The Promise

by River Laurent

  “Hi,” she says brightly. She is sitting on a black leather chair wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe with a towel tied like a turban around her head. A dark-skinned woman seems to be doing something to her. I can see her head and a bit of her face bobbing at the bottom of the screen. She is obviously getting a pedicure or a foot massage.

  “Hello, Tamara,” I say, rubbing my eyes.

  “You look sleepy. What time is it over there?”

  “It’s 1:30 in the morning here.” I keep my voice neutral and completely devoid of the intense irritation I feel.

  “Have you learned to ride yet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh good. Has everybody there seen you riding?” she asks eagerly.

  “Uh...not yet. Only Butch.”

  “Butch? I thought your trainer was someone else.”

  “Ah…well. Lars didn’t have the time.”

  She frowns. “A mere trainer didn’t have the time for me?”

  For crying out loud. She is insulted because someone didn’t drop everything to put her needs first. “It’s not that he didn’t have the time. We kind of fell out and I decided to practice on my own with just Butch to watch over me.”

  “You fell out?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  She rocks her butt as if she is settling in for a good story. “You better tell me everything then. Because I don’t want to trip up and say the wrong thing to the wrong person when I get there.”

  Me and my big mouth. God, why did I ever mention Lars? “It’s actually nothing. I wanted to ride a particular horse, but he thought the horse was too wild.”

  Her eyes become saucers.

  “It all worked out in the end,” I say quickly. “He was wrong because the horse was fine with me.”

  “Oh, my fucking God. He’s on your To Bang list, isn’t he?”

  Every vestige of sleep deserts me, and I feel a shaft of unease go right through me. “What?”

  “Don’t worry, you can tell me everything. I’m no prude. I love sex,” she says in an overly saccharine tone.

  “No, no. You’re completely wrong. I don’t think of him like that at all.”

  “Yes, you do. You’ve gone all red,” she cries triumphantly.

  “Tamara, it’s not what you think. We’re just friends who—”

  “—Have fallen out,” she interrupts slyly.

  “I—”

  “—Send me a photo of him,” she orders bossily.

  I clear my throat. “You want me to take a photo of him and send it to you?”

  “Exactly.”

  I swing my legs to the floor. “Why?”

  It seemed like a reasonable thing to ask, but it sends her into a frenzy. I mean, she totally loses it. She goes ballistic. It’s the most incredible thing how she can go from normal to this ranting and raving monster. Her hands fly out and smack that poor woman crouched at her feet. The woman screams and I hear a clatter as if she has fallen to the floor. Frozen with horror, I stare open-mouthed as she curses me for daring to question her order.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll take a photo,” I cry, recovering from the shock of seeing her incredible transformation.

  “You better,” she screams furiously, and breaks the connection.

  I stare at the blank screen. Wow! That was unbelievable. No wonder her staff is terrified of her. I put the phone down and lie back down, but I’m wide awake now. My sleep is completely ruined.

  Why would she want a photo of Lars? It can’t be just curiosity. Just because she thinks I want him? The more I think about it the more I realize that she could be one of those women who will take their friends’ boyfriends simply to show that they can. I stand up and pace the floor uneasily.

  I don’t want to send a photo of Lars to her.

  She’ll take one look at Lars and want him for herself. I know it in my bones. I toy with the idea of sending a photo of Butch, but then I know that if anything at all goes wrong, she will try to find some way to punish me financially.

  Anyway, it’s not like Lars belongs to me.

  I suddenly remember my dream and goosebumps scatter across my skin. I stand at the window and stare out into the night, wishing I had never mentioned Lars to her. At traumatic times like this, the only thing that can make me feel better is ice cream.

  Chapter 29

  Cass

  Barefoot and in my pajamas, I pad out of my room and head toward the kitchen. Everybody is asleep and the house is still and quiet. I switch on the light, get ice cream from the freezer, sit down, and slip a spoonful into my mouth.

  Chunky Monkey ice cream.

  Yes.

