was an ancient palomino Shetland pony, formerly a mascot at Far Turn Farms.
Giggling, Zach pulled out some baby carrots from one pocket and held them in the flat of his hand. “She knows I have treats.”
Peaches lipped them from his little palm while Dylan saddled her. It took only a few more minutes to slip her bridle on, hoist Zach into the saddle and hand his son the reins.
It was full-on dark now. And quiet. Quiet enough that Dylan imagined he heard Phantom’s huff of disgust as he led Peaches toward the arena. He flipped the lights on, chasing away the bogeyman. Then he opened the gate and set the pair free.
Peaches, per her usual modus operandi, walked slowly toward the fence and began her circuit. Small puffs of dirt rose from each footfall.
“Dad. Dad. Daddy.” Zach twisted in the saddle. His grin was so bright it could have lit the arena. Forget the arena—it sparked a feeling of joy in Dylan’s chest that chased away the day’s concerns. “Say it, Daddy. Say it.”
Dylan grinned. “Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen. The Cloverdale Derby is about to begin.” Dylan latched the gate. “Peaches and her jockey, Zach O’Brien, are the odds-on favorite tonight. And—” he drew out the word as he climbed atop the highest rung on the arena fence “—they’re off. It’s Peaches in the lead.”
With a whoop, Zach leaned over the pony’s golden neck and jogged the reins as if they were galloping. “Come on, Peaches. You can do it.”
The pony continued plodding along.
“Keep going, Dad.”
Dylan could go on like this forever. “They’re heading into the first turn with Peaches ahead.”
* * *
LATER THAT NIGHT as Dylan pulled into the driveway of Eileen’s prestigious home in her prestigious neighborhood in Santa Rosa, Zach was fast asleep in his car seat in the rear of the truck. Eileen’s outdoor lighting cast a glow over the perfectly manicured yard, limelighting verdant shrubs and small tufts of autumn color.
Eileen and her husband, Bob, came outside to meet them. They wore matching red plaid flannel pajama pants, green T-shirts (his: Santa; hers: Mrs. Claus) and red suede slippers. Cute, but not exactly Dylan’s thing. Not to mention, Thanksgiving was still weeks away—never mind Christmas.
“I expected you an hour ago.” Eileen’s voice was as hot and toxic as a smoking muffler. So much for her ho-ho-ho. “You didn’t answer my texts or my calls.”
“I left my phone at the barn. There was traffic.” That last part was a little white lie. He’d taken Zach for ice cream. Dylan unbuckled his son from his seat.
Eileen elbowed him aside and lifted Zach. “You’re always either late or canceling on him.”
“I’m trying my best. I brought you a check.” He tried to keep his voice even, but his throat felt as potholed as his driveway. “It’s tough to get a business going in the early years. I have to hustle clients where I can.” His income wasn’t big, but it was fairly steady. Big paychecks loomed on the horizon—if he could help Kathy, if he could help the colt, if he could harvest Phantom’s sperm. If. If he could rediscover the nerve to work with severely untrainable horses, he could make the dream of a steady income a reality.
Bob took Zach from Eileen and tucked the little man to his shoulder as if he’d had years of practice. Something cold solidified in Dylan’s stomach. And it wasn’t rocky-road ice cream.
“I’ve talked to my lawyer.” Eileen was on a roll tonight. She snatched the check from his hand. “You can’t be late anymore. Not you or your money.”
“Not now, honey,” Bob said. “Let’s get Zach to bed. He’s got school tomorrow.”
Dylan hadn’t forgotten it was a school night, but... “It’s only eight thirty.”
Bob sighed, as if he knew better what Zach needed. He walked toward the house with Dylan’s kid.
Eileen’s mouth worked in that way it did when she was having trouble swallowing back bitter words. She was rarely successful. She spewed words at him, as sour as a green cherry, as hard as its pit. “You need to do better, Dylan. Or things are going to change.”
Like things hadn’t changed when she left him and took his son away? How could they get any worse?
Bob stopped and turned to face Dylan. Zach murmured something. Bob murmured back, stroking Zach’s little shoulders. The cold fist in Dylan’s gut expanded. The other man met Dylan’s gaze over the hood of the truck.
The cold fist sucker-punched Dylan from the inside out.
He knew how things could get worse.
They could take Zach from him. Not for Saturdays. Not for Wednesday nights.
Forever.
“DO YOU KNOW how hard it is to see the screen and type with you in my lap?” Kathy’s arms bent as she tried to navigate the online university’s website around Abby’s sleek body.
They sat at a desk in her bedroom. Growing up, it had been Flynn’s room—geek command central and off-limits to Kathy. The posters of Batman, “World of Warcraft” and Bill Gates may have come down, but it still felt like her brother’s room. Navy plaid wallpaper and tired green shag contrasted against her teal leopard-print comforter and pink slippers.
When she’d gone into rehab, Grandpa Ed was still alive. Flynn had been staying in this room, and so Truman had been put across the hall in Kathy’s childhood space. After Grandpa’s death, Flynn and Becca had married and then moved into the master bedroom. And so Kathy took this room—not wanting to upset Truman by asking him to switch spaces.
The dog turned and licked Kathy’s cheek, as if to say get on with it. While outside her window, birds sang a happy good-morning. She was convinced there was one bird that had designated itself as her alarm clock. Regular as a rooster, that little guy. Tweet-tweet-tweet as the sun approached the horizon.
“I’m just not excited about a business degree,” she whispered to Abby. Accounting, economics, business law. Ugh. But Flynn insisted that she needed a college diploma to rebuild her life, and he said she could do anything with a business degree. Lacking a clear idea of what she wanted to do with her life, Kathy had bent to her brother’s will. She’d get a business degree to prove to him she was serious about creating a solid future for Truman. If only she could make herself complete the college application form.
The dog faced the screen again, her black fur soft against Kathy’s arms. She smelled of freshly dug dirt and green grass...and freedom.
More than happy to postpone signing up for college courses, Kathy gave the dog a kibble from a teacup on her desk, then scratched Abby behind her pointy ears. “You’re just here for the food.” She didn’t much care why Abby kept her company. She enjoyed the affection, even if the conversation was one-sided.
Her bedroom door swung open. Truman’s gaze swept the carpet and corners of the room. “Abby?”
Truman never came in here. He barely acknowledged Kathy’s existence. She couldn’t have moved if someone had shouted, “Fire!”
He finally noticed where his dog was. “Abby.” Disappointment. Betrayal. Truman’s cheeks flushed. He patted his jeans-clad thigh urgently. “Abby, come.”
Neither Kathy nor Abby moved. In fact, the dog gazed back at Kathy, as if encouraging her to speak. And what would she say? Abby sighed and stared at the computer screen again. Or, more accurately, at the teacup below the computer screen.
“Tru.” His name came out as deep and hoarse as the bullfrogs’ songs down by the Harmony River. Kathy stared in the vicinity of her