Code Triage (10 page)

Buzz sighed. “Because you’re human, Nick. And we’re all flawed. That’s where grace comes in.”

“I know; I’ve been down on my knees, grateful for that. And somehow, I kept thinking that I’d convince Leigh. I thought if I apologized enough, prayed enough, and tried hard enough . . . that if God forgives me, she could too. And she wouldn’t give up on our marriage. I let myself hope that because she agreed to come back for her sister, live in our house, we’d start talking. And now . . .”

Buzz waited, his very silence compassionate.

Nick tried to swallow past a huge lump in his throat. “I’m starting to realize that maybe she gave up on our marriage a long time ago. Before Toby. Before Sam. I’m the one who pushed to get married. The same way I pressured her about having children, about—” a sharp laugh tore free—“about buying a dining room table. I don’t think she wanted any of that. And now I think all our arguments about those things—about my job, the time she spent at the stable, and the loss we took on the restaurant—maybe those weren’t the real problems. Maybe . . .” For some reason he thought of the lemon tree dying in their hallway. He glanced away for a moment, clearing his throat, then managed to meet the chaplain’s eyes again. “I’m not sure Leigh ever wanted to marry me in the first place.”

Chapter Seven

“Well, I guess Nick was right about one thing, anyway.” Caro paused in the dining room doorway and crossed her arms. “You finally brought your horse into the house.”

“It’s a saddle, for heaven’s sake. And my bridle.” Leigh glanced up from where she knelt, sopping sea sponge in hand, and tried to deny the reaction she still felt at hearing her husband’s name. On October 3 the divorce was official and things would settle down. Meanwhile . . . She drew in a breath scented by damp leather and Murphy Oil Soap. “Since the den’s full of boxes, I thought I may as well pull the saddle rack in here. Plenty of room.”

Her sister looked toward the darkened bay window, then up at the chandelier with its chain tied short to keep it safely out of the way. Prisms darted over her face like fireflies—impossible in California. “You got that right—plenty of room,” she agreed, wearing the smirk she’d perfected by age six. “Enough for a horse. Match point to Niko.”

Niko.
Niko’s . . . Nick’s place.
The irony struck anew: she’d fallen in love with the owner of a Greek restaurant and woken up married to a cop in a bulletproof vest. Leigh let the sponge drop into the shiny, commercial stainless-steel mixing bowl she was using as a scrub bucket. Then stood, her calves sore from her hour’s ride. Frisco had been a handful tonight—and ever since they’d moved back from Pacific Point. Even though he was still noticeably off his feed. Worry pricked her. She turned her attention back to her sister. “Did you find something for dinner while I was at the stables?” She felt a twinge of guilt; they rarely ate together.

“Yes, I’m good.” Caro twisted a section of her long hair and let it drop back against the sweater she’d pulled on over her workout clothes. “I just made coffee. Black, strong—the way you like it.” She smiled, rare warmth flooding into her gray eyes. “Want some?”

“I . . .” Leigh fought a rush of emotion, wanting to run to Caro, fold her into a bear hug. How long since she’d done that—pulled her baby sister close? Not since that day at the treatment center when she’d broken down, finally accepted the need for medication. It had been tough for her and such a brave step in the right direction. “Coffee sounds great.”

Caro led the way to the kitchen, opened the glass-front cabinet, and pulled down two black mugs. She filled them with coffee and handed one to Leigh, then leaned back against the dark granite counter. “So I’ve gotta ask,” she said. “How was your demon horse tonight? Ready to become a therapist for handicapped kids?”

The single dimple appeared beside Caro’s mouth, a beautiful genetic mark that never failed to remind Leigh of her half sister’s handsome father, high-powered CEO Alton Evers. And that ugly conversation with their mother.
“He’s an important man. . . . We’ll eat in the dining room. . . . You’ll cope. . . .”
Leigh never sat in a dining room again without thinking of it. She studied her sister’s face for a moment, wondering what memories Caro had of their meals together. She was glad they were having their coffee in the kitchen.

