If Wishes Were Horses

by Robert Barclay

  If Wishes Were Horses

  Robert Barclay

  This one’s for Michael.

  You are missed…

  Mankind has often enforced a savage dominance over the horse, and for that he should apologize. These magnificent beasts toiled mightily over the centuries to help us tame the wilds, plow and harvest our fields, transport our possessions, even die in our wars; and sometimes under the cruelest of masters. I am proud to say that I never participated in their abject slavery. Even so, I humbly request forgiveness from every horse that has crossed my path, for they are truly God’s noblest creatures.

  ~ANONYMOUS

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  THE NEWS ARRIVED suddenly, its only warning the ringing telephone…

  One

  GABRIELLE POWERS SAT in her usual place at church, listening…

  Two

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, the service was finished. After attending the…

  Three

  ALTHOUGH HE WAS seventy-seven, Ramsey Blaine, or “Ram,” as he…

  Four

  REVEREND JACOBSON SAT behind his office desk at St. Andrew’s,…

  Five

  GABBY COULDN’T HELP but hope that Trevor might benefit from…

  Six

  WHERE YOU HEADED, Mr. Wyatt?” Big John Beauregard asked. “Off…

  Seven

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Wyatt arrived at the edge of a…

  Eight

  TREVOR WAS IN a particularly sullen mood as Gabby navigated…

  Nine

  THE SONOGRAM CONFIRMS a colt, Mr. Ram,” Big John announced…

  Ten

  DISH IT UP, GIRL!” Celia Ward exclaimed. “I didn’t come…

  Eleven

  ON RISING FROM bed and walking to the balcony, Wyatt…

  Twelve

  OF ALL THE ROOMS in the big house, Ram’s study…

  Thirteen

  AFTER LEAVING HIS study, Ram went about a few chores.

  Fourteen

  GABBY SMILED AT Trevor as they sat together on the…

  Fifteen

  I’M OUT,” WYATT said. After tossing his cards on the…

  Sixteen

  TREVOR ANXIOUSLY LOOKED up from his reading. The wall clock…

  Seventeen

  GET UP, MR. WYATT!” Aunt Lou shouted. “It’s Mr. Ram!…

  Eighteen

  TREVOR WAS BORED to death. I hate these sessions, he…

  Nineteen

  WHILE TREVOR TOOK his first barrel-racing lesson, Gabby glanced around…

  Twenty

  CELIA WARD SIPPED her iced coffee then languorously crossed one…

  Twenty-One

  THE FOLLOWING DAY was Monday, the start of the sixth…

  Twenty-Two

  DO YOU THINK we’ll be shoveling manure again today?” Sally…

  Twenty-Three

  LATER THAT DAY as Wyatt walked from the barn to…

  Twenty-Four

  TWO DAYS LATER, Reverend Jacobson was once more about to…

  Twenty-Five

  JESUS, CELIA!” GABBY said. “Every time I think about him,…

  Twenty-Six

  THE NEXT MORNING broke bright and clear, revealing another lovely…

  Twenty-Seven

  THAT SAME AFTERNOON, Ram and Wyatt sat on the front…

  Twenty-Eight

  HOW ARE THEY doing?” Ram asked Wyatt later that afternoon.

  Twenty-Nine

  TWO DAYS LATER Gabby sat at her homeroom desk, taking…

  Thirty

  FROM HER PLACE behind the ring wall, Gabby anxiously watched…

  Thirty-One

  AND THEN THERE was the time that Wyatt shot one…

  Thirty-Two

  THREE WEEKS LATER, on a Saturday afternoon, Trevor sat alone…

  Thirty-Three

  MAY I BE of help?” the saleslady asked pleasantly.

  Thirty-Four

  I’M SO SORRY that all this has to end, Gabby…

  Thirty-Five

  WHAT THE HELL is so important, James?” Ram asked. “And…

  Thirty-Six

  AS THE PARTY wound down, Gabby glanced at Trevor. He…

  Thirty-Seven

  BY THE TIME all the guests had departed, Wyatt was…

  Thirty-Eight

  SEVEN HOURS LATER, Gabby lay awake in bed. Her sleep…

  Thirty-Nine

  WYATT SHIFTED GEARS again as he steered the four-wheel-drive Jeep…

  Forty

  AS IS THEIR WONT, the days became weeks, and the…

  Forty-One

  ANOTHER TWO WEEKS soon passed, and although life at the…

  Forty-Two

  THE FOLLOWING DAY was Saturday, and Gabby and Trevor were…

  Forty-Three

  RAM NODDED WHILE adding up the marks he had made…

  Forty-Four

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Reverend Jacobson again sat waiting before the…

  Forty-Five

  MANKIND HAS OFTEN enforced a savage dominance over the horse,…

  Forty-Six

  AS AUNT LOU entered Ram’s office, her joints felt stiffer…

  Author’s Notes and Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  THE NEWS ARRIVED suddenly, its only warning the ringing telephone as it fought to be heard above the happy sounds of Wyatt Blaine’s birthday party. He would later wish that the tragedy had been preceded by some dark omen, designed to alert him of its coming. But no such warning arrived, so there was nothing to cushion the blow. As Wyatt’s brother, Morgan, put down the telephone receiver, his face turned ashen.

