yeah. Dylan’s father was having a good laugh in whatever part of the afterlife he’d been sent to.
Flynn sighed, gazing back over the valley. “So Kathy showed no warning signs? Not even a hint of weakness that she’s in danger of relapsing?”
Dylan didn’t immediately respond. A red-tailed hawk flew overhead, its mournful cry an echo of Kathy’s shocking sentiment—some people considered her a lost cause. Why?
Flynn pounced on Dylan’s hesitation. “You did sense something.” He went into older-brother protective mode. His chest thrust out and his voice railed at the clouds. “Don’t toy with me. Name your terms.”
“You can’t keep her from backsliding.” Dylan was far too experienced with trying exactly that to pretend different. “Only Kathy can do that.”
Flynn took a step toward him, eyes narrowing. “But you can make sure she gets the support she needs.”
“Under what pretext? A horse trainer? She doesn’t own any of the horses at the clinic. There’s no legitimate reason for me to spend time with her.” Dylan resettled his baseball cap and his standards. “I don’t deceive my clients. That’s why they trust me. I give it to them straight up.”
“You can’t tell Kathy who you are. She hates it when I meddle in her personal life.” Flynn ran his fingers through his short hair. “That’s why having Gage hire you to work with the colt is a perfect alibi for you to interact with her.”
“For the record,” Gage said, “I’d prefer Kathy knew what you do, Dylan, and why you’re here.” Maybe the vet hadn’t been knocked around so much, after all.
Flynn fisted his key fob. “I’ll double your normal fee in exchange for your silence.” His offer was so unexpected, so overwhelming, so blatantly ensnaring, that it sucked the air from the mountain.
Take the money.
Dylan’s mouth hung open, his principles leaking like drool from a Saint Bernard’s jowls. Such a paycheck would go a long way toward making everything all better. And yet Kathy’s clear blue eyes came to mind, along with her gut-wrenching honesty. A shaft of guilt, barbed and sharp, lodged itself in his chest. She’d hate Dylan for being a man who could be bought.
Take the money.
“A simple search online and she’ll know the truth,” Dylan said, mouth dry.
“I’m betting she won’t look you up.” Flynn’s eyes reflected the guilt Dylan was feeling. “She asked about a sober companion, but then talked herself out of it. Addiction runs in our family. Our mom.” His voice didn’t trail off; it shut off. And it took Flynn a moment to get it working again. “That’s why I don’t want Kathy to do this on her own.”
The sour taste was back, along with the crimping knots in his gut. Children of alcoholics had a higher probability of having emotional problems. Add in an addiction of their own, and their risk of relapsing was higher than average.
“Do we have a deal, O’Brien?” Flynn extended his hand. “If not for me, then for her young son. If Kathy relapses, Truman may never open up to her again.”
The money. Kathy’s opinion of herself. The risks she took with the colt. An image of his own young son’s face, hopeful and trusting, came to mind.
“Please help me help her,” Flynn added. “In secret. At least through the holidays.” A handful of weeks away.
Take the money.
Dylan knew he’d regret this. The lies. The deception. The unanswered questions. He accepted the assignment anyway, with a handshake and a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.
“I’M HOME.” KATHY entered the front door, shedding her pink jacket.
No one greeted her. The house smelled of savory pot roast steeped in bittersweet memories.
Her grandfather had passed away four months ago, but memorabilia from his military career still hung on the living room wall—medals, pictures, certificates of service—along with black-and-white wedding photos and baby pictures. Add in the 1970s furniture and color scheme, and everything looked the same as when he’d been alive, except there was no dust, no newspaper piles, no faint smell of hair tonic. Flynn said he’d update the place once he was done grieving. Until then, the house looked the same as it had twenty years ago.
It’d been almost two decades since their mother left them here, since Kathy had sat in Grandpa Ed’s lap while he braided her hair (a skill he’d learned in the military for making horses presentable). He’d told her she was going to be just like all the other girls in Harmony Valley. But she was different.
She was surprised every time she opened the pantry and discovered it was full. She was wary of strangers, even smiling ones in town. And her heart stuttered every time she saw a woman with red hair or heard a female with a smoker’s throaty laugh.
She’d stayed close to home in those early years, under the watchful eye of her grandfather. Eventually, when her mother didn’t come back and Kathy reached her teens, she felt confident enough to push the small-town limits that had kept her safe for so long.
Kathy missed Grandpa Ed’s booming voice as he chastised her teenage self for wearing skirts that were too short. She missed his barked rules and pieces of advice, however unwanted they’d been at the time. She could still feel his strong arms around her when she had come home after only a few months at college, alone, an emotional wreck and pregnant. He’d talked her into keeping Truman. It’d been the best decision of her life.
Until the text messages started...
The screen door banged behind her. Abby, her son’s small, mostly black Australian shepherd, trotted over to greet Kathy.
“It’s you,” Truman said flatly, standing in the foyer. He was eight, but he might just as well have been eighteen for all his sullenness. Everything about him was dirt smudged and disheveled—from his unzipped blue jacket, slightly askew on his thin shoulders, to his sneakers, laces dangling, the color of spent earthworms. “I thought you were Uncle Flynn.”
Her chest felt cavernous, as if somewhere along her alcohol-blazed trail the heart she’d given to her little boy had been lost. “I brought you a chocolate bar.” When he was younger and she’d disappointed him, she would bring him gifts and sweets, and he would fling his arms around her as if she had never failed him. Today she’d had Phil, the elderly town barber, go in and buy the bar for her at El Rosal. Kathy pulled it from her jacket pocket, distressed to find the dark chocolate soft beneath her fingers.
Without looking at her, Truman turned up his nose. “I don’t eat treats before dinner. Aunt Becca says I can only have one treat a day, and I already had cookies.”
Kathy remembered baking cookies with Truman last Christmas in this kitchen. He’d stood on a stool, mixing the dough, chattering a mile a minute. When they slid the cookies in the oven, Truman had hugged her tight and then run to play checkers with Grandpa Ed. If only she’d known how fragile their bond was, she wouldn’t ever have let him go.
“How about a hug?” Kathy dropped the candy onto the low wooden coffee table and extended her arms, knowing they’d remain empty, but still stubbornly hopeful. So very hopeful. “Your mom’s had a long day.”
“I hug you every night at bedtime, like I’m supposed to.” So young to be able to wound her so deeply.
Kathy couldn’t seem to draw a breath.
Abby sat quietly in front of her, soft eyes patient for affection. She’d been Becca’s dog until last summer, when Kathy went into rehab and Truman moved in here. Kathy reached in her pocket for a doggy treat. Presents worked great with animals. With her son? Not so much. Not anymore.
Truman