Night Angel

by Renee Reeves

  He demonstrated that now, asking the horse to ‘whoa’ right in front of its pompous owner. The horse stopped on a dime, head tucked, back legs sliding underneath him, billowing dust up into the owners sweating face. Nick smirked while Lindsey cursed and pulled a white handkerchief out of his back pocket.

  He couldn't have asked for anything better from the animal.

  "That's it for today, Lindsey.” Nick turned his shoulder slightly in, the cue for the colt to come to him. He pulled a carrot from his back pocket and held it out to the eager youngster. “He's a good colt and performed very well, I'm not going to push him.” Coiling the long lunge line in one hand he led the horse from the training arena. “You can judge for yourself if my time is worth your money."

  Lindsey pushed off the rail he was leaning against, coming towards them with an its-good-to-be-me swagger. Nick almost had to shield his eyes from the mans blindingly bright yellow shirt. A banana couldn't have done any better. The Texan was nothing if not flamboyant and had a definite flare for gaudiness.

  And bullshit.

  Nick couldn't help but feel sorry for the colt he was leading. One day soon he was going to have to watch the horse leave with this clown.

  "I know you're considered one of the best at what you do Nick, but you have to admit that your monthly rate as a trainer is pretty high. Especially when you let the horse run things."

  Nick tamped down his irritation, “You knew my rate when you brought the horse here two months ago. And you damn well know you're getting your moneys worth.” Lindsey's jaw went slack, evidence that the arrogant ass wasn't used to being talked to like that.

  Tough shit.

  He led the colt to the hitching post and began removing the tack. “If you're unhappy with my services, Lindsey, you are free to find another trainer. But you get what you pay for, in everything."

  "Now look here, Evanoff,” Lindsey puffed up, reminding Nick of a disgruntled chicken, “you can't talk to me like that. That's my horse you're training and I have every right to say something about how it's being done."

  "Not on my property you don't.” Nick unsnapped the colt from the hitching post and headed for the barn, leaving Lindsey to stand there or follow.

  Horses nickered in greeting as he led the colt into the dim coolness of the barn and to its stall. Leading the colt inside, Nick talked quietly and soothingly, knowing that the owners’ raised voice was making the horse uneasy. Lindsey appeared in the doorway and leaned against the frame, twirling a piece of hay casually between his fingers.

  "How many people do you think would trust you with their animals if they knew you're an ex-convict?” Lindsey ran his eyes up and down Nick and then one corner of his mouth tipped down. His voice lowered to a sneer, “A convicted murderer."

  A red haze swam across Nick's vision, blurring and distorting everything in his line of sight and he slowly straightened from checking the colt's front hooves. He turned to Lindsey and could see the mans mouth moving, but the dull roaring in his ears blotted out whatever he was saying. Convicted murderer ... ex-con ... Nick's blood pounded, loud and fast in his ears, drowning out rational thought. How Lindsey knew Nick didn't know, all that mattered was that he did know and was threatening the farm and his livelihood with it. His fists clenched, aching with the need to smash something. Lindsey was now watching him with obvious calculation, expecting him to lose his temper. One frantic phone call to the police would be all it would take and the bastard knew it. Well, well, well, he thought, the smug-faced asshole actually had some balls.

  A brief smile crossed his lips, then, deliberately he palmed the pointed hoof-pick, flashing the sharp tip. The cold steel pressed into his skin and sweet smelling sawdust drifted up to his nostrils as he casually strolled across the large stall towards Lindsey. An uncertain expression crossed Lindsey's face and he slowly started backing away, stopping only when his back slammed into the stall's hard wooden wall.

  At six-foot four and two-hundred forty plus pounds Nick towered over the other man. Using his size as intimidation he leaned down into Lindsey's rapidly paling face until their eyes were only inches apart and snarled, “Don't you ever, ever try to threaten me you arrogant son-of-a-bitch,” he poked the sharp tip of the pick into the vee of Lindsey's yellow shirtfront, right below the pounding pulse in the mans neck, “or I'll show you exactly what prison can do to a man."

