Finding Home (20 page)

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Authors: Lois Greiman

BOOK: Finding Home
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C
HAPTER
19
“A
re you sure you want to do this?” Casie asked. She stood outside the weanlings' pen, heart galloping like a mustang in her chest. One hand gripped an empty halter, the other held a plastic tube of dewormer.
Sophie's lips were pursed in her signature expression of distaste and superiority. “So I take it you don't really care if he starves to death,” she said. “Is that it?”
Holy Hannah. “No, I don't want him to starve to death,” Casie said. “But I don't want you to get hurt, either.”
“I'm fine,” Sophie said, but just then Jack jumped up, putting his paws on the fence. The weanlings bolted to the far end of their enclosure, tails flung over their shaggy backs. Sophie looked a little pale.
“Are you sure?” Casie asked.
“Unless
you're
scared,” she said.
Casie gave her a level look. It wasn't easy to raise her ire, but the girl had a gift. “Of course I'm scared,” she said. “There's a thousand pounds of crazy in there.”
“And whose fault is that? He wouldn't
be
crazy if you had trained him properly from the start.”
“I didn't have him from the start,” she said.
“What?”
Casie considered taking the high road, letting the spoiled little brat believe whatever she wished, but the high road looked even rockier than the low road. “He was on his way to the kill pens in Canada when I first saw him.”
There was a moment of silence. Emily glanced at the foals. “How'd he end up here then?”
“He was being hauled away by a . . .” This got tricky. “By a friend of mine.”
“You have a
friend
who kills horses?”
“Things aren't always as cut-and-dried as they seem, Sophie,” Casie said. And wasn't that the inhospitable truth? “Sometimes people do things they don't want to because they don't have a better choice.”
“Everyone has a choice.” Her tone was filled with that dead-set assurance only truly entitled teenagers can lay claim to.
“You don't know—”
“She's only interested in his money.”
Casie stood in silence, slowly becoming aware that they were no longer talking about Colt Dickenson. “Your dad's a nice guy.” She said the words carefully, in case she was entirely off the mark. “Amber probably cares about him more than you realize.”
“She probably cares about his bank account. Or maybe she just wants to screw him,” she said and laughed. “But it looks like he's willing, doesn't it? I mean, he left me here so they could—” Her eyes were suddenly flooded. She turned abruptly away. “I wasn't talking about my dad anyway.” She wiped her hand beneath her nose. “Let's just get this done,” she said, and when she turned back her expression was under control once again.
“Okay.” Casie nodded, willing to do most anything to extract herself from this emotional hell. “I'm going to grab him.”
How?
her better sense asked. How the hell was she going to grab him? “When I have him secure, you put this on him,” she said and lifted the halter chest high. It was faded and a little frayed, but Sophie didn't object. She just nodded, looking tense. “Then if we . . . if we're still alive—” Casie tried a smile. It didn't go great. “I'll grab his halter and you give him the paste. Do you know how to do that?”
“Just stick it in his mouth and push the plunger in.”
“Yeah. Make sure you get it way back by his esophagus.” And don't get killed. She didn't add that. “I've got it set for three hundred pounds.”
The girl scowled, skittered her attention toward the colt. “He's skinny. I mean,
really
skinny. But he weighs more than that. Doesn't he?”
“I think so. But he's wormy as the dickens. If all those parasites die at once, they're liable to block his intestines. If he colics . . .” She shook her head. “If he goes down, he stays down. I can't afford a veterinarian.”
For a moment Sophie looked as if she might argue, but finally she nodded.
“Okay,” Casie said and exhaled sharply. “Okay,” she repeated and inched toward the weanlings. The pinto lifted her head and snorted. The grullo merely stood, ears pitched forward, eyes wide with fear. “It's all right,” she crooned. “It's okay. We're just going to . . .” The pinto dashed past. The grullo made to follow and in that instant Casie leaped. She grabbed the foal's nose with her left hand. For a moment he paused in flight and then he jerked away, tossing her to the ground like so much dirty laundry. She sprawled on her belly for a second, spitting out stained straw.
“Are you okay?” Sophie almost managed to sound concerned.
“Yeah. Sure,” Casie said and climbed to her feet. They stood there, silently debating their options as the foals circled the pen at a wild gallop.
Casie waited for them to pause in their flight, then took a step toward them again.
“Maybe we should get them in a smaller space first,” Sophie said. “We could move the old mare out of her stall and chase them in there.”
It was a decent idea, though not as easily carried out as one might think. But after ten minutes the weanlings stood together in the ten-by-twelve-foot box. They were breathing hard. The girls were breathing harder.
“Okay.” Casie's voice was raspy.
“All right.” Sophie sounded like she'd just run down a freight train.
They eased into the stall. The foals fidgeted. “Easy now,” Casie crooned. “Easy. There's no need to be upset.” But it was a lie, of course. There was every reason to be upset. They were probably going to knock her teeth out in the next ten seconds. “Just relax. This will be over in a minute.” But the dental appointments would last for months. “I'm not going to hurt you.” That much was absolutely true. She was bound to be the recipient of any hurting that was about to be done. “You'll be . . .” she began and leaped. She was utterly surprised when she caught the grullo's nose a second time. He spun sideways but the wall was in his way. Casie slammed her body up against his shoulder, holding him there, right hand on his nose, left arm around his neck. He shifted gears rapidly, backing violently away. But his rump struck the wall and she was able to keep him from lurching forward again.