Leigh took a sip—Nick’s aromatic arabica blend—and laughed at her sister’s question. “Therapy horse? Hardly. Never in a million years will Frisco be a part of Patrice Owen’s barn ‘family.’ He’ll always be the loner in a corner stall, with the ‘Caution: this horse bites’ sign on his gate. I ought to have it tattooed on his neck.” She blew on her coffee and rolled her eyes. “Although tonight . . .” She shook her head, remembering. “There’s a new rescue animal out there. A shaggy miniature donkey they call Tag. Sad story—he was abused by gangbangers. Shot in the eye with a pellet gun and tagged all over with paint graffiti.”

“Oh no.” Caro pressed her hand to her chest. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Yes.”
He is, you are, I am . . . we’ll all be okay. I promise.
“He still has one good eye, and he’s getting good food now. The vet was out to worm him and give him his immunizations.” Leigh grimaced. “The stable hands accidentally put Tag in my extra stall next to Frisco. He could have been there for hours, and I’m trying not to imagine what sort of bugs he might have been carrying.”

Caro snorted, setting her coffee down. “You sound like our snooty mother, when you told her you were marrying Nick. Remember what she asked you?” She put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes, mimicking. “‘But who are
his people
, Leigh?’” Caro frowned. “It was bad enough that she handed you that baloney about how a doctor shouldn’t marry ‘beneath her status.’ But her reaction to Nick’s mother being a runaway, not knowing who his father was, and being raised in foster care, after she dumped you with my father, then took off . . .” Her bitter words faded as her eyes met Leigh’s. “Anyway. They moved that poor donkey out of your stall?”

“Yes.” Leigh set her coffee down, fighting a shiver. She should have changed out of her riding clothes; they were still damp from hosing Frisco off after their gallop. “He’s two stalls away now. And already has one little girl in love with him. You remember the Owens’ foster child Maria? the six-year-old?”

Caro nodded, lifting her cup again. “The little girl with cigarette burns on her arms. The one who’s mute.”

“Right. Hasn’t said a word in more than six months, apparently. Not since Child Crisis removed her from her home, after a boyfriend beat her mother to death. No physical reason she can’t talk. Just won’t.” Leigh’s heart tugged. “Maria spent more than two hours sitting with Tag tonight, brushing him. Feeding him carrots.”

Caro smiled. “And she didn’t even care who his ‘people’ were?”

“No.” Leigh’s throat tightened, thinking of the silent little girl standing on her tiptoes to brush the donkey. “I think maybe Maria wants to
be
Tag’s ‘people.’”

Caro raised her brows, watching Leigh over her coffee cup.

Leigh shrugged. “And, weirdly enough, I think Frisco likes him too, because he—”

They both turned toward the sound of someone knocking. Before they could get there, the door opened and their neighbor Antoinette McNealy stepped in, eyes wide behind her red-framed glasses.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but I need help. I’m afraid Harry’s wandered off.”

+++

Nick stood in front of Frisco’s darkened stall, wondering how he’d ended up here; he was no fan of horses. Quite to the contrary. He had no patience with, or interest in, all that horse ownership entailed. And this horse had been a thorn in his side for years. But he’d been at the cemetery visiting Toby’s grave, and Golden Gate Stables was on his way back home.
No. Not home—Buzz’s apartment.

Sometime in the next few weeks he’d have to find a real place to live.
Real.
For a fleeting instant he felt a lonely wave of déjà vu. From way back when he’d wonder about his next foster home; those days he felt like Disney’s Pinocchio, wishing on a star to find a family and finally be a “real boy.” It had been a longing, combined with fear and uncertainty, that very often put an ugly, defensive chip on his scrawny shoulder. But it was a lifetime ago, and things had turned out fine in the long run. More than fine. He’d learned a valuable lesson in the process: that family wasn’t always the one you’re born into. Sometimes God brought people together according to his own plan.

Nick turned at a sound in the dimly lit walkway.

A little girl about six or seven years old, with dark braids and a sandwich bag filled with carrots, stopped at a stall two spaces down. He smiled, and she stared back, her dark eyes huge and luminous.

