by Lisa Wingate
“Graceful,” I grumbled, climbing to my feet, relieved to have broken the imposing quiet.
As if in response, a breeze swept across the porch, and the weathered rocking chairs started rocking. The note on the door twittered in the wind, flipping upside down. I pulled it off and unfolded it, hoping it wasn’t another map.
Laura, Collie had scrawled, obviously in a hurry.
Jocelyn and I went to look at something. We’ll be back in a minute. Go on inside and wait. Don’t tell anyone why you’re here. If anyone asks, just say you have an appointment with Jocelyn. Long story. Will explain later.
—Collie
Frowning, I surveyed the porch, not sure what to do next. I didn’t want to go inside some stranger’s house, no matter what the note said. Especially not this house, with its shadowy windows and eerie silence.
I turned to look at my car. In the driveway, a sudden breeze coaxed a dust devil to life, whipping it until it collided with the yard fence and shook the lower tree branches, rattling a wind chime made of horseshoes and old silverware. Every horse in the stable neighed in reply, sending up a deafening cacophony of equine chatter.
A heebie-jeebie ran through me, and I reached for my shoe. “I’ll just be waiting in the car now.”
“Pardon?” A man’s voice jolted me upright. Stumbling down three steps, I caught my balance at the bottom and spun around with my heart pounding in my throat, and my mind conjuring Hollywood images of ghostly apparitions.
Instead I saw cowboy boots, real enough, and I worked my way upward, past dusty blue jeans to a gray chambray shirt. Catching my breath, I muttered, “Sheesh, you scared me to …”
Oh, my God. It was the guy who wanted to shoot Mr. Grits. And now, in this light and up close, I realized something else. He was also the horse psychologist—minus the mustache—from the newspaper article. That was why he’d looked familiar to me on the road. “You!” I heard myself gasp.
He blinked in disbelief, his mouth hanging slack and his eyes bugging out as if he’d just come face-to-face with his worst nightmare. For a moment, neither of us said anything. I stumbled sideways on the uneven stone path, catching my balance on one shoe and one bare foot.
He rushed down the steps with an arm outstretched, like he thought I might faint, and he’d need to catch me.
“I’m all right.” Collie’s note still in my hand, I waved him away. “You just took a couple years off my life, that’s all.”
“Guess that makes twice today.” He started to smile, but instead opted for a hard look, as if he’d just remembered who he was talking to. “Listen, if you’re here about the dog—”
“I’m not here about the dog.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he drew up to his full height, a good six inches taller than me, which most guys weren’t, since I was five-eight. “I wasn’t going shoot the dog.” Thick dark hair fell over his forehead, covering the hat line where his suntan ended. He combed the hair back impatiently, then threaded his arms again.
“Really,” I scoffed, unsure why I felt the need to argue with him. Justifying my position was a compulsion that my mother claimed I’d developed as soon as I could talk. “Because Jimmy the Kid sure seemed to think you were. According to him, the dog was in mortal danger, and if I didn’t want it to get shot, I’d better get it out of there.” I imitated Jimmy’s words on the last part, twang and all.
The horse psychologist’s gray-green eyes twinkled as if he were picturing the scene. “Jimmy needs to learn not to listen to Dan. Dan’s a crotchety old fart. He probably said that because he was irked. I just wanted the dog caught. That animal’s been causing trouble from here to San Saline for a solid month.”
I shifted uncomfortably, beginning to feel like the butt of a really bad joke. If no one was going to harm the dog, then there was no reason for me to have crammed the big, smelly beast in my car and driven around with it for hours. I felt … gullible. Or just flat out stupid. “Well … Jimmy Hawthorne made it sound like an emergency. All I know is what I was told.”
“I’m sure that’s true, ma’am.” He had just enough Texas accent to make the line sound like something from an old cowboy movie.
“It was a very strange situation.”
“I don’t doubt that.” His lips twitched, though he was kind enough not to laugh. Looking down at his feet, he absently rolled a dried-up pecan under the toe of his boot. “So how’d you finally get rid of the dog?”
I winced, crinkling the note in my hand and glancing sheepishly at the Jeep. “I didn’t.”
Head jerking upward, he squinted toward my vehicle.
