The Lost Hours (21 page)

I stuck the letter in the pocket of my skirt, then left the garden, eager to return to the cottage and the binder Helen had given me. I’d begun to sort through it the night before, finding it mostly to be business papers and shopping lists with a few surprisingly sterile letters between a newly married Charlie and Lillian. Disappointed, I had fallen asleep on the sofa, the papers scattered around me. I hoped that with a clearer head this morning I’d be able to at least document the contents of the binder and even organize them in some meaningful way before returning it to Helen.

I walked to the circular drive in front of the house, and stood between the front garden and the sundial I’d passed several times but hadn’t yet approached. It sat on a stone pedestal at the “v” that pointed toward the oak alley, its bronze face darkened by time and weather. I shaded my eyes and peered at the inscription that had been carved along the edge of the dial.
Tempus fugit, non autem memoria.
I knew the first part meant time flies, but I wasn’t sure about the rest of it, although I had once known it. I committed it to memory so I could check online once I got back to the cottage.

I began to walk down the alley, apprehension scuttling up and down my spine as I remembered the previous night and the eerie whistling. By light of day the trees didn’t appear quite as ominous, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched as I passed under the arch created by the first two oaks.

The sound of a man’s voice and the unmistakable beat of horse’s hooves against hardened dirt made me stop. I looked around and realized the sound came from the far side of the house, where the oval window in Helen’s bedroom must look out. I heard the man’s voice again and recognized it as Tucker’s. I wanted to continue walking, but something held me back. I remembered how he’d looked the previous night when he asked me to teach his daughters to ride, and how much it must have cost him to ask. He didn’t strike me as the sort of person who asked for help very often, and I realized how much he must love his daughters to even try.

Slowly, I turned around and headed toward the sound of hooves until I emerged from the shadow of the house and found myself facing an equestrian’s dream. The land sloped downward away from the house where green pastures bled out into the horizon as far as I could see, separated by the elegant lines of white picket fences. Horses dotted the fields, their necks bowed down to the grass, their tails batting peacefully. The stables, appearing almost as large as the house, sat in the near distance below a rise, which is why I hadn’t seen it when I passed through the garden gate.

Nearer the house was the lunge ring, where Tucker now stood with his whip, coaxing the scarred horse around the circle, speaking quietly to the animal in a language I had once understood. I stopped outside the ring not touching the fence, and watched the horse and the man, each focused on the other, each seeing what the other was willing to give and to take. The whip never touched the horse, yet the horse responded, knowing what was expected as if he’d done this before. But he wasn’t doing it willingly, fighting Tucker with each gait, making me wonder what had been done to him before he’d come to Asphodel Meadows.

They came to a stop as soon as Tucker saw me. “Good morning,” he said, removing the lunge line from the horse’s halter and attaching a lead rope. I took a step back as Tucker led the horse to the fence, both of them regarding me intently.

“Good morning.” I forced the words past my constricted throat. The horse stood directly in front of me, calmly appraising me as his tail twitched behind him. He was thin, but his conformation was good, his legs long.
I bet you can really fly,
I thought before I could stop myself.

The horse nickered softly, startling me so that I took another step back. Tucker’s smile wasn’t mocking but meant for comfort. “He thinks you’re the treat lady. Do you want to give him an apple?”

Before I could refuse, he’d stuck his hand between the fence slats and pulled out an apple from a duffel bag near my feet. He handed it to me without bringing it back to his side of the fence, then stayed in the awkward position and I knew he would remain there if I didn’t take the stupid apple.

“Just keep your fingers flat and he’ll do the rest.”

I looked at Tucker with annoyance. “I know that. It’s not like I’ve never fed an apple to a horse before.”

His smile broadened and I knew he was goading me on, making me feel like a horse in the lunge ring, and I had to resist the urge to throw the apple at him and stalk away with righteous indignation. But I held the apple with the fence between us, and I reminded myself that I had once hurdled five-foot jumps on a horse. Surely I could feed a single apple to one.

The horse stretched his neck over the fence, but the apple was still out of reach.

“If you’re too afraid, let me have the apple and I’ll do it.”

It was like Tucker knew just the right words to say. Without looking in his direction, I took a deep breath and stepped forward with the apple in my palm, my fingers flat. The horse took half of the apple in one bite, his soft velvety lips brushing my skin and bringing back all the memories of doing this exact thing so many times. Apple juice ran down my fingers as I watched the powerful jaws chomp until there was nothing left. He pawed the ground with his front hoof, giving me a look that suggested he wanted more.

“Where did you find him?” I asked. The horse had turned and I found myself staring at his scars.

“At an auction in Columbia. I always look for the one horse nobody else wants. If I hadn’t taken him, he would have been sent to the slaughterhouse.”

I shuddered, not wanting to think about what happened to all the other horses nobody wanted. “But do you know where he came from before that? What his name was?”

Tucker shook his head and gave the horse’s neck a solid pat. “He was found abandoned in a dirt paddock with barely any grass and no signs of hay or feed. A filthy bucket with rainwater was all he had to drink.”

I stared at the large animal, feeling again that the two of us had more in common than just our physical scars. “He’s a great horse. Anybody can see that, regardless of his scars. I can’t believe that nobody wanted him.” The horse stretched out his head again, wanting me to scratch his head but I held back. I didn’t want to touch the soft coat under my fingertips, was afraid to feel a nudge of affection from the large head. “So, you do that a lot? Rescue horses, I mean.”

