Maggie nodded to the halter and lead. “Show tack? You shouldn’t have, Ian—he’ll outgrow the halter in six months. But it’s beautiful.”
“I suppose he will. But he’ll have it for six months anyway, right? And look, I think he really likes it.”
“Of course he does! How could he not?” She eased her hand out of Ian’s and crouched at Dancer’s left rear leg, running her fingers up and down its length, checking for cracks. She noticed that only the toe of his hoof was touching the barn floor. “Still not putting much weight on it,” she said.
“Yeah,” Ian agreed. “But I caught him sleeping when I came in, and he was standing on all four, comfortable as can be.”
Maggie stood and took a step to the front of the colt. “Danny says it shouldn’t be hurting him much at this point. Those bones begin to knit quickly. Part of Dancer not putting full weight on the leg is ghost pain. It hurt him a whole lot once, and in his mind, nothing’s changed. When he forgets about it—like when he’s sleeping—is when he puts weight on it. He’ll be less and less conscious of it as time goes on.”
“I... suppose,” Ian said dubiously.
“No?”
“Well, I read this article in Western Horseman about a fellow with an Appy colt about Dancer’s age. The writer said—”
Maggie couldn’t stop a quick laugh of amazement. “Western Horseman? Appy? Ian, you’re becoming a cowboy!”
“Shucks, ma’am,” Ian drawled. “I reckon I am. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that, is there?”
Maggie laughed again. “Western Horseman is the best hard-core horse magazine in the world. I had no idea you read it.”
“Yup. Got me one of them there subscriptions,” he continued in his acutely phony drawl.
“Oh, cut it out!” Maggie laughed. “You’ll never sound like a saddle tramp, Ian. But you’ve really gotten interested in this stuff, haven’t you?”
“I have.” He stroked Dancer’s muzzle. “Look at his eyes. How could a person not love a creature with eyes like that?”
At that moment, Maggie was more interested in Ian’s eyes than those of the colt. A quick shiver ran through her—a tiny electrical buzz—that at least for the moment chased away the sad and lonely parts of the day.
How in the world can this be? A little while ago I was kissing another man, and at this moment, my cute minister is making me feel like a fourteen-year-old high school girl infatuated with her teacher.
Ian stopped speaking in midsentence, the moment capturing him just as it had Maggie. They moved together as inevitably as morning dew appears on pasture grass, and their kiss was warm and long. Dancer snorted wetly, demanding to be the center of attention again, and Maggie and Ian stepped back from one another without embarrassment or self-consciousness.
“Well,” Maggie breathed.
“Indeed.” Ian’s voice was raspy, quiet, almost a whisper. Maggie couldn’t control her smile. “Cowboys don’t say ‘indeed,’ Ian.”
“Umm... shucks all git-out?”
Although they were a stride apart, their eyes remained together, peering inside one another’s hearts. Maggie moved to him again, as if eased into the step by a gentle hand at her back.
“Say ‘indeed’ whenever you want,” she murmured. Dancer snorted more insistently this time. The couple ignored him for a long, wonderful moment.
Maggie sat at her kitchen table listening to Ian’s car pull down the drive and onto the road. She fingered the Christmas gift he had given her—a delicate silver bracelet—and turned it in the light so that the segments of turquoise shimmered and gleamed.
Everything is different now, and everything is so complicated and confusing, and instead of my husband I have two very good men wanting me, and I don’t know if I want either of them—or maybe I want them both.
Maggie set the bracelet on top of the manure spreader pages and walked into the living room, not bothering with a light. She sat on the couch and put her head back, suddenly weary. Moonlight filtered through high, wispy clouds and created stark shadows in the room. The fireplace needed another log, but Maggie was too tired to attend to it. She swung her legs up onto the couch and settled into it.
She felt herself drift off to that strange aspect of sleep in which she knew she was dreaming but yet felt a reality, an immediacy to the dream that made it seem as if it was really happening.
I miss you terribly, Richie.
“I know that, honey. But you’re doing the right things. I’m proud of you. I mean that.”
I thought I’d die after you...
