We’ll leave in two hours.”
* * *
As they drove out to the Altman farm, she explained to Duke why this sale was of particular interest to her.
“Usually when people have horses to sell, they send them to a broker. They get a fair price, but they don’t have any control over who buys their animals and, unfortunately, a lot of horses end up going to the slaughterhouses.”
Duke’s jaw dropped, though he picked it up quickly. “People eat horses? Gross.”
“There aren’t any horse slaughterhouses in the U.S. It’s not illegal, but every time a company tries to open horsemeat packing plants, public outcry shuts them down before they can get started.”
“Good.” Duke looked out the window. “Horses aren’t meat.”
“They are to some people,” Olivia said. “And at livestock auctions, they often end up being sold to foreign markets looking for horsemeat. Wild horse culls especially.”
Duke snorted. “It’s disgusting. People who sell horses for meat should be shot.”
Olivia gave a one-shoulder shrug and tipped her head side-to-side. “Horses are expensive to look after, and they live twenty-five or thirty years. Sometimes people buy them without realizing the commitment required. Or, like Mrs. Altman, their circumstances change. Her husband had a stroke last year and is in a nursing home now. She can’t manage the farm on her own and it’ll take time to sell. Meanwhile, she’s got some nice saddle horses she desperately wants to keep out of the slaughterhouses. So, she’s holding a local sale, hoping to find new homes for them, places where she knows they’ll be looked after and loved.”
Gideon understood Duke’s disgust, but Olivia was right about the practicalities. He was grateful these horses at least had someone willing to take the time to resettle them.
He’d delivered feed to their place once, when the husband had first become ill, and he knew they raised American quarter horses, smart, sure-footed animals that had been the working breed of choice on cattle ranches in the Old West and were still valued in Oregon’s ranch country. They also made excellent family horses for trail and pleasure riding.
Sanctuary Ranch maintained a full stable year-round, but Olivia always kept her eyes open for that gem of an animal that would be perfect for one reason or another. He’d like another horse like Nash, smart and strong. Perhaps a sweet-natured pony, too. One suitable, say, for a six-year-old boy.
They pulled into the driveway and parked next to a row of pickup trucks that all looked pretty much the same. Gideon climbed out of the passenger seat. Duke unfolded his skinny limbs from the backseat and followed him.
The auctioneer had set up his stand and mic just outside the nearest corral, and people lined up on three sides of the fence, some perched on the top rungs, some hanging their arms over, their booted feet resting on the lower rungs. Olivia nodded to various acquaintances as they walked by. Everyone in the horse community tended to know each other to some degree. Sanctuary Ranch had an excellent reputation, and her compatriots in horse rescue respected her work on behalf of the animals they all loved.
Gideon noted several families with school-aged children with them, likely looking for a sweet-tempered, sturdy riding horse for someone’s dearest dream.
The sale hadn’t begun yet, and many people were wa
lking through the stalls, observing the horses, taking notes on the ones that caught their eyes. There were a couple with Arab blood, from the curve of their elegant heads. A large, docile-looking draft horse with gorgeous white feathered hair on his lower legs that made him look like he was wearing bell-bottom pants. And one rough-looking mustang that watched the crowd suspiciously.
Duke pointed to a perfectly marked paint. “Ooh, look at that one,” Duke said.
“A beauty,” Gideon agreed.
They were all gorgeous: roans, palominos, a striking buckskin mare, and that watchful grulla. The Arabs were both soft dappled grey; the draft horse was mostly black with a perfect blaze down his big muzzle.
Olivia pointed to the grulla, pacing in her stall. “A true throwback to the original wild horses. See the shoulder stripes and black barring on the lower legs? Classic. Looks similar to roan coloration, but where roan is made of a mixture of dark and light hairs, in this case each individual hair is mouse-colored.”
“She’s kind of homely.” Duke leaned against the boards, watching the mare, who watched him back, flicking her ears when he spoke.
“She’s a Kiger,” Olivia said. “You can bet she’s smart as a whip, that one.”
“If she’s so smart, how come she’s not still running wild?”
The kid laughed at his own lame joke. Gideon did not. Wild horse management was a controversial issue not likely to be solved anytime soon. Freedom sounded romantic, but the truth was more often a short life and a rough end.
“The Bureau of Land Management rounds up the horses every three or four years,” Gideon said. “They choose the horses that most closely exhibit the build and coloration of the original wild mustangs and return as many to public land as the range will support, often transferring horses between herds to maintain genetic diversity.”
“What do they do with the rest?” Duke asked.
“They usually get auctioned to the public,” Olivia said, “which is how this girl got here.”
Wrong place, wrong time. Who didn’t understand about that? Gideon crossed his arms on the stall rail and tapped his fingers.
Driftwood Creek Page 9
