Finally Home (17 page)

“I know.”

“She should have told me.”

He didn't try to argue, though it was hard to hold back. “Yeah.”

“She just . . .” She turned away. “Why did she come here?”

He didn't ask who she was talking about. Sometimes he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knew that much. “Could be she just missed you, Soph.”

“No, it couldn't,” she said, but her voice was barely audible now.

“She's not . . .” He chose his words carefully. Sophie didn't spook him like she used to, but even a coyote knows to be cautious sometimes. “She can't be all bad.”

She snorted. “You don't know her.”

“No,” he said. “But I know some things.”

“Yeah?” Her tone was derisive as she pivoted toward him, the old Sophie come back to haunt them all. “
What
do you know, Tyler?”

“I know moms,” he said. His stomach felt hollow.

She winced, and he cursed himself for sounding like a baby.

“I didn't mean it like that,” he said. “I just meant . . .”

“I'm sorry.”

The apology caught him off guard. He tightened his hands into fists. “You don't have nothing to be sorry for.”

She exhaled a soft laugh. “Are you kidding me? Your mother . . .” She motioned toward his face where the bruises used to be most obvious. He felt his gut knot up. She winced again. “And I complain because
mine
doesn't . . .” She breathed out, trying to relax. “Well . . .” Bending, she lifted the new cotton bandage material from the ground. “Let's just say she's never going to win Mother of the Year.”

He shrugged and retrieved the Vetrap. “I suppose that depends on her competition.”

She laughed. Actually laughed. Not that hard-edged noise she made when she felt threatened but a gentle sound somewhere between tears and relief. “Well, I'll sure let her know if Emily and you want to enter
your
mothers,” she said, and crouching beside the colt's left foreleg, began wrapping the bandage around his cannon.

He bent down beside her, easing out a wrinkle in the cotton. “Maybe we could have a least worst contest,” he suggested.

She chuckled, and it was that sound, that low note of gratitude and hope, that made him want to cry. What the hell was wrong with him? “How long you think she'll stay?” he asked.

“Hold that, will you?”

He reached for the bandage. Their fingers brushed. Fire ignited. She inhaled sharply and turned toward him. Their eyes met. Fear or something like it flamed through him. He watched her swallow and turn abruptly away.

“I don't know,” she said. Her tone was breezy now, as if she didn't have a care in the world. “If she says she'll stay a month she'll be gone tomorrow. Off to some”—she shook her head as she tore open the plastic containing the self-adhesive wrap—“workshop on narcissism or androphobia. Ready to cure the world's emotional ills. It's such a joke,” she said and wound the stretchy material aggressively around the leg.

“Make sure you don't get it too tight,” he said. “We don't need no bowed tendon to worry about.”

She wiped her hand beneath her nose. “I used plenty of padding,” she said, but she eased up on the tension a little and exhaled heavily. The barn went quiet. She finished wrapping the leg, but her hands remained on the bandage.

“How do you do it?” she asked and turned toward him finally.

He felt her attention like a sock to the gut. “Do what?”

“Stay so normal.”

For a second he just stared at her, then he laughed and jerked to his feet. But she rose with him and grabbed his arm before he could pivot away.

“I mean it,” she said. “Why aren't you . . .” Maybe he would have been able to turn away if it weren't for her eyes. “Why aren't you bitter or mad or mean or . . .” She shook her head. “Why aren't you crazy?”

“You kidding me?” he asked.

The world was quiet again. Off to the right a calf bellowed.

“No,” she said and stared up at him, eyes so earnest they sucked him in, rolled him under. “I'm not.”

She stared at him. Every ragged instinct in him wanted to run, to hide, to escape. Every instinct except that one niggling impulse that wanted to take her in his arms, to pull her against his chest, and let her cry on his shoulder, or maybe he'd cry against
hers.
In which case he'd never be able to show his face again. He drew a deep breath. He wanted to lie something awful, but her eyes wouldn't let him. “It's cuz of you,” he admitted. “You and Case.”

“Me and Casie? We're nothing alike,” she said and looked at him as if she trusted him. As if she believed in him. It was damned near terrifying.

“Maybe angels don't know they're angels, neither,” he said.

“I don't . . .” Her lips parted slightly and stayed that way. She blinked. “I'm not like Casie.”

He didn't argue. Didn't dare, maybe.

“I'm like my mother.”

“Yeah?” he asked and jerked his chin toward the grullo. “How many worthless colts has
she
saved lately?”

“That's different.” They were standing very close. Close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. “She doesn't like horses.”

“What does she like?”

She shrugged. “She spends a lot of money on her hair.”

“Well, that probably don't need no saving,” he said.

She almost smiled a little. Almost broke his heart, but then her eyes went wide and she jerked her attention to the left. Lincoln Alexander stood only a few feet away, silent as a ghost as he watched them.

CHAPTER 16

“W
hat are you doing here?” Ty's voice was deep and quiet as he turned toward the older boy.

