One Imperfect Christmas (26 page)

A waitress with frosted hair sauntered over and plopped down two glasses of ice water. “You gentlemen ready to order yet?” She plucked a chili-pepper-shaped pen from the pocket of her green apron and tapped it against an order pad.

Hart grabbed one of the menus tucked between the napkin holder and condiments. “What's good here, Dan?”

Daniel propped his menu against the edge of the table and scanned the entrees. “I like their chicken-fried steak,” he began, but the way his stomach had been feeling lately, he sure didn't need anything that heavy. “Think I'll have the baked fish plate this time. And a glass of iced tea.” He nodded to the waitress.

“Sounds good. Same for me.” Hart jammed the menu back in its spot and knocked over a salt shaker.

“You're wound up tighter than a spring.” Daniel lifted an eyebrow as he took a long drink of water. “All right, let's have it.”

Hart dusted the spilled salt crystals into a small pile and covered it with a napkin. He pressed his fingertips together and closed his eyes for a moment. “Dad's bringing Mom home.”

A million thoughts raced through Daniel's head. A jumble of emotions tangled in his gut, not the least of which was suspicion. He eyed his brother-in-law. “That should be good news. Why don't you look happy about it?”

“Because it's
not
good news.” Hart snorted. “At least not the kind of 'good' Natalie is hoping for.” He went on to explain about finding Natalie by the roadside earlier, the trip to the farm, and their conversation with Bram.

“After Natalie left, Dad and I talked awhile longer,” Hart continued. “He didn't know how to tell Natalie, but the real reason he's bringing Mom home is because the doctor told him she probably won't last much longer.”

Daniel's heart plummeted as his vague suspicions found substance. “How long?”

“Can't say. Weeks maybe. A couple months at most. Dad's praying for a miracle—we all are—but whatever happens, he wants Mom home for Christmas.”

The waitress returned with their lunches. Daniel stared at his plate of parmesan-sprinkled flounder and wished he hadn't ordered it. His thoughts locked on Natalie … all her dashed hopes … the guilt she couldn't shake. If only she hadn't worked so hard to push him out of her life, maybe he could do something now to help.

Much as he loved Bram and Belinda
,
much as he hoped for both their sakes that Belinda could yet pull through, there was one miracle he wanted even more.

Dear God, I want my wife home for Christmas too.

Natalie shot a nervous glance toward the dashboard clock. How did it get to be twelve-fifteen already? Leaving her dad's, she'd needed time to sort out all her confused feelings about bringing Mom home and had been aimlessly driving the back roads, lost in thought. At least she hadn't gotten any panicked phone calls from Deannie—

“Oh, no.” With one eye on the highway ahead, she groped along the floorboard where her cell phone had fallen earlier. She found it beneath the seat, but a quick look at the blank display confirmed she'd never turned it on. Cursing under her breath, she pushed the on button and waited for the phone to cycle through its ridiculously slow powering-up sequence. As soon as the signal bars lit up, she pressed the speed-dial code for her office. Deannie answered on the third ring.

“It's me.” Natalie winced. “I hope you haven't been trying to call.”

“Nope. Things are going smooth as glass … at least at the moment.”

Natalie slowed behind a cattle trailer, wrinkling her nose at the manure smells flowing through the heater vent. “At the moment? What's that supposed to mean?” And why did Deannie always have to sound so cryptic?

“Oh, nothing.” Papers rustled in the background. “Listen, there's no rush. I can hold down the fort. It's been awhile since my college course, but this computer design work is really coming back to me. You know, like riding a bike.”

Like riding a bike.
Her father's own words jolted Natalie like a slap. She could barely contain the excited screech aching to tear from her throat. The watercolor set! Lissa had the right idea after all.

The cattle truck turned off at the next intersection, and she pressed her foot to the gas pedal. She struggled to keep her tone light and natural. “Okay, Deannie, as long as you have things under control, I do have one more stop I'd like to make.”

“No problem,” the girl responded almost too quickly. “Take your time.”

Natalie refused to waste any more brainpower scrutinizing Deannie's infuriating quirks. After saying good-bye she tossed the cell phone onto the passenger seat. It landed next to a brochure open to a small map and driving directions to Reach for the Stars Therapeutic Riding Academy. One decision she'd made after leaving Dad's was to contact the center right away about donating Windy. If her mother really was coming home, she had all the more reason to relieve herself— and Dad—of any unnecessary responsibilities. Mom had sacrificed so much for Natalie. Now, finally, Natalie might find both the courage and the opportunity to repay her.

Twenty minutes later, following the signs to Reach for the Stars, she turned onto a short gravel road bordered by white rail fences. Horses grazed in rolling pastures on either side. At the end of the road stood a massive gray barn-like building with navy-blue trim. Her tires bounced across a cattle guard as she drove through an open gate. She parked between a mud-spattered “dually” pickup and a Toyota sedan with a dented fender.