“I mean, I tried to drop him off,” I rushed. “But the friend I was meeting was already gone from her office, and the Hawthorne House was closed for wedding preparations until Friday.” Now he looked like he wanted to kill both me and the dog. He probably didn’t appreciate my bringing it back on the property, but how was I supposed to know this was his place? The Jubilee gateway and the headquarters had to be several miles from the road where the dog had run out in front of my car. “Don’t worry; he’s not going to get out. He’s sound asleep on the floorboard.” The cowboy gave me an exasperated look, and I added, “It’s not so easy to get rid of a gigantic smelly dog, you know. I didn’t have any choice but to bring him along.”
He slanted a mischievous glance at me. “Guess your luck’s under a bucket today, isn’t it?”
I felt myself laugh, then heard it. I realized I was smiling at him, a strange giddiness in my stomach. “Under a bucket and down the well, just lately.”
“Well, guess there’s nowhere to go but up, then.” His lips parted into a wide, slow grin.
“Guess so.” I smiled back, an unexpected jolt of electricity zinging through my body and revving up my senses.
With a quick backward step, he scooped my shoe from the porch step and held it out. “Lose your glass slipper?”
I flushed at the dingy sandal, one half of my dirtiest, oldest pair. Comfort footwear. The footwear of a mommy who never even bothered trying to look sexy anymore. Reaching out to reclaim it, I lamely said, “Thanks,” and slipped it back on the foot with the half-peeled toenail polish.
We stood there in awkward silence for a moment, until finally he asked, “If you’re not here about the dog, ma’am, what can I do for you?”
“Well, for starters, stop calling me ma’am.” Self-consciously, I tucked loose strands of hair behind my ear. I could just imagine what I looked like. “It’s Lindsey. Lindsey Attwood.”
Shaking my hand, he reached up to tip an invisible cowboy hat, then seemed to realize there wasn’t one there, and said, “Glad to meet you, Lindsey. Zach Truitt.You’re not here about the windmills, are you?”
I’m sure he could tell by my blank look that I had no idea what he was talking about. “No, I’m here to meet my friend, Collie, and …” Don’t tell anyone why you’re here. The words from Collie’s note ran through my mind. “I had an appointment with … uhhh … Jocelyn.”
His demeanor changed completely, the smile fading to an aha look, and then a worried frown.
I had a feeling I’d said exactly the wrong thing.
FIVE
AN UNCOMFORTABLE SILENCE DESCENDED AGAIN, AND ZACH TRUITT eyed me like I was an alien presence on his front steps. All traces of flirtation were gone. The playful twinkle in his eyes, the loose, forward angle of his slim hips, the self-assured smile disappeared, and he looked stiff, uncomfortable, businesslike.
The strange thing was that I felt … disappointed? I was enjoying the chance to flirt. Or enjoying flirting with him. Either way, it wasn’t like me at all. Another completely out-of-character moment in a completely out-of-character day.
Zach squinted toward the driveway, clearly wishing that someone would take me off his hands. “Well … uhhh … the entrance to the horse therapy camp is past the Jubilee Ranch entrance. You keep going straight through the cattle guard. Usually Jocelyn sends you people … uhhh … her clients a map.
I told her she needs to put a big sign up there at the gate, so people won’t”—he flushed, cleared his throat, and finished with—“get lost.”
Great, now he thinks I’m a therapy patient.
I debated telling him my real reason for coming, but Collie’s note said not to tell anyone. “She said to meet her here.” Folding the note, I stuck it in my pocket. “She’s supposed to be back in a minute.”
Zach nodded and silence descended again. I followed his gaze down the driveway, struck by the beauty of the view. It was the kind of scene that belonged in some pastoral painting of the idyllic West—the pale ribbon of gravel road winding through the trees and disappearing up the hill, the feathery grass, the dusty green of wild sage, spiny yucca holding plumes of white flowers high in the air, crimson and vermilion patches of Indian blankets, prickly pear cactus with pink fruit and lacy yellow blooms… .
The moment fell out of focus, taking on a dreamlike quality, as if any second I would awaken, and the events of the day would be nothing but a figment of my imagination. I’d be back in the museum basement, having laid my head down on the lab table and fallen asleep to the hum of the furnace.
