When she arrived at Kristi’s room, she paused outside the doorway to say a brief prayer like she always did, as her training in lay chaplaincy had taught her. To ask for God’s presence and to remind her that her job wasn’t to fix or judge, but only to listen. A challenging change from the days when she walked into a patient’s room with a syringe, an IV bottle, or an Ace wrap. Awkward at first, like one of those childhood dreams where she’d showed up at school in her underwear or for a test she hadn’t studied for. But in time she’d found that though God hadn’t necessarily sent her to San Francisco, he’d followed her. And equipped her. She was grateful. Now if he could only get her to walk a flight of stairs by herself.
“Hi.” Kristi reached to turn down the TV.
Riley smiled, then looked at the children—the baby in his crib complete with monitoring equipment and Abby dozing in her youth bed, holding her stuffed pony. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Okay.” Kristi smiled back at her after glancing at the doorway. “Are you alone?”
“Yes,” Riley assured her. And surmised by the fatigue etched on the young mother’s face that, though her children were resting, she hadn’t yet slept well. “Would you like a brief visit?” She patted her name tag. “We met in the ER. I’m Riley Hale, with chaplain services.”
“I remember.” Kristi’s voice dropped to just above a whisper. “And I would. I would like to talk with you. It’s confidential, right? You don’t report to Miss Gordon with Child Crisis?”
“Confidential,” Riley said gently. “Though I’m required to act in the event you expressed any intent of self-harm or told me about something that might endanger someone else. That’s for safety, of course.”
“Sure,” the young mother said quickly, “I understand.” She swallowed and glanced toward her sleeping children. “All I want is for my kids to be well, and to keep them.” Her eyes shimmered with sudden tears. “I’m afraid they’ll be taken away from me.”
Riley pulled a chair close. “Have you heard news regarding that?”
“Not exactly, but . . .” Kristi began picking at the woven hospital blanket. “Miss Gordon is the one who talked me into getting that restraining order against my ex, Kurt.”
“Restraining order?”
“About three months ago. He was really, really furious about it. Kurt has an evil temper. And he hates it when he isn’t in control.”
“He’s hurt you? the children?”
“Not the kids—never the kids. And he only pushed me a few times.”
Pushed. Oh, Lord . . . Riley struggled against the remembered scent of dirty concrete, car exhaust, and the feel of her body colliding with cement steps, one after the other.
She took a breath. “Were you injured?”
“Not really,” the mother said quickly. “And it was only a few times, when he was feeling jumpy because of the drugs.” She groaned. “Drugs were the problem. And the biggest reason Miss Gordon wanted the restraining order. She was sure he was dealing out of our apartment, and the kids would be exposed to strangers.” Kristi leaned forward, her eyes intense. “I wouldn’t let that happen. Ever. And I’m clean now, I swear. I’m paying my bills and taking church parenting classes.”
“And Kurt? He’s obeying the restraining order?”
“Uh . . . uh, sure,” Kristi said, glancing away from Riley’s gaze and toward her daughter’s bed. “I told Miss Gordon that. I told Officer Nick, too.” Her eyes connected with Riley’s again. “I want my children. I need a new chance. I’ll jump through every hoop it takes to get that.”
Riley reached out and touched Kristi’s hand. “I believe you.”
Kristi’s breath shuddered as it escaped. “And I don’t want to be afraid anymore, you know?”
Riley nodded, unable to speak. I know.
+++
“Whoops, wrong pew, little guy. Who are—what are you?” Leigh peered through the wooden slats of the stall next to Frisco’s, trying to get a good look at its occupant in the waning light. The animal’s being there was an obvious mistake. She paid a hefty sum monthly to keep this stall empty, for a safe cushion of space around her high-strung thoroughbred. Leigh climbed onto the lowest board of the gate and gazed over the top into the twelve-foot square enclosure freshly bedded with pine shavings. Her brows rose as she took in the diminutive body, tiny hooves, and big fuzzy ears. A miniature donkey?
