Immortal Mine (5 page)

“Sure. I’ll give you directions.”

When I’m finished, the phone buzzes,
reminding me that Stacy is waiting.

“You’ll never believe what—” I cut myself
off. If I tell her Shane Coleman is coming to my house, she’ll rush
over, making a fool of herself over him. I don’t want to contribute
to her going down that particular path.

“What?” she demands impatiently when I’m
silent.

“You’ll… you’ll never believe… what Bob
did,” I spout with sudden inspiration. “He got into—”

“No, please!” Stacy wails into the phone.
“Not another Bob story. I swear you love that mutt more than you
love anyone else.”

I laugh at her completely predictable
response. “Not more than you, lovey.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she grumbles,
somewhat appeased.

“Gotta go, Stace. The chickens don’t feed
themselves.”

“Stupid chickens, you should train them
better.”

“Ha, ha,” I mock, hanging up.



I am in the middle of the chicken coop,
spreading feed when I hear the truck turn up the drive. I’m wearing
one of my father’s large beat-up flannel shirts to protect my
clothes, and my knee-high rubber boots, hair twisted up into a
messy bun, protected by an old John Deere cap. I briefly consider
running in and shedding all the “farm-girl” accessories, then
realize that’s what Stacy would do for the exalted Shane
Coleman.

“C’mon, Bob,” I say, backing out of the
coop. Bob is momentarily dejected at having to leave one of his
favorite pastimes—torturing the chickens—but always willing to go
forth with the hope that an even greater adventure awaits him.

I hang the feed bucket on its nail, wiping
my hands on my jeans. I walk around the front of the stable, where
the signs direct folks to the stables—not that most people need
them. I arrive to see a massive black pick-up, pulling a matching
black horse trailer, clearly expensive. For the first time, I
wonder what Mr. Coleman—Shane—does for a living.

The driver’s door is open, and he’s nowhere
to be seen, so I head to the rear of the trailer. Its door hanging
open gives away his location. A chestnut Thoroughbred with white
half-stockings of nearly the same length and a white star between
his eyes is led from his other side. He’s one of the most stunning
horses I’ve ever seen—feisty, if his black mane tossing is any
indication. His legs lift in a spirited prance. It doesn’t take a
practiced eye to see the value of this stallion.

Shane turns the horse toward me, and stops.
Because I’m staring at the horse, I don’t pay particular attention
to Shane.

“Wow, he’s a beauty.” I finally pull my gaze
from the horse so that Shane can see the sincerity on my smiling
face, considering removing my sunglasses so he will see the same
emotion in my eyes. The smile drops, along with my shoulders, to be
replaced by a grimace.

It’s not Shane.

“Let me guess,” I say, ironically. “Niamh
Parker
?” I realize I never asked her last name.

“What are you doing here?” she demands.

I raise my brows at her, and jerk my head
toward the horse. She rolls her eyes.

“I thought your uncle was coming.”

“He had some business to take care of so he
sent me,” I mutter, wondering if he somehow
knew
whose
stable he was sending me to.

“Great.” I can hear the sarcasm in her
voice. Almost reluctantly, she says, “Follow me, I’ll show you
where to put him.”

She stalks off, not waiting to see if I
follow. She leads into the stable, opening one of the stall doors.
No words, just a sweep of her hand to show me the way as she holds
the door open. I narrow my eyes at her, wondering if she’ll trip me
or slam the door on me, finally leading the stallion in. I turn the
horse, clucking and making soothing noises to the horse that’s a
little nervous in this place with strange smells. I take the halter
off the horse and step out as she closes the door behind me.

“Name?” she asks.

“Sam Coleman, as you well know,” I respond
irritably.

“Not yours, id—” she stops herself from
calling me the name, her cheeks flooding with a charming shade of
pink. I’m well aware of the name she’d been about to call me. “The
horse’s name?”

“Autumn Star,” I reply, nearly smacking my
forehead in consternation. Of course she meant the horse’s name.
Guess I am kind of an idiot. She lifts her chin, stubbornly
refusing to acknowledge her words.

“You have another? Not name, horse I mean,”
she clarifies.

I grit my teeth at her tone, as if she were
talking to an imbecile. “I knew what you meant. Where’s he going to
go?”

She points to the stall on the opposite
side. I walk over and peer into the stall.

“That should do,” I mutter, more to myself
than to her.

“I be so surry,
Mr
. Coleman, if our
stables aren’t to yer likin’,” she says, trying to sound like a
backwoods country bumpkin—and doing a poor job of it, I might add.
I’ve lived among people in the most backwoods of places, and she
isn’t even close in her impression. I throw a look her way, trying
to let her know how poor her impression is, and turn toward the
open stable door.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say as I walk
away. It seems that whatever I say to Miss Parker, she takes
offense.

She follows me out as I disappear into the
trailer. I grab the Irish by the lead rope and he immediately rears
back. The first stallion is my own; this one is new. Today is the
first day I’ve set eyes on him. He’s large, shiny black without an
ounce of any other color on him—with the exception of pure white
coronets near each hoof. He is magnificent.

I lead him out of the trailer with as much
gentle persuasion as possible, to find Niahm peering around the
corner, interest lighting her face. It’s a look I haven’t seen on
her face before, and it completely transforms her. The horse rears
up, front legs pawing the air in fright. My attention diverted, I
give the Irish a little lead, but not too much. Niahm takes a quick
step back.

She hurries into the barn, standing behind
the stall door, ready to close it as soon as I get the beast
inside. Smart girl. With a little work, and a lot of coaxing, I
finally lead the stallion in. The horse’s eyes are rolling, but I’m
able to sooth him just enough.