“After I died? Don’t be afraid to say it, honey. My life on earth ended a year ago. I’m in heaven now, and I’ll be here forever. But you still have a life to live on earth.”
Why haven’t you come to me before, Richie? I’ve needed you so much. If you’d come to me earlier—like this—things would be different.
“I can’t meddle in your life, honey. But I want you to know that I don’t want you to spend the rest of your years on earth alone. Your heart is too big not to share, Maggie. You shared it with me when I was with you, and now you need to share it with another.”
It’s so soon, Richie—only a year.
“Time is nothing. It means nothing. Let your heart guide you. I love you, Maggie, and I want very much to see you happy again. I know it seems strange to you, but that’s the truth and that’s what’s in my heart for you.”
Richie... please...
“Danny and Ian are both fine men. Follow your heart, honey.”
The ring of the telephone sawed through the dream, chasing it from Maggie’s now-awake mind. The phone rang three times more, and then the click-clunk of Maggie’s answering machine picked up.
“Hi, this is Maggie Locke. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks.” There was another click, a beep, and then Maggie heard her mother’s voice.
“Hi, sweetie. You’re probably out in the barn, so Dad and I will call again. We tried earlier, but you were out, and you know how your father is about talking to machines. We’re having a quiet day. The three of us will celebrate Christmas later in the year, maybe on Dad’s birthday, just like we discussed. It’s difficult not seeing you, honey, but maybe for right now, we did the right thing. Our hearts are together, anyway. Well, the reason why I’m calling is I want to tell you this: I was half asleep a moment ago, and I had the strangest dream. And somehow, I woke up with the conviction that you’re OK, that you will be OK. Mother’s intuition? The Lord’s intercession? I don’t pretend to know. It doesn’t really matter, though—because I know what I know. OK, I’m babbling here. We’ll try you a little later. We love you, Maggie.”
New Year’s Eve wasn’t a big deal to Maggie, Sarah, Danny, Ian, or even Tessa. The gathering at the Morrisons’ home that night was casual—good food, lots of conversation and laughter, and good friends.
“Sorry, Maggie,” Tessa said as she scooped up the paltry house Maggie had on Ventnor Avenue on the Monopoly board.
“You’re insufferable, you little brat,” Maggie pointed out.
“Yep,” Tessa agreed.
Maggie felt Danny’s hand tapping against her knee under Sarah’s kitchen table. She looked down and saw that he was offering her a five hundred dollar bill. She reached down casually and accepted it. “Although I think you forgot that I had this behind me, hidden away right here for an emergency.”
“Mom,” Tessa said. “Maggie’s cheating with Danny. He’s passing her money again.”
“Danny?” Sarah asked.
Danny blushed. “It’s not what it seems, Sarah. Don’t listen to Tessa. Maggie and I had an agreement—what’s called a depository note in lieu of something or other. We just—”
“Sure, Doctor,” Sarah grinned. “One thousand dollar fine. And, you collect nothing if this innocent little kid lands on your properties for the next two turns.”
“Innocent?” Danny cried. “Tessa bought u
p all the junk property and used it to leverage—”
“Hush,” Sarah interrupted. “Apparently you’ve forgotten that I’m the banker and the official arbitrator. Maybe you’d like another thousand tacked on to your fine?”
Ian, the first to be bankrupted by Tessa, shoved his chair back and stood. “I can’t be a party to this any longer,” he said grimly. “That... that twerp drove me to the poorhouse.”
“I offered you a loan, Ian,” Tessa said sweetly.
“Sure. Just like a great white shark offers a tuna an invitation to dinner. Anyway,” he added, “I want to see the crowd in Times Square.”
“I’d pay not to be there tonight,” Sarah said. “Really. The racket, the drunks, the pickpockets, the hookers—I don’t understand the attraction.”
“I was there once,” Ian said. “I was a kid—maybe twenty or so, still an undergrad. What I remember of Times Square the most is the smell—the stink. A lady in a fancy ball gown tripped and fell right in front of me, and I grabbed her arm to help her up. She was a man in a dress, and another guy in a dress whacked me, and... well... that was it for me and New Year’s Eve in Times Square.”
