Lois Greiman - [Hope Springs 02] (19 page)

S
ophie was standing outside the arena behind the barn when Colt stepped out of his truck the next morning. Her back was to him, her corn-silk hair long and shiny in the slanting sunlight.

Inside the enclosure, the new mare was galloping wild circles about the pen. The hair was rubbed off the base of her tail, but she had it flung over her back as she ran. It curved over her spine as she broke into a high-stepping trot, neck arched, nostrils flaring.

“Hey,” Colt said, settling his forearms against the top plank and shoving his right boot onto the lowest rung. “I see she’s settled down.”

Sophie refused to comment on his sarcasm. Instead, they watched the mare make another mad dash around the pen. Her withers were sharp and bumpy from lack of calories. A dozen oozing wounds and raw lacerations marred her scruffy coat. Throwing her head up, she trumpeted, then spooked at a random sound, bouncing from her feet, eyes rimmed with white as she darted in the opposite direction.

“Do you think she’s crazy?” Sophie asked.

“I suspect we’d all be a little nuts if we’d been tied up for nine months at a time.”

“Some of you are crazy anyway,” she said.

He leaned away from her, brows raised. “Did you just make a joke?” he asked, but her jovial mood was already darkening.

“I don’t even know when she’s due,” she said.

“Well, I think that’s the least of your worries,” he said.

She turned toward him. “What could be worse than . . .” she began, but just then the girl noticed Casie approaching from behind, strides purposeful, brows lowered.

Sophie winced. Colt couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. When had sweet Casie Carmichael become the kind of woman who made a take-no-prisoners girl like Sophie Jaegar wince?

But when she arrived her eyes were only for the horse. Granted, the mare was the kind of animal that would always make people stop and stare. Oh, she looked rough, rubbed raw, worn thin, but she had what could only be called presence . . . that look-at-me something that made every head turn, made every eye misty. All three were silent as they watched the chestnut circle the arena at a snappy trot.

“She moves like a dancer.” Casie’s voice was very soft, almost reverent. The mare turned her head with haughty disdain, gliding along, potbelly distended, every rib showing. “Even with that scraggly mane and popped knee.”

Colt shifted his gaze to the mare’s left foreleg. Now that she mentioned it, the injured carpal joint was easy to identify.

“They’re kept in narrow stalls twenty-four seven, so she pawed,” Sophie said in explanation of the knee problem. Apparently, she had already noticed it. But then if Colt had spent the entire night in the mare’s stall, maybe he would have, too. “Probably incessantly.” They were all silent for another moment. “The others are mostly drafts, a lot calmer.” She cleared her throat. Her eyes, Colt noticed even in profile, looked red and raw. It must have been a hell of a night for everyone. Even through his parents’ well-insulated walls, he had heard Ty toss around like a thrashing crew until two in the morning. “Maybe they’ve given up . . . but Freedom . . .” Her voice broke.

Casie clenched her jaw, but refrained from turning toward the girl. “You named her?”

“Windflower’s Freedom.”

“Soph . . .” Casie’s voice was soft with regret. She tilted her head toward the girl, expression worried. “We have to take her back.”

“What?” Sophie asked, voice breathless.

“Think about it.” Casie lowered her brows, expression beseeching. “She’s stolen property. It’s a felony.”

“They abused her.” Sophie’s tone was low, steady, flat, and dangerous. “
That’s
the felony. Or at least it
should
be.”

“Well, it’s not a felony that’s going to get
them
put in jail.”

The morning went silent.

“I’ll do it,” Casie said, exhaling carefully. “Just tell me where the farm is.”

There was a moment of silence. “No.”

“Soph—”

“You can’t go there,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

Colt’s heart stopped. Casie raised her brows. “What?”

“They have rifles.”

Casie’s lips formed an O. Her face was very pale. “You said no one saw you.”

“I lied.”

“You . . .” She stopped herself. Colt held his breath.

“I talked to him. The owner.” Sophie swallowed. Her expression was nothing if not fearful. It looked out of place on her kick-ass face. “I spoke to him.”

“The owner with the . . .” Casie paused, winced, carried on. “The rifle?”