  There has been a car crash, Morgan said. Wyatt’s wife, Krista, and his son, Danny, were seriously injured. The other driver was drunk, and also badly hurt. In a split second, Wyatt’s world collapsed. As he turned to look at the many friends who had gathered in his living room, their gaiety melted away.

  Today Wyatt was thirty-five years young, one of the partiers had happily announced. But as Wyatt stared blankly at his guests, the terrible news wandered through the room like some dark predator no one wished to acknowledge, for fear that it might touch his or her life, too.

  Someone discreetly turned off the music; another caring soul took Wyatt by one arm and guided him toward a chair. Then the phone rang again.

  Morgan reluctantly left Wyatt’s side to answer it. This time, however, its insistent ring attracted dread rather than curiosity.

  Suddenly nothing looked familiar to Wyatt. Not one stick of furniture did he recognize. The many photographs that Krista had lovingly taken were foreign to him, as were the strangers who had gathered about him for some reason he could no longer recall. He found himself desperately hoping that Krista and Danny would happily return through the front door, bearing the extra ice cream they had gone to buy on the spur of the moment.

  Ice cream, his stunned mind thought. Something as foolish as ice cream…

  As Wyatt stared dumbly around the living room, everything looked bizarrely wrong. The huge birthday cake laden with candles and the dozens of colorfully wrapped gifts suddenly seemed embarrassing and irreverent. His guests were dressed casually, their colorful party attire at direct odds with the deep shock registering on their faces. The inappropriateness of the scene was startling.

  Morgan again placed the telephone receiver onto its cradle then came to sit by Wyatt’s side. Filled with shock, Wyatt’s aging father joined them. Morgan’s wife, Sissy, stood beside Wyatt, her hands quivering and salty tears streaming down her cheeks. Her two young children huddled near her, seeking pr
otection from a calamity beyond their comprehension. Morgan gripped his brother’s shaking hands.

  “Krista and Danny were rushed to Community Memorial,” Morgan said softly. “They each died on the way. I’m so sorry…”

  When finally Wyatt spoke, his voice sounded frail. “I have to see them,” were the words he uttered. “You must take me…”

  But as he tried to rise, the room spun and everything darkened. It was then when he first realized that a private part of him was forever lost.

  HER NAME WAS Gabrielle Powers. As she ran down the hospital corridor, her body shook with terror. Her nine-year-old son, Trevor, could barely keep hold of her hand as he tried to keep pace with his desperate mother.

  When Gabrielle skidded to a stop before the emergency room reception desk, the nurse saw a terrified look in her eyes. Sadly, in this place such expressions were all too common.

  “Jason Powers!” Gabrielle shouted. “I was told that he was in a car crash, and that he was brought here! Where is he?”

  As precious seconds mounted, the nurse, with agonizing slowness, consulted some sort of chart.

  “Where is he?” Gabrielle literally screamed.

  “He’s in the ICU,” the nurse finally said. “His injuries were severe.”

  “Which way is the ICU?” Gabrielle demanded.

  “Are you immediate family?” the nurse asked.

  “I’m his wife!” Gabrielle shouted. “Now where is the ICU?”

  The nurse pointed down one hallway. “It’s that way,” she said, “but—”

  Before the nurse could finish her sentence, Gabrielle and Trevor were gone. Their hearts pounding, they ran down the hall.

  It wasn’t only for herself that Gabrielle raced, but also for her son. The police had told her that Jason’s condition was desperate, and that he might not live to reach the hospital. If Jason were to die, and there was any chance that she and Trevor could say their good-byes before that happened, she must do her best to make it so.

  They soon found themselves standing before a pair of glass doors, behind which lay Jason. His face was smashed and bloodied to such an extent that they could barely recognize him. Tubes snaked from his arms and nostrils; a machine monitoring his vital signs displayed numbers and lines that Gabrielle could not comprehend. Irregular beeping noises filtered from the room, their sharp tones supplying a slim lifeline of hope.

  But just as Gabrielle was about to force her way inside, the beeping noises became a single, telltale tone. The paddles were used several times; the doctors pumped their hands up and down on Jason’s bare chest.

  When Gabrielle saw one of the doctors finally stand back from the body and consult the clock on the wall, she knew.

  Still not understanding completely, Trevor exploded into tears. Stunned almost beyond comprehension, Gabrielle suddenly felt faint, and she wobbled toward a nearby bench.

  When Trevor joined her, she held him in her arms.

  ONE

  Boca Raton, Five Years Later

  GABRIELLE POWERS SAT in her usual place at church, listening as one of the acolytes finished reading the Lord’s Prayer, and then the Bible passage that would provide the basis for today’s sermon. Born in Fort Lauderdale, she had been raised in the Episcopalian faith by her two loving parents. Her father, Everett, was a retired schoolteacher; her mother, Justine, had been a registered nurse.

  Gabrielle watched Reverend Jacobson approach the pulpit and adjust the microphone to his liking. A large man with a thick shock of white hair, he was a recent throat cancer survivor. Although he still tired easily, his appearance remained as commanding as his voice had once been.