Once the stallion is in the stall, Niahm
pushes the door closed, trapping me within—exactly what she should
do. I unclip the lead, backing toward the stall door, not looking,
trusting her to open it. Once I’m out of the stall, I smile
triumphantly in Niahm’s direction—and to my surprise, she smiles
back, sharing in my victory. Suddenly, the faux intimacy of the
moment strikes us both, and she turns away.

“What kind of horse is that? I don’t
recognize it,” she asks.

“He’s an Irish Draught. Striking, isn’t
he?”

“He’s absolutely gorgeous. I’ve never seen
anything like him.”

“I’m glad you like
him
,” I
say
.
She doesn’t comment on
that
statement.

“What’s his name?” she asks.

“He doesn’t actually have one yet. He’s new,
not even green broke yet.”

“That would explain the tantrum. You have
someone coming to break him?”

“Yeah, me.”

“You?” Surprise laces her tone.

“What, you don’t think I can break a horse?”
I throw her words back at her, though in a less harsh tone than she
used on me.

She looks thoughtful, as if the question
bears scrutiny.

“Actually, I believe you can.”

I freeze in the act of hanging the lead,
turning her way.

“What? Was that an actual
compliment
from the inimitable Niahm Parker?”

I can see her narrowing her eyes at me even
through the sunglasses as she turns away, refusing to answer. I
follow her from the stable.

“My uncle said to let you know that we’ll
only be keeping them here until we can get the barn rebuilt on our
own property.”

“Oh.” Her response is almost—wistful. “Well,
while they’re here, you can come over anytime. The stable is never
locked.” She points to her left. “There’s a paddock over there that
you are welcome to use. If you let them through the gate just over
there,” she points again, “they can graze in there. The tack room
is right there,” she thumbs over her shoulder.

“Sounds good,” I say, watching her closely.
I’m impressed by her professionalism.

“I’ll feed and water them, but I won’t muck
your stalls.”

I laugh at her overly fervent tone.

“Gotcha.”

Her shoulders drop, as if relenting. “That’s
not necessarily the complete truth. If you’re going to be out of
town, or just can’t get over for some reason, just call. One of us
will do it.”

“One of us?”

“Me or, if they’re around, one of my
parents.”

“Oh. Are they here? I’d like to meet them,”
I respond, wondering about the type of people who could produce a
being such as Niahm Parker.

“No, they’re in Egypt. They’ll be home
Friday.”

“Egypt? What are they doing there?” That was
hardly the response I expected from the daughter of two small town
farmers.

“Work,” she says. “My dad’s a photographer,
and my mom’s a writer. They write beautiful, interesting travel
books.”

“Why didn’t you go with them?” I wonder
aloud.

“Been there, done that. They dragged me all
over the world till I finally dug my feet in and refused to go
anymore.”

“I can imagine that,” I mumble, well
acquainted with said stubbornness.

“I haven’t been more than fifty miles from
Goshen since I was thirteen.”

I stop, stunned. “They left you home?
Alone?”

“I can take care of myself,” she bristles.
“Besides,” her voice pitches upward, mischievously, “I have a
protector.” She whistles, and a black lab comes bounding in, tail
wagging. I laugh.

“
That’s
your protection?”

“Get ‘em, Bob,” she says calmly. The dog
immediately crouches forward, snarling, teeth bared aggressively. I
take a step back—he can’t really hurt me… at least, not too much.
But I don’t want witnesses to that fact. The dog, Bob, continues to
move toward me, growling from deep within his chest, punctuated by
threatening barks.

“Call him off,” I warn calmly, continuing to
back slowly away, my voice as calm and soothing as I used with the
Irish.

Niahm cocks her head, looking for all the
world as if she is rather enjoying this. “I don’t think I will,”
she says with a smile. I take my eyes from Bob just long enough to
give her a look, letting her know how crazy I believe her to
be.

“Good dog,” I soothe, clucking, turning my
attention back to the snarling fury in front of me. The dog begins
to back down, giving in to my cajoling, growls becoming
whimpers.

“Get ‘em,” Niahm repeats. Bob steps up his
assault stance. Just as he gets near me, and I’m wondering how I’m
going to explain the healed bites tomorrow, he lunges—past me,
continuing his growling threat to the tree behind me. I turn toward
Niahm, perplexed. What just happened?

“Back, Bob,” she says, and he comes bounding
back, tongue lolling, waiting to be praised for his
performance.

I look at her in stunned disbelief. And
she’s
grinning
.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been able
to pull that trick on anyone since most folks around here know it
by now,” she grins. Anger floods my entire being.

“Are you
kidding
me? Is that supposed
to be funny?”

“It was to me,” she laughs.

“You’re protection is some… some
party
trick
?” I think of all the things that can happen to a young,
beautiful, teenage girl left alone… apparently with the knowledge
of the whole town that not only is she alone, but also that she is
protected by an overgrown puppy.

She shrugs, and my anger surges dangerously
close to fury.

“You didn’t know he wouldn’t hurt you. Most
people would’ve turned tail and run. You’re either really brave or
really stupid. Which is it, Sam?”

“I believe you’re completely insane,” I
half-yell. When she doesn’t respond, my frustration boils over. “I
think you’re Sybil reincarnated.”

“Who?” she asks, reaching up to tuck a stray
hair behind her ear.

“You know, Sybil… multiple personalities… it
was a movie… based on a true story… Sally Fields?” I’m holding my
hands out toward her in supplication and, realizing the silliness
of the gesture, I pull them back and tuck them into my rear
pockets.

She shakes her head, “Sorry, never heard of
it.”

Her words stop me. Frustration has made me
careless. What seventeen-year-old kid would know about an old
movie? I rock back on my heels, cursing my stupidity.