He shrugged and looked away for a moment. “I haven’t always. It’s just something that I sort of fell into. About two years ago I went on hiatus from my medical practice in Savannah to come here. My wife . . . Susan . . . she was ill and I figured we could all use a change of scenery. I thought being around horses would be good for her.” He shook his head. “She was afraid, though. Wouldn’t go near them.

“Anyway, our stable manager, Andi, mentioned to me that while she’d been at auction, she’d looked at a horse she thought we should consider. He was undernourished, but showed no signs of lameness, and his temperament, considering what he’d been through, was something we could handle. I went to see the horse, knew what the alternative would be if I didn’t take him, and that’s how it started. I rehabilitate them and then either sell them or find a good home for them, depending on the situation.”

The horse shook his head again and shifted his feet with impatience at having to stand still for so long. I looked into his large almond-shaped eyes and I had the oddest feeling that we were both thinking the same thing.
You want to fly.
The words were so amplified in my head that for a moment I thought I’d spoken them aloud.

Instead, I asked, “Have you named him yet?”

Tucker didn’t say anything, and when I looked at him, I saw that he was watching me closely, a small smile on his lips. “No. I usually don’t since I don’t intend on keeping them. But for this one, well, I’m willing to make an exception.”

He was still smiling at me as if waiting for me to get the punch line of a joke.

“Why are you looking me like that?”

His smile fell and he was serious again, wearing the wounded look I’d begun to be familiar with. “Because I can’t imagine what it would be like to never ride a horse again. And because I think you want to name this horse.”

I wanted to deny it, and tell him that it wasn’t so hard to walk away from a sport that had crushed more than just bones. But I’d always been a horrible liar, and I couldn’t forget the way the horse had shown his impatience, had made me aware that he wanted to fly. “I’d call him Captain Wentworth,” I said, jutting out my chin and crossing my arms over my chest.

Tucker’s smile was back. “Ah, a Jane Austen fan. You and Helen have a lot in common.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.” Turning back to the horse, he said, “So, Captain Wentworth it is. Captain, for short. Although I think Andi would have preferred something like Bruiser or Killer. He broke her nose when she was loading him into the trailer to get him here.” He rubbed the horse’s neck. “But I think Captain Wentworth is better. I’ll let everyone know. Maybe even get a nameplate for his stall.”

I pushed back the wave of excitement I felt, knowing it really had nothing to do with me. “Good,” I said. “He deserves it.”

He was watching me closely and I felt myself blush under his gaze. “I think you need to ride again.”

His words, spoken so softly, felt like splintering bones and I was lying on the ground again, waiting for the blackness. I stared at Tucker, speechless, then looked back at Captain Wentworth, his tail moving in a languid rhythm, teasing me with old memories that weren’t all bad. I looked into the horse’s eye again.
Let’s fly; let’s fly high together.
My breath quickened as I imagined the rush of wind on my face and the exhilaration of landing a jump, could almost hear the roar of a crowd.
Oh, God.

I stared at him for a long moment, a horrible realization settling on me like ash. I felt sick, the ugliness of my thoughts making my stomach churn. I turned on my heel, walking blindly in the direction I’d come, knowing I couldn’t stay without blurting out what I’d only just come to understand.

In the face of disappointment I’d done the one thing I’d always despised about lesser riders; I’d given into my fears, surrendered in the face of my own mortality. And it was anger at myself that propelled me away from Tucker and from confessing what I’d just seen with startling clarity as I’d faced the newly named Captain Wentworth over the fence and felt his desire to fly: I wasn’t afraid of horses at all. What I feared the most was getting back into a saddle and discovering I wasn’t a champion any longer, that I had instead become nothing more than ordinary.

“I’m not one of your horses who needs rescuing,” I shouted over my shoulder without slowing down. He didn’t say anything but I knew he was watching until I’d turned the corner of the house.

I paused in the drive, putting my hands on my knees until I could catch my breath. I stood again in front of the sundial and the words suddenly formed meaning.
Time flies, but not memories
.

I gulped in the hot, humid air, my heart beating fast and my knee throbbing. But none of those things could take my breath away as quickly as my newfound knowledge had, or my sudden desperate need to prove myself wrong.

Helen knocked on her grandmother’s sitting room door and then entered. “Are you done resting?”

Lillian’s voice was tinged with exhaustion. “It’s a hopeless cause. I don’t know why I bother. My back and my hands would rather keep me awake and restless.”

Helen moved to where she knew her grandmother’s chaise longue sat near the window. She felt for a nearby sofa and sat down, sensing by the lack of warmth hitting her skin that the plantation shutters were closed tight. “Can I get you your medicine?”

Lillian let out an uncharacteristic snort. “All they do is make me groggy and stupid and Odella says I can’t have anything to drink when I take one, so what’s the point? I’m miserable whether I take them or not, but if I don’t I can at least find a little relief with my wine.”

“I’m sorry,” Helen said, and meant it. Despite Lillian’s outwardly cool demeanor and her strict code of acceptable behavior, she’d essentially been the only mother Helen had ever known. Although Lillian had never been demonstrative, Helen had always felt loved by her grandmother. And it had been Lillian, and not Helen’s own mother, who’d slept in a cot in her bedroom when she’d been sick with fever, and had held her hand when her sight had gone to let her know that even though it was dark, she wasn’t alone.

Helen sat back in the sofa, her arm brushing papers, and felt one slide to the floor and land on her foot. Leaning over, she picked it up and handed it to her grandmother. “Sorry, Malily—I knocked this off of your stack of papers. I don’t want to replace it in the wrong spot.”