“What were you doing in New York City?” Tessa asked.
“I was working as trim carpenter outside of Albany during the vacation. A friend’s father got me the job. The money was good, and I liked the work. It was pretty much hammering nails and helping the real carpenters—the finish guys. I was the one they sent for coffee and sandwiches. Anyway, I had a couple of days off, so I thought I’d go to the city for New Year’s Eve, just to see what it was all about.”
“You went alone?” Tessa asked.
“Yeah. It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment idea.”
Tessa seemed fascinated. “Tell me more about it. It must’ve been exciting. I’ve never even been near a crowd of people like that.”
“If you’re anything like me, Tessa, I hope you never are. It wasn’t exciting—it was frightening.” He paused for a moment. “Huge crowds like that don’t seem right to me. It’s like the lowest common denominator takes over. The noise is awful, and the alleged ‘fun’ seems like some sort of forced... I don’t know... just on the verge of violent mass insanity.”
A long silence followed. Finally, Sarah spoke up. “Enough of this grimness. This is supposed to be a celebration, people. Let’s lighten up a bit, OK? Let’s play ‘If I Could.’”
“Mom,” Tessa protested, “that’s a kid’s game. It’s dopey.”
“Dopey or not—what is it?” Danny asked.
“Tessa’s right,” Sarah said. “It’s a kid’s game, but it’s fun. Each person tells what he or she would do or see or experience or own if there were no boundaries of any kind at all—time, place, money, whatever. It’s a statement of what would make the speaker most happy.”
“Not so childish at all,” Ian observed. “Let’s do it.”
“Tessa, you go first,” Sarah said.
The girl considered her words for a full minute as she munched popcorn from the bowl on the coffee table. “OK,” she said. “What would make me most happy is pretty much what I have now. I thought about going back in time to Woodstock to hear all that great music, and then I thought maybe I’d say I’d like my arm back. But the thing is, what I have right here with my mom and my friends and Turnip is about as good as it gets.” She paused and then concluded with a slightly embarrassed, “Ya know?”
“Wow,” Ian breathed. “Our little girl’s all grown up.”
“Your turn, Danny,” Sarah said.
Danny spoke seriously. “I flashed on some fancy stuff before Tessa gave us her ‘If I Could.’ I thought about a huge Olympic-sized swimming pool—indoor—so I could swim all year round. And a Porsche 912. But those things are toys. I have one dream or goal or whatever one cares to call it, but I’m afraid that one isn’t for publication.” His face colored slightly. “Anyway, I’d have to go along with my friend Tessa. What I have right now is pretty good.”
“Maggie?” Sarah said.
“I guess there’s no big secret to what time I’d go back to and whom I’d be with, but I don’t want to say that. Ian’s right; Tess made me see just how very good all of us have things. Danny’s right too—all the things that came to my mind were toys. I dunno—I guess in the real world I wouldn’t change much.” Maggie smiled at her hostess. “What about you, Sarah?”
Sarah grinned. “Essentially ditto. And that’s the point of the game. Ian, what about you?”
“If I could...” Ian said, “I’d be a father of a child. I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl or how many legs or arms it has or what color his or her skin is. It seems to me that the most splendid thing a Christian—or any person—can do is to raise and love and play with and enjoy a child, and get the child started on the right path in life.”
Tessa nodded her head. “Cool.”
“Quit hogging the popcorn,” Ian said. “Pass the bowl, Tess.”
Danny smiled. “It’s ten after midnight. We missed the ball coming down in Times Square.”
“We didn’t miss a thing,” Maggie said.
“No,” Tessa agreed. “We didn’t. I think we even gained something.” She looked up at Ian shyly and said, “Do you think we could pray?”
Maggie reached for the girl and drew her closer. “If I ever have a daughter, I’d want her to be like you, Tessa,” she whispered.
Tessa hugged her. “Maybe one day—no, for sure, Maggie—you’ll have a...”