A noise caught my attention, a rattling and clawing from the vicinity of my car. “What in the world …” I turned to see Mr. Grits with his head and one front leg hanging out the partially opened window, trying his level best to squeeze through the ten-inch crack without being noticed.
Awakened by the gyrations, Gertie came to life and alerted the antitheft system, sending the car into a spasm of horn honking and light flashing, while an electronic voice commanded over the din, “Step away from the car. Step away from the car. Step away …”
Mr. Grits descended into full-scale panic, let out a sound like the off-pitch baa-roo-ooo of my trombone in seventh-grade band, and began frantically trying to claw his way through the glass.
“Stop! No! Wait!” I squealed, running for the car.
Behind me, Zach called out, “Whoa, there, easy now, fella!”
Terrified by the racket, Mr. Grits let out another, “Bar-roo-ooo!” braced his feet against the glass and pulled back, then attempted to push out, then in, then out, rocking the entire Jeep.
Gertie continued over the blaring horn, “Step away from the car.”
“Bar-roo-ooo!”
“Step away from the car!” Honk, honk, honk, honk.
“Bar-roo-ooo!”
“Step away …”
Zach reached the passenger door first. The dog growled, and Zach held his hands out, saying, “Easy there, fella. Hold still.You’re in a fix, aren’t ya?”
Hurrying to the driver’s side, I yanked open the door and leaned sideways across the seat, hitting the window button and the antitheft alarm at the same time. Gertie went silent, and the window lowered with an electronic groan, freeing the dog bit by bit, until he lurched forward, hooked his feet on the frame, and launched himself into Zach’s arms. Climbing out of the car, I dashed around the hood to find Zach flat on his backside against the fence, struggling with a tangle of rope and frantic dog. Scrambling backward, the dog pulled free, and lumbered off at a high rate of speed.
Diving for the rope, I landed on my knees in the grass beside Zach. “Shoot!”
“Don’t tempt me,” Zach grumbled, sitting up. Resting his elbows loosely on his knees, he hung his hands and watched the dog disappear around the barn. “Some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed.”
I guess I could have been offended by that, but I looked at him, covered in white hair, slobber, and dusty dog footprints, and a giggle bubbled up in my throat.
Zach went on muttering, “Lord, I started the day out chasing the dog, and I’m still chasing the dog. You sent the crazy lady to take away the dog, and then the dog was gone; then the crazy lady came back with the dog… .”
“Hey!” Laughter burst from my lips. I couldn’t help it. Some days you can either laugh or cry, and my mother always said it takes fewer muscles to smile than to frown.
Zach smoothed his thumb and forefinger over his straight, dark eyebrows, trying to hide a grin. “It’s not funny.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed, attempting to sober, then bursting into laughter again. “It’s … really … not,” I coughed out.
Quirking a brow, he frowned at my hysterics, or my Northern accent, or both. “Where in the world are you from, anyway?”
“Not here.” Sitting back on my heels, I pulled in a long breath, wiping my eyes and trying to straighten up. “I’m just visiting.”
“That’s the first good news I’ve had all day,” he said, giving me a wry, one-sided smile and a flirtatious wink.
Something inside me tightened in response, and my mind went blank. A hot flush ran through my body and the laughter burned away. I found myself gazing wistfully into his eyes.
What in the world are you doing? a voice reprimanded in my head. Hel-lo-oh … anybody home in there? Flirtation alert. Make a legal U-turn; return to the straight and narrow.
“I guess we’d better go catch the dog.” The words sounded breathy and soft—not the right tone for, Let’s go catch the dog. More the tone for, Kiss me, you fool… .
“Guess that’d be a good idea.” His slightly lowered eyelids answered, Kiss me, you fool, with a silent, Come closer and see what happens… .
For just a moment, I thought about it. I pictured how it would be, dusting off the rusty Romance Lindsey, long hidden in some box in the back closet of my mind, under piles of more important boxes filled with Work Lindsey, and Mommy Lindsey, Divorce Court Lindsey, and now Shared Custody Lindsey, and Depressed Insane Lindsey.