  A big middle finger to Tamara and her lawyers and Lars and the whole world. Except of course for Jesse, Dad, Thunder, my mom, wherever she is. And Emma Jean too. And Butch. He’s a sweet guy. Well, maybe Chance as well. Okay, make it all the animals in the barn. Might as well include all the animals in the world. They’re innocent too.

  I take another spoonful and hear a noise.

  I turn my head toward the door, and sweet Jesus! Lars is standing there in a pair of old jeans and a white T-shirt; exactly the way he was dressed in my dream.

  “Couldn’t sleep, huh?” he says.

  I shake my head.

  He nods and, coming into the room, takes a spoon from a drawer and then sits opposite me. I give the ice cream tub a push and he catches it as it slides toward him.

  “What’s bugging you?” he asks, digging into the ice cream.

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t ever play poker. You’ll lose your shirt.” He looks up at me. “Although, that would be a sight.”

  My eyebrows rise. “Are you flirting with me?”

  He slides the ice cream back toward me. “Isn’t that obvious?”

  I catch the carton and frown. “What’s bugging you?”

  He pulls a clean spoon out of his mouth. “Nothing,”

  I fill my spoon with ice cream, push the carton toward him, and say, “You should stay away from the poker tables too.”

  “I’m actually a very good poker player.”

  I catch the tub that he passes back to me. “Are you saying I shouldn’t trust you?”

  He grins, a wolfish, totally feral grin. “I wouldn’t trust any man with you, let alone me.”

  Suddenly, the air in the room becomes thick. Confused and certain that we are talking about two totally different subjects, I gulp the ice cream in my mouth and blurt out, “I rode Thunder today.”

  “I know. I saw you.”

  I’m so shocked, I almost don’t catch the tub barreling toward me. “You did?’

  He looks at me strangely and nods.

  “Where were you?”

  “In the study. I was wrong. You did very well.”

  My cheeks heat up with pleasure.” I did do well, didn’t I?”

  “Yup, you’re good with him. He’ll miss you when you’re gone.”

  The atmosphere in the room changes again; fills with tension. He stares at me, his eyes like molten silver, his body rigid. I want to smile or say something, but I can’t move a muscle. He is like a magnet...or Dracula. Then he blinks and I look down into the ice cream tub. What the hell is going on here?

  “You’ve set a record,” he says softly.

  I dig into the ice cream. “For what?”

  “You’ve gone nearly ten minutes without insulting me.”

  I look at his smug expression and act instinctively. I flick the ice cream on my spoon in his direction. Bingo. It smacks him on the nose.

  I can’t believe my aim is so accurate. He looks so shocked I start laughing and can’t stop. I clutch my belly and bend with laughter. He gets up and starts to come around to my side, but I am up on my feet and running. I run to the other side of the table and face him, still laughing but wary. He tries to chase me, but I am super-fast. We do two circles around the table. Once he changes direction, but I was prepared for it, and he gained not one inch on me.

  “I’m sor
ry,” I say.

  “I might believe it if you said it without cackling like a witch.”

  That makes me laugh even harder.

  He rips a couple of pieces of paper towel and holds them out to me. “Show me you’re sorry by cleaning up your mess.”

  I lick my lips. All my laughter is gone. Like a robot, I walk toward him. A foot away from him, I take the bunched-up wad in his hand and lift it toward his face. He catches my wrist halfway and pulls me toward him. I look into his eyes. Oh, my God, he’s going to kiss me. Just like in my dream.

  Suddenly, his eyes narrow.

  “What?’ I whisper.

  “Your eyes are green.”

  It’s like a slap in my face. I feel my blood draining down to my toes. Oh, crap. What the hell am I up to? It’s that time of the night when men want some easy sex, and I’ve fallen right into it like a complete fool? I can’t believe I’m that stupid. Not after I just witnessed how batshit crazy Tamara really is.

  I could have ruined everything just because Lars woke up wanting to get his dick wet. I blink as the horror of what would happen if I am unmasked hits my lust induced brain. Mrs. Carter has paid my dad’s hospital bills on good faith that I will complete this job successfully. Dangerous loan sharks are circling and I’m thinking about sex.