  The barn was silent except for the ragged breathing of the cornered man, and then Nick was dimly aware that someone was clearing their throat. Jake's voice, low and tense, came from the stall doorway.

  "Uh ... Nick. Hey ... Take it easy, bro."

  The worry in Jake's voice managed to cut through some of the fury pulsing through him. Muttering an oath he shoved the hoof-pick at Lindsey's chest, brushed past him and slammed out of the barn.

  Jake stared hard at the colt's owner who stood stock-still and gripping the hoof-pick as if it were a life-line.

  "Your brother's insane!” Lindsey sputtered. Jake shrugged negligently and calmly held out the colt's red halter. Hands shaking Lindsey grabbed it from him, and then stood as if not knowing what to do next.

  In a voice gone cold and hard Jake said, “I think you should make arrangements to have your horse picked up. But for now you can get your ass off our farm."

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  Chapter 7

  Morgan pulled the rented Honda into a parking spot outside of Winnett's tiny convenience store and shut off the engine, relaxing back into the leather covered seat. One hand still clutched the steering wheel and she allowed it to drop heavily into her lap. She inhaled deeply, held the breath and then blew it out forcefully until her lungs felt sunken and empty. Getting behind the wheel again had, admittedly, scared her to death and she had driven most of the sixteen miles into town below the speed limit. Her knuckles were white and aching from the death grip she'd had on the steering wheel.

  But an almost empty refrigerator had convinced her to make the trip or starve to death.

  A bell jingled as she entered the store. She smiled at the cashier, a bored-looking teenage girl with bright red hair. Her hopes died as she glanced around the small store and immediately realized that variety was pretty much nonexistent. Well, she supposed, with a population of only one hundred and sixty people variety was really not a necessity. Going up and down each aisle she selected a carton of eggs, several bottles of Diet Cola, some milk, bread, and several boxes of cereal to tide her over until she could get up the nerve to drive back to Lewistown, an hour and a half away.

  "Excuse me,” she waited until the cashier glanced up, “is there another town nearby, one that's a little bit bigger?"

  "Nope, just Winnett. Worlds End."

  Morgan frowned, “Excuse me?"

  The girl smiled a little and began ringing up her purchases. “Worlds End, that's what some people call Winnett. Or sometimes it's ‘where you can see the end of the world'.” She shrugged negligently, “To me it's just the town I want to get out of. Your total is twenty-two, seventeen. But you can always drive to Billings or Lewistown."

  Morgan handed her the cash, “Yeah, I've been to Lewistown. It's pretty."

  A stand of brochures by the register caught her eye and she pulled one out about the expo she planned to go to. Nerve dependant, of course. “Hey, have you ever—” A framed newspaper on the wall behind the cashiers head caught her eye. In bold black letters the headline read:

  'EVANOFF FARM—A LAST CHANCE FOR MANY HORSES'

  She couldn't make out any of the article, but there was no mistaking the man in the black and white photo leaning against a corral fence.

  "Isn't he hot?” The cashier gushed breathlessly. “Trust me, that picture doesn't compare to real life, I get all flustered every time he comes in here.” She shivered dramatically and made an odd sucking noise with her tongue, eyeing the man in the photo like he was a piece of prime rib. “Gerard Butler has nothing on him and I absolutely looove Gerard Butler. But ... God, what I wouldn
't give to have that in bed with me. His brother's not in the picture, but he's almost as hot, not to mention a lot friendlier."

  Morgan blushed at the young girl's frank talk and wondered what her parents would say if they knew.

  "So, he owns some kind of horse ranch?"

  "Not exactly, it's more of a horse sanctuary. He takes in abused horses, works with them and then just lets them live out their lives there. A few of the horse ranchers around here think he's crazy and that he should just shoot all of those broken down old nags. That's what they call them, not me. I think it's great what he does. He's also known for being a first-class horse trainer, one of the best. People bring their horses to him from all over the US. Maybe even farther."

  She handed Morgan her change, then shot another dewy-eyed glance at the wall. “I'll bet he's as much of a stud as any of his horses."