  “As you know, I always start my sermons with a humorous anecdote that helps to illustrate the message for the day,” he began, his voice rough, not wanting to cooperate.

  “And so I’ll tell you about a retiring minister,” Jacobson continued. “It seems that a mother decided to take her young son to church for the first time. Hoping to induce reverence in the lad, she chose seats in the front row. Because she hadn’t attended church for some time, she didn’t know that they had come on an eventful day. This was to be the minister’s farewell sermon. He had therefore resolved to make it full of hellfire and brimstone, ensuring that it would never be forgotten.” Pausing for a moment, the reverend allowed a dramatic silence to hang in the air.

  “As the minister ranted, the boy became startled and his mother soon regretted seating them so near the pulpit,” Jacobson added. “After the service, the reverend saw that the young lad had wandered down one of the church hallways. His hands clasped respectfully before him, the boy was looking at the many portraits hanging on the wall. As the reverend approached, the boy pointed to the portraits then stared up at him with God-fearing eyes.

  “‘Who are those people?’ the boy asked.

  “The reverend smiled. ‘They’re all members of this church who died in the service,’ he answered.

  “‘Oh…,’ the boy replied timidly. ‘Was that the nine o’clock service, or the eleven o’clock one?’”

  The congregation enjoyed the joke, and their laughter lasted for some time. As she waited for her fellow worshippers to quiet, Gabrielle took a moment to admire the church that she so loved.

  St. Andrew’s Episcopal was a beautiful place, its majesty impressive without being ostentatious. Like most churches, the sanctuary was its greatest attribute. A white marble altar stood on top of an octagonal podium near the far wall, its surrounding floor laden with red velvet pillows on which parishioners could kneel and take Holy Communion. The massive rear wall was crafted entirely of stained glass portraying a rather modern interpretation of the crucifixion that fostered lively debate. More stained-glass panels lay in the sidewalls at regular intervals, allowing the Florida sunlight streaming through them to grant a majestic feel to the room.

  Twenty minutes later, the reverend finished his sermon. On leaving the pulpit and walking toward the altar, he prepared himself for the next part of the service.

  Jacobson raised his hands. “Anyone wanting to celebrate a birthday, an anniversary, or other special day, please come forward and take the blessings,” he said.

  Gabrielle watched as about one dozen souls left their seats and approached the altar. She then looked to the last pew on the opposite side of the sanctuary, just as she had done on so many Sundays over the past five years.

  Will this be the day? she wondered. Will he stay, or will he leave like he has always done before?

  A man stood from the last row. He was tall and lean, his dark hair showing a hint of gray at the temples. As if on cue, he handed some cash to one of the ushers then departed the church.

  TWO

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, the service was finished. After attending the coffee hour that always followed, the dutiful reverend was even more tired. Then he sighed as he remembered what his oncologist had said. You will tire easily for some time yet, but with the good Lord’s help, you’ll eventually regain your strength.

  The walk to his private office took him through open gardens at the rear of the church, and then along a familiar stone path that ended at his office door. Bright sunlight streamed down onto the small patio there, and the water in the stone fountain burbled happily. Then someone caught Jacobson’s eye.

  A wrought-iron bench stood alongside the wall near Jacobson’s office door. Sitting on the bench sat the same man Jacobson had watched leave the service. Jacobson took a seat beside him. At first neither man spoke, both of them content to watch the fountain and to listen to the warbling birds.

  “I was sorry to see you leave again, Wyatt,” Jacobson finally said. “Someday you’ll find the strength to take the blessings. But for now, I’m just thankful that you’re here every Sunday.”

  “You know why I can’t take the blessings, James,” Wyatt replied. “Anyway, it’s your sermons that matter most to me. I can do quite well without all the other trappings.”

  Wyatt smiled. “Besides,” he added, “you s
hould be thankful that my father doesn’t come to church anymore. These days we never know what he’ll say, and it could be blasphemous as hell.”

  Knowing Wyatt’s father as he did, Jacobson smiled. “So why are you here?”

  Wyatt hesitated, as if not knowing how to start. “I’ve decided to reinstate the New Beginnings Program,” he finally said. “It’s been five years since we stopped. I want Krista’s dream to live again. Plus, this time it’s going to be free of charge.”

  Jacobson was thrilled, and his broad smile said as much. Turning, he grabbed Wyatt’s shoulders and gave him a good-natured jostling.

  “That’s wonderful!” he added enthusiastically. “I can already think of several parents who might want to enroll their teens. We’ll need the usual release forms, of course. I’ll see if I can find them.”

  Jacobson stole a few moments to count his blessings. He could hardly contain his glee. The reverend also hoped this was a sign that Wyatt might finally be getting past the deaths of Krista and Danny.

  Jacobson knew the horrors of that tragedy well, for he had counseled Wyatt after the tragic car crash, and he had performed the burial services. A hard Florida thunderstorm had arrived that afternoon, the heavy raindrops matching the tears shed by the more than four hundred mourners who had come to pay their last respects. Closing his eyes for a moment, Jacobson silently thanked the Lord for Wyatt’s unexpected gift.