Grabbing her purse and the brochure, she got out and locked the car. A sign posted on the building indicated HORSE ENTRANCE to the right, with an arrow pointing to a broad sliding barn door. Human traffic was directed to the PEOPLE ENTRANCE, left and around the corner. With a quiet chuckle, Natalie headed left.

Gymnasium-style light fixtures cast a bluish glow throughout the cavernous interior, which sheltered a riding arena with bleacher seating along one side. The rest of the building housed rows of horse stalls, tack and feed rooms, and offices. A riding class appeared to be in progress at the near end of the arena as several onlookers watched from the bleachers. Natalie breathed in the familiar smells of soft dirt, hay, and horse manure, and felt the day's tension literally fall from her shoulders.

She could think of nothing—nothing in the world—so calming as the aura surrounding a quiet, attentive horse. No wonder the riding school could claim such astounding results with their clients. Windy would make a perfect addition to their stable … provided, of course, they avoided water crossings.

Careful not to disturb the class, Natalie found the main office and timidly stepped inside.

A petite, auburn-haired woman stood near a filing cabinet paging through a file. She looked up and smiled. “Mrs. Dixon?”

“Er, no. My name is Natalie Pearce. I'm looking for"—she consulted the brochure—“Mona Kauffman.”

“I'm Mona. What can I do for you?” She wore an oversized navy sweatshirt with the words REACH FOR THE STARS, arching over a silhouetted horse and rider heading toward a blazing star.

Natalie angled an envious glance at the woman's taut thigh muscles, accentuated by sleek gray riding breeches—a sight that only reminded Natalie how woefully out of shape she was. She adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag and strove for a nonchalant pose. “I called recently asking about donating a horse. I'm ready to make that decision, if you're interested.” She went on to describe Windy's age, training, and personality.

Mona nodded thoughtfully. “She sounds like a good candidate, but, of course, we have our own series of tests she'd have to pass.” She explained that a riding lesson at Reach for the Stars probably wasn't like anything Natalie had ever seen. “Maybe you should take a look for yourself.” Mona laid the file aside and led Natalie out of the office.

As they approached the arena, she got a closer view of the class of three young riders. A handler with halter and lead rope led each horse, and two assistants walked alongside to support the rider with a forearm bracing the thigh. The horses traveled at an easy walk in a twenty-meter circle around the instructor.

One child attempted to snap large plastic pop beads together. Another concentrated on stringing spools onto a shoelace. The third, Natalie guessed was a child with Down syndrome. As he rode, he practiced clipping and unclipping colorful clothespins to his horse's mane. With each successful attempt, he squealed gleefully, but the horse neither flinched at the tug of the clothespins nor showed any reaction to the child's ear-splitting laughter.

“As you can see,” Mona explained, motioning toward the arena, “the horses we accept must be able to stand a lot of unusual commotion and activity going on around them—and on top of them,” she added with a smile. “If your horse can meet those criteria—”

An older woman in faded jeans and Western boots came up and tapped Mona on the shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but Mr. Dixon is here for his evaluation.”

Mona smiled apologetically at Natalie. “I'm afraid I have an appointment. This is Karen, our office assistant. If you'll give her your name and number, I'll phone you later about coming over to see your horse.”

“Thank you, I'll do that.”

Natalie watched as Mona dashed off to greet a plump woman pushing a gray-haired man in a wheelchair. The couple looked to be in their sixties, the woman wearing a hopeful, expectant look, her hands animated as she talked with Mona. Natalie turned her attention to the man in the wheelchair and found herself wondering how exactly Mona and the riding center could help him. There was something hauntingly familiar about the way he held his head cocked to one side and how only the right half of his mouth moved as he spoke.

Natalie's throat closed in recognition.
Mom.
She glanced again at the brochure. On the front was a color photograph of a child with leg braces and crutches reaching up to caress a horse's nose. She cast Karen a confused look. “I assumed you only worked with children.”

“Oh, no, we have clients of all ages, and all types of disabilities, both physical and cognitive. Mr. Dixon is recovering from a stroke, and Mona's going to evaluate him to see if he's ready to start riding therapy. I don't understand everything about how it works, but I've seen the amazing changes that are possible after even a few short weeks in the program.”

Karen's tone sparkled as she warmed to her subject. “You see, the motion of a horse's walking gait is almost identical to ours. When someone who can't walk sits on a horse, the
feeling
of walking goes all the way from his seat bones to his brain.”

Natalie's brow furrowed. A chill prickled up her spine and down her limbs. “So someone like Mr. Dixon might possibly learn to walk again after a stroke?”

Karen nodded. “That's what we're hoping.”