  “Yeah,” I say as casually as I can. “My eyes turn color when I’m tired, or I don’t get enough sleep.” I force a smile onto my lips. “And that must be my cue to go back to bed.” I tug my arm out of his grip. “Goodnight, Lars.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just watches me with a strange expression on his face. My body feels stiff and I know my movements are robotic, but I make myself walk away without turning back. When I get to my room, I close the door and lean against it.

  That was a lucky escape, Cass. Don’t ever put yourself in that kind of situation again.

  Chapter 30

  Lars

  I open her bedroom door softly and in the shaft of light from the kitchen behind me, I see her asleep in her bed. Quietly, I walk to the side. For a few seconds, I don’t do anything. I can’t. I just stare at her. In sleep, with her blonde hair spread out around her, she is like an angel. This moment when I found her asleep is precious beyond words, and my mind takes a picture of it. For later. For when I am old and sitting on my porch smoking my pipe.

  I reach down and gently shake her arm. “Tamara,” I call softly.

  “Daddy,” she mumbles in her sleep.

  That moment of vulnerability makes something inside me shift, and I feel as if I could give my life up for this beauty. I long to stroke her silky golden hair.

  “Wake up, Tamara,” I say.

  She opens her eyes and for an instant, she smiles at me. An open, childlike, innocent smile. Totally without guile. “Lars,” she whispers.

  I stare at her. How different it would be if this sweet creature was the real her, but as I watch, a veil comes into her eyes and she jerks back.

  “What are you doing in my bedroom?”

  “Bessie is in labor and Emma Jean said you wanted to see a foal being born. Do you still want to?”

  Her eyes widen with surprise. “Yes,” she says nodding her head. “Yes, I do.”

  “Okay, get ready and join me in the kitchen.”

  I go into the kitchen and stand by the table. My heart is pounding in my chest. There is a saying around these parts. Don’t go in if you don’t know the way out. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’ve never wanted a woman so badly in my life. I thought it was just lust, but it is more. So much more.

  “I’m ready,” she says from behind me.

  I whirl around. She is dressed in a plain blue sweatshirt and black jeans. Her hair has not been combed and it makes my fingers itch to run through it, fist it, and turn her face up to mine.

  “Come on,” I say, picking up the lantern from the kitchen table.

  We walk quickly out of the house into the darkness of the night. The night air is cool and we go quickly toward the barn. I don’t switch on any of the lights to avoid disturbing the other horses. I lead Tamara to the stall thickly laid with hay. It is larger than all the others and designed to give a laboring mother plenty of room to move around. I’ve already tied her tail and she is pawing the ground restlessly. A gust of wind slams against the side of the barn, but inside the stall, the world is warm and humid.

  “How do you know she’s ready?” Tamara whispers.

  “I’ve been watching her all night.”

  “You’ve been up all night.”

  “Yup.”

  The lantern casts a gentle glow over the mare’s smooth, tan hide. She snorts and tosses her head then slowly comes to a stop. Painfully, she lowers herself to the straw and rolls onto her side, breathing hard, her big belly rising in the light.

  It’s almost time.

  I point to the milking stool at the corner of the stall and Tamara goes and sits on it. She pulls her knees up to her chin and stares at the mare with wide eyes. I know she’s trying to play it cool, but inside she must be quaking with the same something I felt when I saw my first foal being born. It’s a blend of discovery, fear, joy, and worry, all rolled into an emotion so sharp and strong, it stings your eyes.

  I sit back on my heels and watch as the mare turns this way and that, her restless hooves kicking through the hay. She huffs hard through her nose, lifts her huge head, and looks first at Tamara, then me, before she lays back down with a soft groan. Her sides heave with the effort of breathing, and her belly is hard as she bears down, preparing to bring her foal into the world.

  “Is the baby coming?” Tamara asks, her voice hushed.

  “Nearly. It won’t be long now.”