“Now!” She was gasping for breath. “Come now!”
Sophie lunged into the fray, halter chest high.
The colt reared. Casie went with him, then dragged him back down as Sophie added her weight to his neck. She slipped the halter over his nose. He tossed his head, nearly throwing them both onto the floor, but he was already tiring and they were determined. Sophie squeezed between the colt and the wall. He reared again, jerking his head up. The halter flew through the air, but in a moment Sophie had snatched it up again. Her hands were visibly shaking, but she managed to slip it back into place. After that there was bucking and sweating, scraping and bruising, but eventually the nylon was buckled on.
“Okay.” Casie barely managed to squeeze out the single word. “The wormer. Get the wormer.”
Sophie dragged it out of her jacket pocket, steadied her hand against the colt's jaw, and shoved the tube into his mouth, depressing the plunger with frenzied haste. That's when he reared straight into the air. The girls went with him, trying to hold on, but in a heartbeat he had ripped free of their hands. His ragged hooves flailed above their heads for an instant and then he tumbled over backward, dragging them both down with him.
Someone gasped. Someone shrieked, and then it was over. They lay in the straw panting and shaking as the colt shot unimpeded to the far side of the stall.
“You okay?” Casie was the first to speak.
“Yeah. I think so. You?”
Casie made a quick inventory. Her left elbow ached where it had slammed into the unforgiving floor, but her legs seemed to be attached and her head still worked. “I'm fine.” She sat up to prove the point. Every body part complained. The weanlings danced in the opposite corner, threatening to explode over the top of them again. “We'd better get out of here. Can you stand up?”
“Yeah. Sure,” Sophie said and rose gingerly to her feet. It was a long way to the stall door. The weanlings skittered to the back of the pen. But in a minute they were confined there like lions in a cage.
“We did it,” Sophie breathed, and there was something about the way she said the words that drew all of Casie's attention. Or maybe it was the gleam in the girl's eyes that stopped her in her tracks.
“You were great,” Casie said.
“Me!” Sophie's hands shook on the empty tube of an-thelmintics. “You were amazing. How did you even—” She stopped herself, scowled, pursed her lips. “It's about time you got him wormed,” she said, and turning slowly away, limped toward the house.
C
HAPTER
20
“S
horten up your reins a little,” Casie said. She was still sore from being tossed into the straw like a rotten apple, but as Ty would say, not much never got done from your backside.
The boy had shown up bright and early, ready to try riding Angel for the first time since her arrival at the Lazy. The tacking up process had been simple enough. The only problem had been Angel's propensity to frisk them for treats every few seconds. Once mounted, the old mare walked out well and trotted easily, though the boy wasn't exactly in sync. He had obviously ridden before, but it was a pretty fair bet that he hadn't had any kind of formal training. “How does she feel?”
“All right.” He was riding circles in a small pen temporarily devoid of livestock and nudged her into a lope. She transitioned like a plow horse, jerkily and messily, but he stayed with her, doing three more circles on the left lead before pulling her down to a halt and gazing toward the house.
“You got on her.”
Casie turned her head at the sound of Colt's voice. “Hey, Case.” He nodded toward her. The collar of his canvas jacket was popped up and his Stetson was tilted down. “How's she feel?” he asked, directing his question toward Ty.
The boy shrugged, noncommittal. “Nothin' special,” he said, but he placed a chafed hand on the mare's neck and stroked her as if she were as fragile as a fresh-hatched duckling.
“You have her looking pretty good.” Colt's gaze snagged Casie's. Something snapped between them that she refused to acknowledge. He turned back to Ty. “What you going to use her for?”
“I don't know. I never got a chance to ride her much before she went lame. Don't know if she's good for anything.” His gaze shifted toward the house, and his expression softened further.
“Hey, Ty.” Emily's cheery voice broke in. “Hi, Mr. Dickenson.” Casie turned toward the girl. She wrapped her unzipped, oversized sweatshirt more firmly across her chest. It was cool this morning. Frost once again painted the stubble bordering the fence line. “I'm making French toast. Wanna stay?”
“I shouldn't,” Colt said.
“Me neither,” Ty echoed, but neither of them said no.
“It's already done and there's plenty,” she said. “Jack'll just get sick if he eats it all.”
“Well, we wouldn't want to make the dog sick.” Colt grinned. In a matter of minutes, they were once again gathered around the table. Emily busily dished up the meal as Casie ascended to their guest's aerie and rapped on the attic door.
“Sophie?”
No one answered.
“Hey, Soph.” She knocked again. “Breakfast is ready.”
“I'm not hungry.”
“It's French toast.”
“I don't want any.”
Casie scowled, wondering what to do. But short of dragging her down by her ankles, she could think of very few possibilities. She sighed as she turned away. For a second, for just an instant of time outside the grullo's stall, she'd thought they had made a breakthrough. But here they were, back to square one, talking at each other through a door. How was she going to explain it to the girl's father when she was returned home grim-faced and twenty pounds underweight?