Was Romance Lindsey even there anymore? Probably not. She had sat forgotten for so long that, like the Skin Horse and the Velveteen Rabbit, she had ceased to be real. I never even thought about her anymore. Until now. Which was a bad sign that the boxes were getting jumbled up and Control Freak Lindsey needed to get to work.
I pushed to my feet, wiping my eyes and slapping my hands lightly on my cheeks, though I suspected that what I needed was the kind of slap that brought hysterical women to their senses in old movies. “I’m sorry,” I said, looking off toward the barn instead of watching him stand up. I imagined the way he would do that—in one smooth, graceful movement. Stop. Now, Control Freak Lindsey scolded. “I wonder how far the dog went.” That was better. A serious voice. A normal voice.
“No telling.” His tone was still light, flirtatious. “If someone put that pink girlie thing in my hair, I’d run, too.”
I glanced sideways—a mistake, because he was smiling just slightly—and I felt glitter sprinkle through me like magic dust. “Well, you know, I don’t go for the Mick Jagger look. Hard to talk to a guy with hair in his eyes.” That was not Control Freak Lindsey or Depressed Insane Lindsey. That was Romance Lindsey, sounding not so dusty at all. Mommy Lindsey was about to have a heart attack.
As we walked toward the barn, the cowboy leading the way and the Lindseys following beside and slightly behind, I noticed a few stray strands of dark hair falling over his forehead. He combed them back with his fingers, a wicked twinkle in his eye that told me Romance Zach was pretty well up to speed. “What look do you go for?”
I blinked, surprised. There were a million ways to answer a question like that. Inside me, Mommy Lindsey and Control Freak Lindsey were going into panic mode, and Divorce Court Lindsey was setting off the alarm system. Beep, beep, beep. Step away from the cowboy… .
“The white, furry kind with sort of a … fishy smell,” I said finally, a cute but fairly innocuous answer.
Zach stopped, motioning as we rounded the corner of the barn. “Well, then, yonder stands your prince, Cinderella.”
Mr. Grits was sitting at the end of the barn aisle next to a tall stone watering trough, ears perked beneath the pink fliggie, as if to say, What took you so long?
Standing up, he wagged his tail, looking at the water trough, then back toward us.
“I’ll bet he’s thirsty,” I s
aid as we cautiously moved closer, though Mr. Grits didn’t seem as if he intended to run away. “I bought him a glass of water at the Dairy Queen, but he drank it all with his burger. Have you got a bowl or something that I could …” Zach was looking at me with one eyebrow raised and one lowered. “What?” I said, grabbing the end of Mr. Grits’s rope. One rogue dog, successfully captured.
“You bought him lunch at the Dairy Queen?” Zach coughed. “Bet that gave Becky a surprise at the window.”
I shrugged. “We were hungry. It seemed like a good solution.” Reeling in the rope, I patted Mr. Grits on the head. “We did have a little incident at the drive-through window, but it worked out all right. He likes hamburgers—a lot, actually.”
Zach chuckled. “Next time, try dog food. Too much people food isn’t good for these big fellas. Large breeds tend to have joint problems, hip dysplasia, things like that. Eating people food doesn’t help.” Slipping a hand under the dog’s chin, he checked teeth and ears with one expertly efficient motion. “People food for people. Dog food for dogs, all right?” I couldn’t tell whether he was talking to me or the dog. Mr. Grits wagged his tail, as if he understood the F-word—food.
“I don’t know anything about dogs,” I admitted. “I was an army brat growing up, and we moved quite a bit. Pets weren’t a very good option.” Why I was telling him this, I didn’t know. The moment seemed inexplicably comfortable. A soft breeze wafted along the barn aisle, and the afternoon sun cast soft amber streamers through the gaps in the old wooden stall doors. The scene was serene, the kind in which, if this were an old Western movie, the hero would kiss the heroine… .
Romance Lindsey poked her head out of the box, intrigued by that thought. Mommy Lindsey shoved her back in, slapped the lid on, and said, “My daughter’s been begging me for a dog, but we live in an apartment in downtown Denver, so it’s not really a good idea.” Romance Lindsey popped up unexpectedly, like a jack-in-the-box, and added, “With just the two of us, it would be pretty hard to take care of a dog.” I noticed Zach watching my hand on the rope, checking for a ring.