  Mumbling a choked thanks Morgan grabbed her bags and hurried outside into the cool, refreshing air.

  * * * *

  "The gallery showing went great, sweetie. I'll be sending you a big, fat check next week!” Lisa said, her exuberance ringing in Morgan's ear.

  "I wish I could have been there,” Morgan smiled into the phone, “But I've already got some ideas for doing a series of paintings on Montana. I got a great shot of a cowboy riding his horse down Main Street, right in the middle of traffic!"

  Lisa laughed, “You're kidding!"

  "It's true; you'll never see that in Chicago. I can email you the picture once my internet is up."

  Tucking the cordless phone tighter between her chin and shoulder she rummaged through her grocery bags, pulling out the cold items and putting them into the refrigerator. Cereal went in the cabinet above the stove.

  "Right now I'm working on a painting of this great little copse I found in the woods behind my house, and I'm thinking I might base a series on how life has modernized out here while also staying the same. For instance, maybe showing a cattle drive in town when there were no cars and such, and in another painting show this cowboy riding amongst the cars, almost like he's herding them."

  She was already picturing the scenes in her mind and added mental details here and there. It had been a long time since she was able to focus solely on her work and a thrill of anticipation ran through her. Years had passed since she was free to express herself as an artist. Lisa seemed pleased by the ideas and continued bringing her up-to-date on the showing.

  "Wow, it does sound like that place is agreeing with you, at least from an artistic standpoint. I want to come see you soon, maybe in the next couple of months if I can manage it."

  "Oh Lisa that would be great! Hopefully I'll have the cottage fixed up by then, at least painted and weeded. Of course that might take awhile since I don't even own a lawnmower yet."

  "Well, hon.” Lisa said, “I can't very well pack one onto the plane, so that's your little problem.” She cleared her throat, but not before Morgan heard a little breathy catch. “I-I'm really proud of you Morgan, really proud."

  Morgan smiled, briefly closing her eyes against a pang of homesickness. “I know, Lisa. Thanks for making me do this. But I'd better go now, before both of us start to lose it."

  Morgan hung up the phone, feeling more than a little guilty that she hadn't mentioned the accident to her cousin, but she knew it would have just worried Lisa.

  With a start Morgan realized that there was no longer anyone she had to answer to, even Lisa. If she had been in Chicago when the accident occurred Morgan knew that she would have run crying to Lisa, expecting her cousin to help her pick up the pieces, but out here there was no one to rely on, and finally she was having to stand on her own two feet. She was no longer a Stepford Wife and had to learn how to function on her own without being told what to do, or wear, or how to act.

  The cracked gilded cage she had lived in was gone.

  * * * *

  That sorry son-of-a-bitch, Nick thought as he stormed out of the barn and got into his truck. Slamming the door shut he shoved the gear into drive and angled onto the main road. Lindsey was damn lucky he hadn't given into the urge to wrap his hand around the bastard's throat and squeeze until that self-satisfied smirk had been choked off the man's face. Excon, Lindsey had sneered, convicted murderer. Nick scrubbed his hand over his jaw and then slammed his palm down on the steering wheel. If Jake hadn't shown up Nick didn't really know how the episode would have ended. Lindsey had wanted him to lose his temper, wanted him to make a move that could have brought the police out to the farm. Ten years ago when he'd had nothing to lose he probably would have given into Lindsey's taunting and let loose on the man, but now being so stupid would cost him everything, especially with his criminal record. Nick pictured himself headed back to prison while his farm and horses went on the market with Jake struggling to save it.

  The mental image was extremely frightening because it was a very real possibility.

  Nick rubbed furiously at his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the burning in them or the choking tightness in his throat and sank back into the driver's seat, relaxing his head against the headrest. Nothing was worth losing his farm. Besides Jake, it was all he cared about, all he had ever cared about.