Sophie nodded. Colt stepped a little closer to Casie . . . just in case.

“What did he say?”

“He invited me into his house.”

Casie reached out, grasping the arena’s nearest two-by-six. “You didn’t go.”

“Of course I didn’t go. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

No one spoke.

“What happened then?” Casie’s voice was quiet.

“Then Ty set Freedom loose and she bolted out the door.”

“Then?”

“Then we took off across the field.”

“They didn’t follow you?”

“They did, but we doubled back. They never found us.”

“For real?” Em asked. Colt hadn’t seen her coming. How the hell did she do that?

“Sophie . . .” Casie’s voice had gone from quiet to breathless. “You’re—.”

“My hero,” Emily said. “Sophie Jaegar . . . my hero.” She scowled at the thought, seeming momentarily perplexed. “. . . And other signs of the apocalypse,” she murmured, then shook her head. “How did you outrun them?”

For just a second a flash of something showed in Sophie’s eyes. It would have been nice to believe it was regret. But it looked a little more like excitement. “Turns out . . .” She cleared her throat. “Turns out Freedom rides double.”

Casie’s knees actually buckled. “No.” She shook her head. Colt propped her up with one hand on her elbow. “You didn’t ride her knowing how wild—”

“Bareback double.”

On the far side of the arena, the mare reared, dreadlocked mane dancing as she leaped into the air, spun to the left, and trumpeted again. The sound spoke of a hundred fears, a thousand wild hopes.

“Isn’t she a pretty thing,” Linette said.

Colt turned abruptly toward the newcomer. Holy cow, since when did women sneak around like furtive mice? And how long had she been there listening?

“Yes,” Casie said, not looking surprised that the older woman was there. Maybe she was counting on Murphy’s law taking precedence once again. “Even like this, she’s poetry.”

“How far along is she?” Linette asked.

Sophie shook her head, eyes mutinous. “The bastards didn’t give a—”

Casie cleared her throat. Colt stared. Sophie wasn’t usually the one to swear. The little mother-to-be, on the other hand, had a mouth like a storm trooper when left to her own devices.

Sophie pursed her lips at the censorship, but complied with the warning, finding that pitch-perfect snooty tone without any apparent trouble. “Her past owners just pasture bred their mares . . . just turned them out with the stallions,” she said. “They weren’t sure when she conceived.”

“Who’s the sire?”

They all looked at her.

“That’s uncertain as well.” Sophie said the words through clenched teeth.

“Doesn’t sound like your friends know much about horses,” Linette said.

No one spoke. It took Colt a moment to realize she was talking to him, a moment longer to remember his lie regarding the mare’s past ownership.

“Oh, yeah,” he agreed. “I guess they aren’t world-class equestrians, huh.”

“They’re world-class—” Sophie began, but Casie interrupted.

“Well, are you ready for that riding lesson, Linette?”

“Sure,” she said, pulling her attention from Sophie with some difficulty. “If Colt is.”

Colt glanced at Casie for a second, making sure she was okay. “Come on, then,” he said and reminded himself that although Casie Carmichael’s eyes could melt his heart, when the hammer hit the anvil, she was tough as nails. “You can show me what you remember about saddling up.”

“Prepare to be astonished,” Linette said.

He grinned as he turned away, but his student paused and glanced back.

“Best not to think about those people too much, Soph. Premeditation can prolong a sentence considerably,” she said and turned away without another word.

 

Casie watched her guest walk away. “What did she mean by that?” she asked.

Sophie shrugged and changed the subject. “Well, I’m going to clean Free’s stall while she’s out here.”

“We need to talk,” Casie said.

Sophie scowled. “I thought that’s what we were doing.”

Casie narrowed her eyes. Ty was just turning onto the Lazy’s pockmarked drive. It was Saturday morning, and he could have slept late, but she wasn’t surprised to see him pacing toward the barn. “Bring Ty into the house,” she said and turned away, gathering her wits as she went.

In a matter of moments, the three of them stood in a rough triangle in the living room. Twenty feet away, Emily sang off-key as she banged around in the kitchen.