  “Have you seen many births?” Her eyes gleam wetly in the yellow light.

  “Many, but the magic never dies,” I tell her.

  At that moment, the mare rises to her front knees and rocks back and forth, obviously in the throes of pain. She gets back down on the straw and lies on her side. This time, she pushes long and hard. Suddenly, a bulge appears between her legs and then it is gone. Liquid seeps out.

  “Come. You can see it better from here,” I whisper.

  Tamara creeps from the stool to sit on her knees next to me. I look over to her and our eyes meet. For a long, excruciating moment, our gazes remain locked. I take a deep breath and it hurts deep at the bottom of my lungs, just as if I’d sucked in a cold blast of mountain air.

  Our gaze breaks when the mare kicks at the straw and rolls. This time, the bulge takes more shape. Little hooves wrapped in a white sac appear. I stare intently, ready to jump in and help if necessary. I had to help Bessie once before. I hope I won’t have to again. Tamara creeps closer still.

  “What can I do?” she whispers.

  “Nothing. Just watch. We’ll intervene if things don’t go smoothly.” We stand guard as the mare pushes again with a long drawn out sigh, this time revealing not only tiny hooves but the nose of her foal as well.

  “Oh, my God,” Tamara squeals, her hand clasped over her mouth.

  Another gust of wind rattles the old barn. I settle on my knees, a little bit closer to the mare. I look at Tamara and tears are slipping down her face.

  “Why are you crying?” I ask, making my way to her side

  “She’s in pain and I can’t do anything to help her. Can she even do this on her own?” She sniffs, wiping her tears with the sleeves of her sweatshirt.

  I stare at her in amazement. It never crossed my mind that she could feel so much for another creature. How I longed to take her in my arms and comfort her.

  “She has to do this part on her own,” I say softly.

  She hugs herself. “She’s hurting though.”

  “Giving birth hurts, but she’s done it before. It shouldn’t take her too long this time.”

  Tamara nods and tries to creep even closer to the mare, but I reach out to her.

  “Come back here with me. She might kick out and you could get hurt. Give he
r plenty of room.”

  We sit side-by-side against the wall, watching the mare as she labors to bring her baby into the world. She pushes, then pauses, then pushes again. Each time she pushes the baby a little further out.

  “Does it always take this long?” Tamara asks.

  “It’s only been fifteen minutes,” I tell her.

  “It feels like hours.”

  Finally, the baby’s head pops out of the birth canal so suddenly that Tamara gasps. I grin at her.

  The mare rests for a bit then pushes again. A sudden gush of red liquid soaks the straw underneath the mare, and the foal begins to slide out, covered in a glistening sac. There’s a small popping sound and the sac rips away. There is nothing left inside but the foal’s hind legs. Bessie lays her head down as if she is done.

  The foal lies on the ground, lifeless. I wait for a moment then pick up a piece of straw and gently poke at the baby’s head.

  “What are you doing?” Tamara cries, her face a mask of fury. I know what she feels. She is overwhelmed with the need to protect the new baby. She thinks I’m messing with the miracle in front of us.

  “I’m making him breathe,” I explain as I tickle the baby’s nostrils with the straw.

  The foal suddenly heaves, his whole body shaking as he coughs the tiniest cough imaginable, then his chest rises with a small breath. The second breath is much bigger and a moment after that, the mare pushes one last time and the little one is free.

  The foal lifts its head, lays it back down, then tries again.

  Tears run completely unheeded down Tamara’s face. I look at the city girl, the painted butterfly who has spent her entire empty life fluttering about in the glare of the media, and all I want to do is wipe away those tears and never let her go again.

  I reach out and take her hand.

  A spark of static electricity shoots up my arm, heightening everything that is already coursing through my mind. She feels it too, because she jumps. Then she grips my hand hard and together we watch as the foal begins his clumsy journey of standing on his own legs. For almost ten minutes he flops around, trying out his spindly legs, failing, and trying again. Finally, when his exhausted mother reaches her nose out to him, it is as if he takes strength from her. This time when he stands, he stays up.