Authors: Sarah Monzon
“Okay, I’ll swing by my place, pick up the horse trailer, and meet you there.” I tried to make my voice sound normal without the resigned, depressed quality I was actually feeling. I didn’t want Dr. Smuthers to think my less-than-excited tone was due in some way to not wanting to take the horse or to feeling put out that I’d been asked to help.
Thirty minutes later I pulled up to the paddocks at Dr. Smuther’s clinic. The only good thing about these situations was that I could pick up the horses here instead of being in the middle of the drama and witnessing irate owners fly off the wall at animal control. Well, that and the fact the horses would finally be treated like they deserved. Besides, this also let the vet check the horses out first to make sure there wasn’t any other medical emergency to attend to other than the issue of the animals’ weight. We didn’t want any communicable diseases such as strangles or West Nile Virus to spread to the rest of the herd once I got them home.
Surveying the paddocks, they all appeared to be empty. Hadn’t the horse arrived yet?
An annoying buzzing sounded in my ear, and I waved my hand, shooing the pesky mosquito away. Just standing there was going to get me eaten alive. It would be smarter to wait inside where there was air-conditioning and no disease-carrying, blood-sucking pests.
With my hand wrapped around the doorknob, I thought I saw movement in the shadows of one of the shelters. Might as well check it out for myself instead of disturbing Dr. Smuthers if she was with a patient.
Puckering my lips, I made kissing sounds in the direction of the paddock as I walked.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
My hand flew to my mouth as bile rose in my throat, and breakfast threatened to make a reappearance. One would’ve thought I’d have gotten used to it all by now, but I hadn’t. How could someone get used to seeing something so heartbreaking?
The animal standing before me could’ve been a beautiful dapple gray mare. But instead of a sleek and shining coat, her body was a dull and dusty mess. The poor girl’s hair was coming out in fistfuls all over her body. She wasn’t close enough to touch without entering the enclosure, but even from that distance I would’ve sworn I’d be able to slide my hand in the deep grooves between her ribs. Her hips rounded and protruded like giant saucers—she was barely more than a skeleton with skin attached. Large brown eyes stared at me from a hollow face.
“Poor sweet girl,” I crooned to her.
How could people treat animals this way? Mr. Bronson ought to rot in jail. Maybe the warden could even forget his meals for a few days and see how he liked it.
The mare’s nose, mere inches from the ground, drooped between her front legs. She was so depleted she didn’t even have the energy to lift her head any longer.
Indignation washed over me. If I could get my hands on Mr. Bronson, I’d have a thing or two to say to that man. Do to him, too. My fist balled, and I imagined a riding crop firmly in my grasp. No one should get away with something like this.
I made my way back to the truck, my angry strides eating the hot pavement. My movements were forceful, fueled by the seething ire boiling in my belly. I jerked open the door to the tack room attached to the front of the horse trailer, ripped off the tin lid to the can of oats, and angrily scooped out a few cups full into a plastic bucket. Slamming the tack door with more force than necessary, I proceeded back to the bay mare.
Dr. Smuthers met me at the corral gate as I was unlatching the handle.
“Kind of breaks your heart, doesn’t she?”
There wasn’t any point in answering. Anyone with eyes in her head would be sobbing them out at the injustice of it all.
The mare’s nostrils flared as she sniffed the food. Dipping her head into the bucket, she scarfed down the food like she was afraid someone would take the oats away any second.
“There’s more where that came from,” I assured her.
Dr. Smuthers and I went into her office and completed the paperwork required by animal control. Once all the i’s were dotted and t’s crossed, I headed back out to the mare. Slipping a halter over the horse’s head, I snapped the lead rope on under her chin. She plodded along behind me as I led her from the paddock to the trailer, her hooves skimming a line in the dirt.
Once the horse was loaded, I pulled the truck and trailer back out onto the street, but some quick mental calculations confirmed I’d need to pick up more feed before I headed home. I’d been avoiding town, and especially Ernie’s feed store, since catching James cheating on me behind the seed rack. Tractor Supply would have what I needed, but it was twenty-five miles in the opposite direction. I went about convincing myself that I had to face people in town sooner or later, and since I wasn’t the one who did anything wrong, I shouldn’t be hiding and acting so ashamed. Given that Ernie’s was just down the road, I didn’t have much time to work up my courage.