The animal raised his muzzle to stare at Leigh, and she gasped softly. His left eye was bloodied and the eyelid too flat, as if the globe had been punctured. The fur around it was matted with what appeared to be a fluorescent green . . . paint? His right eye, dark as a coffee bean and fringed with almost-fanciful lashes, regarded her kindly. She reached over the gate and extended her palm, then stroked his velvet-soft nose. Her gaze traveled over the rest of his thin body, her eyes widening as she took in his raggedy coat, clipped bare in spots. What on earth?
“My girls are calling him Tag.” The stable owner, Patrice Owen, arrived beside Leigh. “And I see someone’s put him in your extra stall by accident. I’m sorry; I’ll have him moved.” She shook her head and sighed. “Poor little guy. He’s a rescue animal. Came in this afternoon.”
“Is that paint all over him?”
Patrice nodded. “Spray paint, gang ‘tagging.’ And profanity.” She frowned. “You don’t want to know what it said. One of the girls spent two hours trying to clip it all away. This animal was left tied to a post behind an apartment complex. No food, no water.”
“And his eye?”
“Pellet gun, the vet thinks. He’ll be blind on that side.”
Leigh’s stomach churned. She glanced at Frisco, sleek, shiny, and picking with his usual disinterest at a flake of alfalfa. She was surprised he wasn’t anxious, agitated at having another animal close enough to touch noses. Uh-oh, touching noses? She glanced at the scruffy donkey and grimaced. “He’s been wormed?”
Patrice caught her expression. “Yes, and we gave him his shots.” She lifted a small halter from its peg on the gate. “But you’re right; Tag should be kept apart from the others for a while. I’ll move him myself.” Her lips pursed. “Though it’s a shame—I think he and Frisco could be good for each other.”
Leigh decided not to answer. She knew Patrice felt she was too protective of Frisco, that her philosophy ran more toward “Let a horse be a horse.” And a kid a kid. Patrice Owen and her husband, Gary, were foster parents for troubled children. Their Golden Gate Stables offered equine therapy, a program that put horses and kids together. Leigh was familiar with the concept, based on growing evidence that offering children experience with an animal that was nonjudgmental and gave unconditional affection provided both physical and emotional therapy. And it seemed to be working here. On any given day, Leigh was certain to find children in wheelchairs or with walkers, braces, and riding helmets; kids with autism and muscular dystrophy. And sometimes fearful and anxious little victims of abuse and neglect, all about to be paired with a gentle and patient horse “therapist.” The sign posted over the Golden Gate Stables entry quoted Winston Churchill: “There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man.” Leigh had no doubt about that. It was the only thing saving her sanity right now. She’d never been more relieved to have a day off.
Patrice opened Tag’s stall. “C’mon, little buddy; let’s find you a new spot to camp.”
Leigh watched her lead the donkey under the stable’s walkway lights, noticing anew his clipped and spray-painted coat. Tag—the nickname fit. She had no doubt this abused animal would soon be the newest Freud in what Patrice thought of as a large, extended family. Exactly the way Nick felt about his patrol neighborhood, his youth basketball team, and . . .
Don’t; it’s over.
Leigh drew in a deep breath of air sweetly pungent with the scents of molasses-laced oats, pine shavings, alfalfa, old leather, and musky horseflesh. She reminded herself that she was here for self-prescribed therapy, designed to erase th
e stresses of her last shift. Overdoses, asphyxiated children . . . Sam Gordon. It would take more than a few deep breaths to erase that woman. But Leigh would do it, and before long she’d load Frisco into the trailer again and move on to a new job in a different city. And a stable more suited to her horse’s needs. They’d never belonged here anyway, a “hothouse horse” and a woman with rapidly raveling family ties, in a barn that was set up to bring abandoned animals and wounded people together.
Leigh stepped back quickly, prepared to dodge a nip as Frisco thrust his elegant head over the top of the stall gate. With surprise, she watched her big thoroughbred crane his neck to peer down the walkway. A deep whinny rumbled upward from his chest to rattle his nostrils. Tag’s squeaky bray answered.