“Is that your horse?” he asked gently, wondering if she belonged to one of the people he’d seen at the entrance to the barn.

She watched him in solemn silence.

“He’s lucky to have a friend with a bag of carrots.”

Her brows drew together for a moment; then she approached the stall, reaching into her sack. Shy, probably, and he didn’t want to scare her. Especially since he didn’t even know why he was here in the first place.
I don’t belong here.

He studied Leigh’s horse, standing with his face toward a corner of the stall. There was a blue plaid blanket buckled over his back and chest, and his lower legs were encased in blue fleece wraps, neatly and carefully applied. His mane had been secured with rubber bands into what Nick had learned were “training braids,” a procedure that apparently encouraged this animal’s unruly hair to fall to the “proper” side. Nick shook his head, wondering if his wife considered him unruly, his broken vows a training failure. Or if she thought he’d failed her all along. When the restaurant floundered and he’d been drawn to law enforcement. When he’d wanted to buy the fixer Victorian instead of a glass-and-steel condo. Or that humiliating time he’d angrily admitted to being jealous of a “blasted horse” because she spent more time with Frisco than with him.

“Hello. May I help you with something?” A middle-aged woman stepped close and smiled.

“No, I’m . . . This is my wife’s horse.”

“You’re Frisco’s dad?” She laughed, eyes crinkling, at the immediate reaction on his face. “I’m sorry. We’re kind of a crazy, big family out here. You’re Leigh’s husband, then.”

Till Friday.
“Yes,” he said, embarrassed he’d come. “I’m Nick.”

“And I’m Patrice Owen,” she said, offering a warm handshake. “My husband, Gary, and I own Golden Gate Stables.” She pointed to the signs Leigh had posted on Frisco’s gate. “I should have guessed who you were. That’s your number listed under emergency contacts.”

He squinted, looking from the large bite-warning sign to the smaller laminated card beneath. It included his first name and his cell number, below Leigh’s. She’d forgotten to take it off. Or maybe his responsibility as an emergency contact would end when his marriage did.

“It’s still current?” Patrice asked.

“Yes,” he answered, deciding against inflicting too much information on this kind woman.

“Good,” she said. “I hope we don’t need to call you. Leigh’s a careful rider. And this young man—” she peered over the gate at the big horse—“is a healthy sort. Even if his appetite’s been a bit quirky lately. We’ll be keeping an eye on Frisco. Don’t worry.”

He had no intention of telling her that he wouldn’t worry about this beast. Ever.

“Well, it’s good to meet you, Nick. I look forward to seeing more of you. But now it’s time for Maria to have a bath.” She beckoned to the little girl with the dark braids. “Something tells me we’re going to have some donkey hair to brush off her clothes first; won’t be the first time in this family. And Lord knows, not by a long shot the worst thing we’ve dealt with. But we hang in there. We always do.”

Nick’s throat tightened without warning. “I’m sure you do.”

Patrice took a few steps and gestured to the child again.

The little girl trotted up the walkway, stopping beside Nick. She reached into the sack, took out several small carrots, and handed them to him. Her lips curved into the faintest trace of a smile.

“Thank you, Maria,” he whispered as she trotted off.

He stared from the carrots to the warning sign on the stall gate, then to the huge horse with his head down, facing the wall. He glanced up and down the empty walkway. “Look,” he said, taking a step toward the stall, “you and I both know that I’m not your ‘dad.’ And in a few days I won’t even be an emergency contact. So here, knock yourself out, Frisco.” Nick dropped the carrots over the gate and stepped a safe distance away. He jumped when his cell phone buzzed on his belt.

“Stathos,” he said, feeling like the fool he was.

“Nicky? This is Antoinette. I need your help, darling.”

He talked with her long enough to understand that Harry had wandered away from the house while she was taking a shower. He promised to be there in less than ten minutes and disconnected, watching as Frisco put his head down and moved toward the carrots.

The big horse sniffed at them for moment, then stretched his neck over the gate to gaze down the walkway. He gave a deep, insistent whinny.