I put the truck in park and took a deep breath.
You can do this, Becky. It’s just a feed store.
There isn’t a snake that’s going to bite you the minute you walk in.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Then again, maybe there was. Ernie was the crassest man in Meadowlark, and his wife, Josephine, spearheaded the local rumor mill.
Squaring my shoulders, I opened the squeaky door of my truck—man, I needed to get some WD-40 on that thing—and hopped down. My steps slowed as I entered the store. Hopefully, the action gave me an appearance of nonchalance. Ernie and Josephine didn’t need to be privy to my inner turmoil. They didn’t need to know that stepping foot into this desecrated area had my palms sweating. My Stetson would have been nice to hide behind, too.
Ernie stood at the counter, red-and-white checkered Purina banners hanging from the wall behind him. The store smelled of dust, oats, and a hint of molasses from sweet feed. I fought the urge to sneeze as I approached the counter and gave Ernie what I hoped was a confident and casual smile.
“Hey, Becky.” The proprietor’s eyes gleamed as much as his bald head. “Haven’t seen you around here lately. Listen, I just heard this great joke. Wanna hear it? You’re going to love it.”
Ernie didn’t wait for a reply but bulldozed his way forward.
“Why does Bill Clinton cheat on Hilary?” He looked at me expectantly, the corners of his lips twitching with restraint as he waited to share the punch line.
My own lips, however, faltered in their imitation of a smile. Ernie was known for his boorish humor and almost bullying ways, but I’d never been on the receiving end before. I opened my mouth to respond but was spared that discomfort.
“Ernie, you leave that poor girl alone.” Josephine entered from a back office and swatted at her husband’s arm.
She placed her hands over mine on the counter, shaking her head and tsking with her tongue.
“You poor, poor dear,” she crooned, her southern accent dripping with false sweetness. “Why, I bet your heart is nigh unto a thousand pieces after what James done to you. “
“Yes, well…” I pulled my hands out from under hers. Weren’t there any other customers in this place?
“And right out in public too, for the whole town to see. I am so sorry it had to happen here.” Her words said one thing, but her eyes said another.
I just bet you are.
“But time heals all wounds, they say,” she continued. “Sooner or later you will be finding yourself another young man. According to Wendy over at the diner, maybe even sooner, with Lisa’s help. Isn’t that right, dear?”
Fishing, fishing, fishing.
This bass wasn’t that dumb.
“Why, to hear Wendy tell it, Lisa is going to bring you back a husband. But I told Wendy that couldn’t be right.”
Ernie smirked as he leaned his hip on the counter and crossed his arms. I’d had about all I could take from both of them. I wanted nothing more than to turn around and march right out the door, but I still needed the feed, and I’d already endured their ill treatment. I squelched the urge to give them a good dressing-down and to tell them to mind their own business. Instead I addressed Ernie with as much poise as I could muster.
“I need two bags of beet pulp, two of sweet feed, and one bag of rice bran. Please.” I forced myself to tack the word on between clenched teeth.
He rang up my order and loaded it for me in the bed of the truck.
That was the last time I’d step foot in Ernie’s Feed and Seed. From then on I’d be driving the extra distance to Tractor Supply.
10
Luke
I LICKED MY lips as I set the square cardboard box down on the small bistro table in my apartment. Lifting the lid, the smell of tangy pizza sauce set my mouth to watering. Dark grease stains dotted the top of the box, along with gooey blotches of cheese. I slid out a triangle of the savory pie and dropped it on a paper plate. I shook my hand and popped my thumb in my mouth. They weren’t kidding when they said it was
hot
and ready.
Picking up the remote, I flipped through the channels and stopped on ESPN. Cubs versus Cardinals. Not the most riveting match-up, but it beat reality TV any day. I sunk my teeth into the slice of pizza. Cheese stretched from my lips until I pinched the middle and shoved it into my mouth. The commentators droned on, and I found my mind wandering.
