girl, who’d be a real beauty one day.
Ethan remembered her as a bubbly kid who’d raised her hand several times to ask good questions. Now she seemed passive and lethargic, and there was terrible sadness in her blue eyes. No wonder, after what she’d gone through. A happy little girl on vacation with her family one day, a lonely, confused orphan the next.
Ever the leader, Megan dragged her by the hand to meet Ethan. “This is my friend Heather. She’s never ridden a horse before.”
“Hello, Heather.” Ethan extended his hand. “Welcome to the Broken Spoke Ranch.”
Unsure of herself, Heather placed her hand like a paw in his. He shook it once, then let it go. She still hadn’t said a word. Ethan caught Kayla’s eye and the message that passed between them told him she was as troubled by the melancholy child as he was.
“Come on—” he did his best to sound upbeat “—let me show you around.”
They all walked over to the fence, where he pointed to the horses in the pasture. He was beginning to name them when Megan took over. He just smiled and listened, impressed by her accurate description of each: Lottie, the one with one white sock; Izzy, who had a star in the middle of her face. She rattled off the names of the paint, the bay, the sorrel and the chestnut.
“Those are the mares,” Megan explained, “the girl horses. The boy horses are kept in another pasture so they won’t fight over the girls. Come on, I’ll show you where they are.”
“Since you’ve never ridden before,” Ethan told Heather a little while later, “why don’t you watch Megan ride for a few minutes, see what she does, then if you’d like to ride, too, I’ll put you up on Fiddlesticks.”
“Birdsong is my horse,” Megan informed her. Not for the first time, Ethan suspected.
Kayla sat with Heather on the bench Carter had moved to the side of the arena. Ethan saw Kayla speak to the shy girl from time to time, but as far as he could tell Heather said virtually nothing in return.
After twenty minutes, Ethan told Megan she could ride in the arena by herself, but only at the walk.
He went over to where Heather was sitting. “Would you like to try now?”
She nodded shyly.
“Let’s go meet Fiddlesticks then.”
She took the hand he offered and together they went to the hitching post where he’d tied the gelding next to a mounting block. Knowing how intimidating a full-size horse could be to a child, he didn’t rush things.
“First, let’s get you two acquainted.” Still holding her hand, he guided her onto the first step. It was steep and she lost her balance, panicked and clung to his neck.
“I’ve got you,” he assured her.
For a moment she seemed reluctant to let him go. What was running through her mind? Ethan wondered. Had her dad been the kind of man to hold his daughter when she was frightened or tired? Had anyone held her since her parents had disappeared from her life?
“Fiddlesticks, this is Heather,” he told the horse. “She’d like to ride you this afternoon.” The animal just stood there, of course.
As he had with Megan, he showed Heather how to hold out her hand so the horse could sniff it. “Good as a handshake,” he said, and encouraged her to rub the nose. He saw the hint of a smile on her face when she did. The velvety softness of a horse’s snout always fascinated the uninitiated.
“Ready?” he asked.
He sensed both her apprehension and excitement when she nodded. Assuring her everything was going to be fine, he lifted her into the saddle. “Being as this is your first time, you can hold on to the horn, if you want to.”
He walked the twenty-five-year-old gelding—his father’s favorite—toward the arena, confident the horse wouldn’t spook, especially with a child on his back.
“Looking good, Heather.” Kayla smiled up at the girl as she opened the arena gate so they could enter.
Ethan kept the pace slow as he led her first in one direction, then in the other. Fiddlesticks was patient, and Heather began to relax. Not completely, but her initial fear was dissipating.
The girls had just finished and dismounted when Luella appeared with a plate of homemade cookies. She was a small woman, only a little over five feet, and despite her expertise in the kitchen, she was quite slender. Almost sixty, she’d been with the Ritters over thirty years.
“I figured you girls could use a break,” she said, “and I thought you might like to try my pecan-butter cookies. They’re like peanut butter cookies, ’cept they’re made with pecans, of course.”
Ethan reached for one. She slapped his fingers. “Mind your manners. Guests first. Besides, you’ll hog them all and nobody else will get a chance to even taste them.”
She held out the plate for Kayla and the girls, and Ethan watched Kayla almost melt in front of him as she bit into one. He smiled at Luella, who smiled back.
“Now if you don’t like them,” she said, “you just tell me, and I’ll fix something else next time.”
“Mmm. These are delicious,” Kayla said.
“Yummy.” Megan took a second.
Ethan watched Heather as she nibbled the edge of hers. All of a sudden tears were streaming down her face. Putting an arm across her shoulder, he didn’t have to ask what was bothering her. He just let her cry against his shirt.
KAYLA WAS IMPRESSED with Ethan’s skill at handling the traumatized child. He hadn’t pushed, as many adults did with children who were withdrawn. He accepted her silence and her tears as perfectly natural. Kayla hadn’t missed the way the girl had clung to him when she’d lost her balance or again when he’d helped her onto the horse, either. In those fleeting moments it occurred to Kayla that the girl was reaching out for more than physical support, and to Kayla’s amazement, Ethan seemed to understand that.
How had he developed this remarkable rapport with children?
“Did you have a good time today?” she asked as she drove Heather home. Her foster mom was too busy to come and get her. Kayla didn’t mind, even if it was fifteen miles, round-trip.
“Yes, ma’am,” Heather answered softly, as if she wasn’t supposed to be there.
“Would you like to come again?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Kayla heard a spark of hope in this reply.
She couldn’t imagine the depth of loneliness and despair the poor child had endured. She herself had been a toddler when her mother had died in an automobile accident. She had no clear memory of Carol Crawford, just a few snapshots of the pretty young woman Kayla had come to resemble. Her father had been her whole world. She’d often wished he’d remarry so she could have a mother like other children, but he’d never even dated when she was growing up. He’d been a good dad, though; always there when she needed him.
“I’ll stop and talk to Mrs. Rayborn and see if you can come to the Broken Spoke with Megan during the week. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
Had she always been so polite? So compliant? Or had she learned to be this submissive?
The neighborhood Heather lived in wasn’t a slum, but it wasn’t too far removed from one, either. The houses were old, small and close together. Many of them needed painting. Only a few still had one-car garages. Most of the others had been converted to living space. Cars were parked on the street, under tacked-on carports and, occasionally, on lawns.
“Megan, please stay here while I talk to Mrs. Rayborn. I won’t be long.”
The woman who answered the door seemed about to yell as she swung it open. She stopped