  After being released and finding out that his grandfather had left him a little money he had put his whole focus, every ounce of himself and every penny to his name into getting the horse facility started. Nick sighed, remembering those long days and even longer nights of back-breaking plowing, tilling, cutting lumber and nailing thousands upon thousands of nails until he had the barn and corrals exactly the way he'd wanted. Love and anger had fused inside him, fueling his determination to succeed and to give as many hard-luck horses a second chance as he could. Four years after starting Evanoff Farm he had made a name for himself as an up and coming trainer which had brought in people from all over wanting their ‘troubled’ horses fixed. Ten times out of ten the horse's troubles had stemmed from a problem owner. Gradually, after many satisfied clients he had gained a reputation as a top trainer, and soon after that had his first international client.

  Lost in thought Nick let instinct guide him and headed south for about a mile, not giving a fuck where he ended up. Soon raw frustration made his decision and he turned down the thickly wooded side road towards the cottage.

  Besides his ninety-two acre farm the little cottage was the only other residence within several miles and actually backed up to his woods. The cottage claimed four acres of partially fenced land. Since Eliza's departure to the nursing home two years ago, Nick had had the whole area to himself and had damn well liked it that way.

  But now there was Morgan.

  With a jolt Nick realized he had been stopped in front of the small cottage, just sitting there, idling, for ten minutes. He ran a hand over his face, and leaned his head back against the headrest and sat there, listening to the deep, rhythmic vibrations of the trucks heavy duty engine while staring at the cottage through the windshield.

  Abandoned for two years the place was in desperate need of help, but still looked almost like he remembered from his visits with Eliza. The yellow painted wood needed a fresh coat of paint and he saw where some of the boards had warped, coming loose from the house. White shutters hung loosely from the windows, and the screen around the front porch needed re-tacking in several spots. The yard was overgrown, and for some reason that irritated him. Weren't the real estate agents supposed to take care of stuff like that?

  But whereas before the place had looked abandoned, there were now obvious signs of life. The two large circular beveled glass windows situated on either side of the porch now had burgundy curtains showing behind them. Gone were the cream lace ones Eliza had favored. The front porch with its arched overhang was small and he remembered it had been just big enough for two of Eliza's metal lawn chairs and a tiny table decorated with plastic flowers between. Now, in place of the ugly green lawn chairs sat a pretty, white, very delicate looking wicker armchair. A matching table sat off to the side. Two huge pots of color
ful pansies sat on the bottom step and vines growing amongst the flowers trailed from the pots to run down the steps. Both the outer screen door and the dark wooden inner door were shut tight. So far the impression he was getting was one of strict femininity ... daintiness.

  A fairly new red Honda sat under the attached carport. A rental ... or her husbands?

  What the hell are you doing?—Besides letting your dick rule you. You know she's married.

  "Damnit!” Nick grabbed the gear shift, gripping it until his knuckles turned white, then muttered a foul curse and let go, leaving the truck in Park. Hell, maybe subconsciously he was looking for more trouble. Funny, he had never thought of himself as the self-destructive type, although many would argue the fact that going to prison at eighteen was about as self-destructive as one could get.

  A movement at the rear of the house near the barn caught his eye and he looked up. There she was, long dark hair tied back in a high ponytail, struggling to lift a heavy board from underneath a brown tarp. He watched, frowning as giving up on lifting the board she pulled it along behind her, head down and small form bent forward at the waist with effort. She was limping noticeably and Nick looked around, expecting to see someone come to help her.

  Nick unbuckled his seatbelt and put his hand on the door handle, every nerve in his body wanting to help her, but then he sat back, forcing himself to watch and wait a few more minutes.

  Once she got to the barn's big double doors she stopped, dropped the board and used her arm to wipe sweat from her brow. Her shoulders drooped and he could see each labored breath she took.

  "Hell, I can't stand this much longer.” He muttered to himself, gripping the door handle again. Once more he looked around, wondering where the hell her husband was and why she was hauling heavy boards around trying to do repairs herself. She should be in the house, resting, not out here doing this shit work. Back in action she struggled to lift the board back up and place it over a gap at the front of the barn just below the window. Nick saw a hammer in her back pocket and a box of nails at her feet.