The Virgin and Zach Coulter. Lois Dyer Faye

littering the floor beneath.

      “I hope it’s not rats,” Zach told him. “I hate rats.”

      “Might have been raccoons. They can do a lot of damage.”

      Zach nudged the shredded corner of the dirt-dulled oriental carpet. “Whatever it was, they were destructive.”

      Cade nodded and walked toward the fireplace at the end of the room. Zach followed, assessing the damage along the way.

      “Looks like the fireplace is still standing,” Cade commented.

      “Yeah. Who knows if it’s still functional.” Zach bent to lean into the shoulder-high hearth and peer up the chimney. “I guess we won’t know until we get up on the roof and check it.” He turned, hands on hips, his gaze following the wall to the reception desk. “I’ll be damned,” he said, stunned. “Mom’s mustang sculpture is still here.”

      Cade followed as Zach strode back down the long room to halt in front of the curved wooden oak counter that served guests at registration. On the wall behind, beneath a layer of dirt, tarnish and cobwebs, hung a four-foot-tall, six-foot-wide sculpture. Melanie Coulter had used her favorite Kiger mare as a model for the lead of four horses in full gallop. Even with the bright metals dark with dirt and tarnish, the mustangs seemed to dominate the wall, threatening to leap down and thunder across the lobby floor to freedom.

      “I always thought this was one of the best things Mom ever did,” Cade said quietly.

      Zach nodded silently. He remembered the days after his mother’s funeral, when his father had ridden out early one morning, leading his mother’s mare. Joseph Coulter had returned hours later without the mustang. Zach had always assumed his father had shot the horse, but his father refused to explain.