+++
“Pizza, Nick? I saved you some. But I think most of it’s stuck to the box lid. High-speed delivery. San Francisco hills.” Buzz rolled his eyes and swiped a beefy paw over his crew cut. “When Sally’s not around to remind me about decent nutrition, I pretty much decompensate to my sad bachelor ways.”
Nick smiled at the police chaplain sitting in a recliner across from where he sat on the green plaid sofa, which had also been his bed for nearly two months. Since he moved out of the house to accommodate Leigh and Caroline. Both Buzz and his fiancée had been more than gracious with their time and concern. “Trust me, I had more than enough cheese-coated cardboard after last night’s game. I tried to talk the boys into grilled chicken, but . . . they’re kids.”
“And I’m lazy.” Buzz Chumbley glanced at the pizza box on the kitchen counter, his expression laden with guilt.
Nick laughed. “You’re busy, and you’re generous. You know how much I appreciate your letting me stay here while things are winding up. Or down, not sure which. Less than a week and I’ll be single myself.”
Buzz’s gaze met Nick’s and he leaned forward slightly—his listening posture. This chaplain knew the whole ugly story. And never judged. “How are you doing with that?”
“Not so good.” Nick amended it quickly at the chaplain’s expression. “Don’t worry; I’m not doing anything to risk my badge. Or to make Leigh uncomfortable.” He winced at his choice of word, the same stupid one he’d used yesterday morning. And gotten an explosive reaction to.
“But . . .” Buzz nodded slightly.
“Sam was dispatched on a neglect case yesterday morning. The children were taken to Golden Gate Mercy.” He shook his head. “Leigh was the physician on duty. They finally met.”
“Oh, I see. How did that go?”
“I wasn’t there. Sam called me at the game last night, said there was no problem with the meeting. That it was ‘businesslike’ and obvious that Leigh has moved on.”
“Do you believe that?”
Nick frowned. “You mean Sam’s version of the meeting, or that Leigh is moving on with her life?”
“Both.”
“I think Sam would say anything to encourage me to give up on my marriage. And I think my selfish, inexcusable actions have hurt two women. I don’t believe that Leigh blew off her meeting with Sam like it was nothing. But . . .”
“But what?”
“I do finally see that my marriage is ending. I didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to give up—I’m not somebody who gives up.” He stared at his friend, making sure he understood. “And it sickens me to know I was weak enough, stupid enough, to let our separation, Toby’s death, and a few glasses of wine convince me that it was okay to break my marriage vows. How could I have done that?”
Buzz sighed. “Because you’re human, Nick. And we’re all flawed. That’s where grace comes in.”
“I know; I’ve been down on my knees, grateful for that. And somehow, I kept thinking that I’d convince Leigh. I thought if I apologized enough, prayed enough, and tried hard enough . . . that if God forgives me, she could too. And she wouldn’t give up on our marriage. I let myself hope that because she agreed to come back for her sister, live in our house, we’d start talking. And now . . .”
Buzz waited, his very silence compassionate.
Nick tried to swallow past a huge lump in his throat. “I’m starting to realize that maybe she gave up on our marriage a long time ago. Before Toby. Before Sam. I’m the one who pushed to get married. The same way I pressured her about having children, about—” a sharp laugh tore free—“about buying a dining room table. I don’t think she wanted any of that. And now I think all our arguments about those things—about my job, the time she spent at the stable, and the loss we took on the restaurant—maybe those weren’t the real problems. Maybe . . .” For some reason he thought of the lemon tree dying in their hallway. He glanced away for a moment, clearing his throat, then managed to meet the chaplain’s eyes again. “I’m not sure Leigh ever wanted to marry me in the first place.”
Chapter Seven
“Well, I guess Nick was right about one thing, anyway.” Caro paused in the dining room doorway and crossed her arms. “You finally brought your horse into the house.”
“It’s a saddle, for heaven’s sake. And my bridle.” Leigh glanced up from where she knelt, sopping sea sponge in hand, and tried to deny the reaction she still felt at hearing her husband’s name. On October 3 the divorce was official and things would settle down. Meanwhile . . . She drew in a breath scented by damp leather and Murphy Oil Soap. “Since the den’s full of boxes, I thought I may as well pull the saddle rack in here. Plenty of room.”
