Sometimes it seemed as though the smallest victory would be the hardest one to achieve: extending the bridle path behind the Yadao mansion. If she was really going to offer her rehabilitated horses for community use, it only made sense to connect her own land to the village’s riding center and the network of public and private trails beyond. But the Yadaos were doing everything in their power to keep that from happening.
The short gallop and the rising sun had her scalp sweating under her helmet; a quick glance at her watch made her realize she had to turn around if she was going to see the kids before they headed off to school. Jack would probably miss it: his East Coast trip had lasted several days longer than he’d told her it would, and she’d already been dozing off when he’d arrived last night. If past form was any indication, he’d sleep until midmorning, spend an hour working out, and then head to his office in the city.
Which was fine. Between a half day of seeing patients at the pediatric clinic, lunch with a friend, and after-school chauffeuring duties, Holly had more than enough to fill her day. She saw kids only two days a week at the practice she’d founded and always looked forward to it. She dealt mostly in annual checkups and sick visits, counseling parents on coughs, colds, fevers, acne, and head lice. Boring and pleasantly routine.
Wags had clearly been unsettled by both the encounter with Theresa and Holly’s impulsive decision to give chase—something she now regretted both for the horse’s sake and ongoing diplomatic efforts with the Yadaos. She baby-talked him all the way home, even singing “I Ride an Old Paint,” a cheesy song that was all she could think of on the spur of the moment. He calmed somewhat, although behind her she could feel his tale swishing erratically from side to side.
As she led him through the gate to their paddock, she saw Alderman waiting stubbornly by the feeder for her to fork out some hay, and Royal shaking flies off her head in a far corner. Silk Purse and Sow’s Ear trotted together, the siblings still playful, as if they couldn’t believe they’d finally escaped confinement. She couldn’t keep them all, of course, but she took satisfaction in the time she spent with them and the fact that they’d leave her for good homes.
And, sadly, there were always more poor and neglected horses to replace them.
Leading Wags into the barn and then to his stall, Holly took off his bridle and put on his halter. She tied him to a ring and, feeling hot, hung her helmet and jacket on a peg outside before removing his saddle and pad. Working the currycomb along his neck and flanks, she continued to coo to him, reassuring him that all was well, and there would be no more surprises in his day.
When the comb slipped out of her hand and landed in the straw by his back legs, she didn’t even think about it as she bent down to pick it up, keeping one hand on his broad, muscled flank. In an instant, Wags spooked, turned, and kicked with his back hooves, one of them pounding the side of the stall so loudly it sounded like a gunshot, the other glancing off her temple.
She fell hard and stared confusedly at her hands in the straw while Wags bucked and whinnied above her. Only when another hoof landed on her thigh and made her shout in pain did she wake to the danger and start crawling away.
Thankfully, she’d left the stall door open, so she was able to slip out and push it closed from the outside. She reached up dizzily and slid the bolt home, then collapsed again, sitting with her back to the stall door. Inside, Wags snorted and turned restlessly.
“Wags, why?” she croaked, knowing her feeling of betrayal was senseless, that horses were all instinct, and it was foolish to ascribe human emotions to them. The fault was hers and hers alone, for not being more careful, for assuming he’d progressed further than he had.
She’d been injured before—usually with horses, once in a car accident—and was familiar with the sense of unreality, the confusion caused by the adrenaline. But this felt like something different. Her decision to walk out of the stable was immediately countered by the realization that she was still sitting on the floor; her intention to rise to her feet was stymied by a sudden feeling of near immobility.
After reaching in her pocket for her phone, she stared at the lock screen, unable to remember her passcode, before putting it away.
A word came to mind, flitting away before she could grab it: concussion.
No. She was just stunned. She needed to give herself a minute.
Retrieving her phone, she looked at the time: 7:10. She resolved to give herself ten minutes before getting on with her day.
At 7:22, Holly came through the back door, leaned heavily on the wall, and struggled out of her riding boots. Checking her appearance in the small mirror above the key hooks, she saw Wags had kicked her hair wildly askew but that her face was marked only by dirt, not bruising or blood. Her thigh throbbed with pain but took weight: with concentration, she could walk more or less normally. Fixing a smile on her face, she went into the kitchen, where Logan and Paige were finishing their meals at the breakfast bar. Three lunch sacks were zippered and waiting on the end