Maggie’s embrace stifled the girl’s words, but Maggie was sure that there was no one present at the Morrison home who didn’t realize what those words would have been.
Maggie steered carefully over the patches of black ice that appeared on the road between her home and the Morrisons’, snug in the cab of her pickup. Danny had gone out to start the truck as Maggie was saying her good-byes, and she was as warm as she’d be if she were sitting on her couch facing the fireplace at her home.
Ian wants to be a father, wants a baby. A child was what came to his mind first if he could choose from anything in the world.
The rear end of the truck skidded sideways slightly, the tires grabbing for traction on the diamond-hard ice. Maggie eased off the accelerator and steered into the direction of the slide, bringing the truck back under control. She looked at the speedometer: she was going twenty-five miles per hour. Without touching the brake she brought her speed to twenty and kept it there.
And Danny—Danny of the manure spreader fame. Danny and Sunday, the dog with a heart bigger than his big, furry body. In her mind she watched the vet working on Dusty the night Dancer was born.
His hands are strong and gentle. I can still see him assisting at the miracle of birth... Danny loves me too, just as Ian does. I must be the luckiest woman in the world—or the saddest, because one of these wonderful men is going to be hurt.
Maggie pulled up close to her barn and turned off her engine. Her land, her buildings, everything around her was a moonscape under the soft light from above. The wood of the big door creaked in protest as she pushed it open, stepped into the barn, and turned on the lights. The scents of good hay, leather, molasses feed, fresh straw, and the fine, natural aroma of curried horses greeted her.
Dusty’s head appeared over her stall door, her liquid eyes blinking slowly, looking as dopey as only a suddenly awakened horse can. There was a piece of straw standing almost straight up in her forelock, like a small spire. Dusty nickered warmly, the sound another sweet welcome. Maggie tugged the blade of straw free and rubbed the horse’s muzzle with both hands. Dakota’s head appeared, and then Turnip’s and Happy’s. Maggie scratched necks, touched ears, and patted heads as she walked to Dancer’s stall.
The colt was facing into a corner, sound asleep. He was standing squarely—each of his hooves in full contact with the barn floor, each carrying all the weight nature intended it to. Maggie opened the gate and eased into Dancer’s stall. She stood at his right hip and pushed lightly against his rump.
The colt’s instinct told him to move away from the slight pressure, and he did so, putting proportionately more weight on his left rear. The leg carried the added weight without a problem.
Dancer snuffled, winked rapidly a few times, and came awake, turning smoothly to face Maggie. “Good boy!” she told him. “What a good, strong boy! We’ll get that awful cast off of you real soon, Dancer. I promise.”
The colt extended his muzzle toward Maggie, looking for a carrot or a piece of apple. He stopped midmotion, and his eyes became confused. He blinked twice, as if he were pondering a deep secret, and then lifted his left rear hoof from the floor so that its toe barely touched.
“You faker,” Maggie laughed, sliding past him on his right side and again applying pressure to his hip. Surprised, Dancer yielded to the push the only way he could—by accepting the weight on his left rear. His eyes opened wide, not in pain but in astonishment, and he swung his head back to gape at his leg. It took a moment for him to understand that he was, once again, carrying his weight as he had before the Thanksgiving storm. He sniffed the cast thoroughly, as if he’d never seen it before, and prodded at it with his nose. For a second his toe came off the floor again, wavered a bit—and then settled back comfortably, as it had been. He rocked his rump a few inches side to side, testing the absence of pain. Then, satisfied, he turned in the stall to face Maggie and again sought a treat.
Maggie’s unrestrained whoop startled all the horses and shattered the late-night silence of the barn.
The next hundred and twenty or so days passed as Montana winter months always did, offering a few days of delightfully warm temperatures and the promise that spring would eventually come but then negating those short respites with endless weeks of below-zero temperatures and howling winds.
Now, though, the sun seemed to be flexing its muscles and was cascading Montana not only with brilliant light but also with a modicum of heat. Maggie noticed a valiant little crocus poking its way through the partially frozen soil as she walked to the barn that morning.
Changes of Heart Page 16