Her sister looked toward the darkened bay window, then up at the chandelier with its chain tied short to keep it safely out of the way. Prisms darted over her face like fireflies—impossible in California. “You got that right—plenty of room,” she agreed, wearing the smirk she’d perfected by age six. “Enough for a horse. Match point to Niko.”
Niko. Niko’s . . . Nick’s place. The irony struck anew: she’d fallen in love with the owner of a Greek restaurant and woken up married to a cop in a bulletproof vest. Leigh let the sponge drop into the shiny, commercial stainless-steel mixing bowl she was using as a scrub bucket. Then stood, her calves sore from her hour’s ride. Frisco had been a handful tonight—and ever since they’d moved back from Pacific Point. Even though he was still noticeably off his feed. Worry pricked her. She turned her attention back to her sister. “Did you find something for dinner while I was at the stables?” She felt a twinge of guilt; they rarely ate together.
“Yes, I’m good.” Caro twisted a section of her long hair and let it drop back against the sweater she’d pulled on over her workout clothes. “I just made coffee. Black, strong—the way you like it.” She smiled, rare warmth flooding into her gray eyes. “Want some?”
“I . . .” Leigh fought a rush of emotion, wanting to run to Caro, fold her into a bear hug. How long since she’d done that—pulled her baby sister close? Not since that day at the treatment center when she’d broken down, finally accepted the need for medication. It had been tough for her and such a brave step in the right direction. “Coffee sounds great.”
Caro led the way to the kitchen, opened the glass-front cabinet, and pulled down two black mugs. She filled them with coffee and handed one to Leigh, then leaned back against the dark granite counter. “So I’ve gotta ask,” she said. “How was your demon horse tonight? Ready to become a therapist for handicapped kids?”
The single dimple appeared beside Caro’s mouth, a beautiful genetic mark that never failed to remind Leigh of her half sister’s handsome father, high-powered CEO Alton Evers. And that ugly conversation with their mother. “He’s an important man. . . . We’ll eat in the dining room. . . . You’ll cope. . . .” Leigh never sat in a dining room again without thinking of it. She studied her sister’s face for a moment, wondering what memories Caro had of their meals together. She was glad they were having their coffee in the kitchen.
Leigh took a sip—Nick’s aromatic arabica blend—and laughed at her sister’s question. “Therapy horse? Hardly. Never in a million years will Frisco be a part of Patrice Owen’
s barn ‘family.’ He’ll always be the loner in a corner stall, with the ‘Caution: this horse bites’ sign on his gate. I ought to have it tattooed on his neck.” She blew on her coffee and rolled her eyes. “Although tonight . . .” She shook her head, remembering. “There’s a new rescue animal out there. A shaggy miniature donkey they call Tag. Sad story—he was abused by gangbangers. Shot in the eye with a pellet gun and tagged all over with paint graffiti.”
“Oh no.” Caro pressed her hand to her chest. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Yes.” He is, you are, I am . . . we’ll all be okay. I promise. “He still has one good eye, and he’s getting good food now. The vet was out to worm him and give him his immunizations.” Leigh grimaced. “The stable hands accidentally put Tag in my extra stall next to Frisco. He could have been there for hours, and I’m trying not to imagine what sort of bugs he might have been carrying.”
Caro snorted, setting her coffee down. “You sound like our snooty mother, when you told her you were marrying Nick. Remember what she asked you?” She put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes, mimicking. “‘But who are his people, Leigh?’” Caro frowned. “It was bad enough that she handed you that baloney about how a doctor shouldn’t marry ‘beneath her status.’ But her reaction to Nick’s mother being a runaway, not knowing who his father was, and being raised in foster care, after she dumped you with my father, then took off . . .” Her bitter words faded as her eyes met Leigh’s. “Anyway. They moved that poor donkey out of your stall?”
“Yes.” Leigh set her coffee down, fighting a shiver. She should have changed out of her riding clothes; they were still damp from hosing Frisco off after their gallop. “He’s two stalls away now. And already has one little girl in love with him. You remember the Owens’ foster child Maria? the six-year-old?”
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