“First of all . . .” Casie glanced at the pair. “I want to say that I understand why you did what you did. Horses shouldn’t be kept in the kind of conditions you described. But that doesn’t mean you can just
take
those horses. It’s . . .” The word
crazy
came to mind. A couple other prime adjectives followed quickly on its heels. “Dangerous.”

“We didn’t take horses,” Sophie said. “We took
horse
.”

Casie turned on her, mind spinning, anger spurring up. “Don’t you split hairs, Sophie Jaegar. What do you think your dad’s going to say when he finds out about this?”

Sophie shrugged, looking bored.

Frustration made Casie want to gnaw off her own arm. “Is that what you want?” she asked. “Do you want your father to come around asking questions? Do you need his attention that badly?”

“This has nothing to do with him.”

“This has everything to do with him,” Casie snapped. “He’s your legal guardian. He can make sure you never set foot on this property again.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Sophie said, but her face looked pale suddenly and her voice was breathy. “He doesn’t care enough to do that.”

Casie shook her head in disbelief as she turned toward Ty.

“And you,” she said, but even to her own ears, she heard her tone change, felt her emotions soften. “You know better, Tyler. You can’t afford to get into trouble.”

“I know,” he said and shifted his eyes toward the floor. “But Soph . . .” He paused, raised his gaze to Casie’s, and caught himself. “It ain’t right,” he said. “The way they treat them horses. It just ain’t right.”

“I know it’s not.” Casie cleared her throat, searching for her already dissipating anger. When did she become the Wicked Witch of the West? It wasn’t many months ago that she was the one bringing home the neglected and the abused. She’d never stolen them, though. And why was that? Just because she lacked the nerve? “But there’s nothing we can do about it. As much as I feel for the mare . . . my main concern is you two.” She hardened her jaw. “We have to take her back.”

“Case—” Sophie began, but a noise from outside interrupted them.

Casie hurried into the kitchen to peer outside. A muddy pickup truck turned into the driveway. There was something about it, some premonition older than time that made the breath stop in her throat. “Get back,” she said, seeing that Sophie had followed her.

“What?” the girl asked, but there must have been something in Casie’s eyes because she backed away from the window.

“The guy with the rifle . . . Freedom’s owner . . .” Casie continued to gaze through the window from an oblique angle, trying to see inside the pickup. “How did he look?”

“I’m not going to let you take—” Sophie began, but Casie stopped her with a glance.

The girl drew a sharp breath. Her eyes widened. “Do you think it’s him? Is he here?”

“Stay put,” Casie said, and gathering every ounce of nerve she could muster, paced toward the front door. Her mind was spinning, her body pressurized. Don’t look tense, she told herself, but she was no actress. Still, spying the egg basket in the tiny entry, she grabbed it on her way out. Her knuckles hurt from her grip on the handle. Way to be casual, she thought, and loosened her fingers with a concerted effort.

The weather was still drizzly. She tugged the brim of her Marlboro cap lower over her eyes and tried not to pass out.

Jack turned a happy circle and loped back to her as the truck came to a halt not twenty feet from them. She tried to look surprised about this unexpected visitor. The man who stepped out from behind the steering wheel was somewhere in his early forties. He wore loose blue jeans and a brown plaid jacket.

A few salutations zipped through Casie’s mind.
Greetings. Hey there. Top of the morning.
She stifled a groan. “Can I help you with something?” she asked and forced a gritty smile.

“Yeah.” He shifted his gaze right and left, as if searching the premises. “I’m Pete Whitesel. Got a few acres west of here.”

“Hi.” She extended a hand. The kids had bought her a pair of buckskin gloves. The leather was soft and pliant, considerably superior to the duct-taped pair she’d been wearing just a few months earlier. His handshake was quick, his gaze unsteady. “Cassandra Carmichael,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you. I don’t know any Whitesels. Are you new in the area?”

Her mind was spinning. She knew, absolutely knew, that he was Freedom’s owner. Which meant that she should tell him the truth, admit the facts . . . or maybe . . . maybe she could say it was her idea. But either way . . .
any
way, she should return the horse to her rightful owner.
Had
to return the horse to her rightful owner. But in the back of her mind, she saw the mare’s frantic expression, her wide, wild eyes.