Not every guy on the planet will admit it, but the male sex does think about the future. And not just career-wise, but our romantic future as well. Although we may not actually use the word
romantic
. It’s easy for people to picture a group of girls sitting around, eating ice cream and getting dreamy eyed as they talk about the perfect guy they’d love to marry and what kind of dress they’d want to wear and blah, blah, blah. But the truth is, guys think about that stuff too. Well, sort of, anyway. Not the dress part.
We don’t sit around with other guys and talk about it, and we definitely don’t dream about what we’ll wear as we wait for our bride to walk down the aisle. The closest most of us guys get to talking about our feelings for a girl is admitting we think she’s cute and that we’d like to ask her out. But we do think about the qualities we’d like in a girl if we were to get serious with her.
And this was where I found myself. I’d considered these things before, but not with any real seriousness. Usually my ponderings and wishes were general, with no specific person in mind. Now, however, I was thinking more and more about a young woman in California. A woman I’d never met.
I admit that when I heard Lisa’s story, I was astonished, to say the least. And not in a good way. How could anyone even come up with such a harebrained idea? Who in their right mind would marry a complete stranger? A shudder coursed through my body as I thought about the danger that could befall Becky if her plan turned south. There were too many sick people out there ready to prey on helpless women. Lisa seemed like a woman of integrity, but how was she supposed to sift through the men who would take advantage of a desperate situation?
I shook my head. My initial disbelief had worn off, and I found myself oddly curious. Going back over everything Lisa said the other night at Aunt Margaret’s, I had to admit, even though the whole thing was bizarre, it was driven by love—and naiveté. But the depth of love someone must have to potentially sacrifice her own future happiness for that of a dying man’s touched a chord with me. The incredulous question of “who would do something like
that?
” that had entered my head last night transformed into the question of “
who
would do something like that?”
Sacrifice—I knew that one. I’m a firefighter. My life goes on the line with every call. But in the mirror of Becky’s sacrifice, mine paled in comparison. Any burns I may suffer would heal over time. But time would never give Becky back her girlish dreams of marrying the love of her life.
I wished her well. Lisa seemed determined to follow through on her promise. Even so, the odds for success were definitely not in Becky’s favor.
***
The young woman knelt in front of the marble headstone, her forehead resting on its cold, unforgiving surface. Silent tears streamed down her face, but her hands didn’t move to wipe them away. She looked small and forlorn, alone amid a meadow of stone structures attesting to lives lived and generations past. No one should have to shoulder that type of grief alone. I tried to take a step toward the woman but found my feet incapable of movement. I was powerless to do anything but observe her heartbreak and sorrow.
A burly man stalked into the cemetery from the entrance to my right. His face dark and his eyes narrow slits of smoldering fire. By his side, large hands curled into fists, and his unwavering gaze burned a hole in the back of the kneeling woman’s head.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded as he clutched the woman’s arm and slung her about to face him.
The woman trembled as she looked up at the man, her arm still held firmly in his grasp. The skin where his fingers dug into her flesh was turning a pasty shade of white.
“Answer me!” he yelled, shaking her with enough force to make her head snap back.
Her mouth opened, but before she could utter a sound, one of the man’s cantaloupe-sized fists connected with her jaw, and she fell, her side slamming into the marble headstone in her descent.
I struggled to be free of the invisible hold on me, to run to the aid of the fallen woman, to stop the man as he again raised his fist and brought it down on her head. I opened my mouth to shout, but no sound escaped.
The beating lasted for what seemed liked hours. The woman lay curled in a ball, her knees to her chest and her hands over her head in a futile effort of defense.
“I hope you’ve learned your lesson, Becky dear.” The man sneered and spat on the woman before turning and walking away.
Jolting up in bed, I rubbed the horror from my eyes and looked at the alarm clock on my nightstand. The illuminated numbers shone brightly in the darkness of the room—3:35 in the morning. What a strange and horrible dream. Flinging back the covers, I swung my legs around and searched the floor with my toe for my slippers. Finding them, I slid my feet in and staggered toward the kitchen for some water.