“Syrup,” Emily was saying as Casie reentered the kitchen. She settled a steaming ceramic creamer in the center of the scarred table. “If you want it. But we always ate it with cinnamon and sugar.”
“You kiddin' me?” Ty asked.
“Blasphemy,” Colt said.
Casie got herself a cup of coffee and settled her hips against the counter to warm her hands on the heat that slowly infused the mug.
“Mom swears by it,” Emily said.
Ty zipped his gaze to her. They studied each other for a quarter of a second before the boy turned back to his breakfast. Em watched him seriously for a fraction of an instant, then continued.
“But she liked mustard on her onion rings, too, so have it your way.”
“Like Burger King,” Colt said, dragging two slices of French toast onto his plate.
“But without the gratuitous grease,” Emily said.
“I love the gratuitous grease.” Colt grinned. “Best part of a . . .” He paused to take a bite, closed his eyes for a second, then shook his head. “Holy f . . . sorry.” He shifted his sparkling gaze to Casie and away. “Em. I don't know how you do it.”
She shrugged, trying to appear casual but only looking thrilled by the compliment. “I just keep trying things.”
“Your mother didn't teach you to cook?”
“Mom?” She laughed as she sat down with a glass of orange juice. “She couldn't make steam.”
Casie scowled. “I thought you said she made amazing gingersnap cookies.”
For a moment their gazes caught. Emily laughed. “I said the
recipe
was amazing. It was her culinary skills that stunk the place up. I started cooking out of self-defense. Learn or starve.”
Colt chuckled around his next bite. “Speaking of starving, how's the grullo doing?”
Casie shrugged, gave up her fight to resist the French toast, and sat down beside Tyler. “I don't know. He's still nothing but bones.”
“Needs worming. I can help if you like,” Colt said, but she shook her head.
“It's done.”
“What?”
“Sophie and I gave him a dose yesterday.”
“Who?” Colt asked.
Ty shook his head disapprovingly, but Casie jumped in. “She's a guest.” Her face felt warm, though she didn't know why. It wasn't as if she owed him any explanations. “A paying guest.”
“Paying for what?”
Excellent question. She had no answer.
“The privilege of living on a working ranch,” Emily said.
Ty snorted. The sound was quiet, but encompassed a host of feelings.
“There's a lot to be learned here,” Emily said and shoved toast into her mouth. “Discipline. Hard work.”
“Where is she?” Colt asked.
“In bed,” Emily said, expression wry.
Colt grinned. “So it's going well then?”
Casie would have been the first to admit their gamble was less than an absolute win, but memories of yesterday's battle with the grullo stole in. “She's tougher than she looks,” she said.
“Well, she looks like a pain in the . . .” Ty muttered, but stopped when he felt Casie's gaze on him.
“The grullo is, too,” she added.
“It's generally true,” Colt said. “The scrawny ones are fighters.” He glanced her way, but if there was a double meaning behind his words, she refused to acknowledge it.
“We were lucky to get out of there with all our teeth,” Casie said.
“I thought they'd been stampeded by a herd of elephants when they came in.” Emily grinned cheekily. “Sophie looked like she'd just had an encounter with a ghost, and Casie was wearing a bale of hay in her hair.”
“Straw,” Casie corrected but couldn't help grinning a little as the feeling of camaraderie seeped into her.
“Straw, hay, what's the difference?” Emily asked.
“Quite a bit at feeding time,” Ty said.
“Well, Casie wasn't supposed to eat either of them.”
Colt grinned, dark eyes shining. “Speaking of eating . . .” He motioned toward his plate with his fork. “I seem to be empty. You mind if I reload?”
“No, go ahead. I made extra because they freeze really—” Emily began, but suddenly her attention was diverted.
Casie turned her head. Sophie Jaegar stood in the doorway, hair perfectly combed, makeup meticulously applied, expression confrontational.
“Sophie!” Casie said. “Have a seat. Can I get you some orange juice or—”
“I'm going to check on the colt.”
“I just saw him. He's fine,” Casie said. “In fact—”
“
You
thought he was fine before,” Sophie countered. “So I guess you're not the one to judge.”
“Well, he's a damn sight better now,” Ty bristled. “When he come here, he—”
“And the opinion of a juvenile delinquent doesn't count at all.”
“Sophie!” Casie hissed.
“He's a criminal,” Sophie snapped. “Didn't you know that? Broke some poor kid's nose while he was in foster care. Got convicted of battery. Maybe you'd be aware of a few things if you didn't live in the dark ages out here in Nowheresville,” she said, and turning abruptly, stormed from the room.
The front door slammed with the force of a tornado.
Silence echoed in the kitchen. Colt remained in shocked silence. Emily's knuckles were white against her fork. Ty's cheeks were red, his gaze hard on the table.
It was the sight of his silent shame that brought Casie's blood to a slow boil.
“I gotta get home before—” he murmured, but Casie stopped him.
“No,” she said and rose to her feet. The movement felt jerky. “You stay here,” she ordered and hurried out the door.

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