“You got any scrap metal lying around?” he asked and turned to Sophie, making her wonder how much he had heard.

Ty shifted a little closer to her, body stiff. “You'd have to ask Casie 'bout that. She owns the place.”

He nodded once as if thinking, then asked, “So you live around here?”

“That's right.”

Lincoln lowered his brows and shoved bare hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. “With your parents?”

Dark emotions shadowed Ty's eyes, highlighting a blatant lack of trust, but the man was Casie's guest and Ty wouldn't compromise that. “No.”

Lincoln shifted his gaze back to Sophie. She raised her brows at him, half daring him to ask. It must be pretty clear to everyone what
her
lineage was. Like mother, like daughter. Everyone knew that. Except Ty, maybe.

Lincoln Alexander cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “How about the girl?”

They stared at him.

“Emily?” Ty asked. Sophie felt her muscles knot up at his defensive tone.

“Is that her name?” he asked.

“What about her?” Ty asked.

“How long has
she
been here?”

“Why you wanna know?”

Lincoln shrugged, eyes narrowed a little. “Just curious.”

“Then you should ask
her,
” Ty said.

Angel thrust her head over the nearby stall door and bobbed for attention.

Ty lifted one hand to the mare's neck but kept his gaze on Lincoln.

The older boy shifted his attention to the gray. “How come he's inside?”

“Angel's a mare,” Ty said.

The boy shrugged. Not caring. “How come
she's
inside then?”

“She's got some trouble with her feet.”

Lincoln hunched his shoulders against the cold as if he could bundle his body heat inside his chest cavity. “What kind of trouble?”

For a moment Sophie thought Ty would refuse to answer, but he spoke finally.

“Horses' hooves ain't very big, considering the size of the animal. Sometimes stress or whatnot will cause the insides to swell.”

Lincoln nodded, thinking. “What do you do for that?”

“Medicine, rest, special shoes.”

“Special how?”

A muscle bunched in Ty's jaw, but he went into the stall. Angel nudged his pockets, frisking him for treats.

Sophie watched as he ran a hand down the mare's left foreleg. His fingers were chafed, his nails ragged, but his touch was as gentle as a love song. It was his damned hands that got her every time. “See here?” he asked and lifted Angel's hoof so that the sole was exposed. “Most shoes don't have this bar across the back like this.”

Lincoln nodded.

“It keeps pressure on the frog to keep the foot healthy,” Ty said and set Angel's foot back into the deep straw. “You got an interest in horses?” he asked.

“I've got an interest in metal.”

Ty scowled. He wasn't the only person on the Lazy who failed to understand how people could be uninspired by the equine species.

“I do some sculpting,” Lincoln said, “but I don't know much about iron.”

Ty shrugged and stepped back out of the stall. Lincoln followed suit. “They been shoeing with iron since time out of mind,” he said and kept walking, ushering the guest from the barn, out of their sanctuary, or was it just Sophie who thought of it that way?

Lincoln glanced around the interior of the barn. They'd made considerable headway in cleaning up the mess left by Casie's dad, but they still had a ways to go. Old farm equipment and castoff appliances cluttered the area. Emily's ancient truck had been hauled inside and stood as desolate and silent as an abandoned house.

“Looks like most things around here haven't changed in a while,” Lincoln said.

Sophie wasn't sure if it was an insult, but judging by Ty's expression he wasn't considering it a compliment.

“Change ain't always good,” he said. “It's just different.”

“That must be the truck they were talking about.”

Ty nodded, looking as if he'd just about reached his social interaction limits. “That's Em's.”

“It doesn't run?”

“It's spotty at best.”

They stepped outside and glanced across the yard. Max Barrenger was just firing up his shiny Escalade when Emily descended the porch steps, Baby Bliss cuddled against her shoulder.

“He must be helping her with her deliveries this morning,” Sophie said and wondered dismally where that left her mother.

“Looks like it,” Ty agreed.

“How long will they be gone?” Lincoln's brows lowered over gunmetal eyes as he watched the trio by the Escalade.

Ty shifted his attention back to their strangely curious guest. “There's always
someone
'round the Lazy.”

Their gazes met, gray on amber. “Good to know,” he said and strode stiff and silent across the yard toward the bunkhouse.

 

“What have we learned about that Lincoln guy?” Sophie asked. Her mother was asleep upstairs, allowing her jittery stomach a temporary reprieve. She tentatively tasted a chunk of rutabaga she'd been chopping. It wasn't awful.

At eleven fifteen Casie was busy slicing beef into tiny morsels. Emily had returned from making her deliveries two hours before and was dicing onions just a few inches away. She shrugged.

Lumpkin pranced through the room, dark hooves shiny, tiny diaper askew.

“You didn't check him out?”

“Maybe you haven't noticed, but I've been kind of busy.” Emily's voice was waspish. Sophie glanced at Casie, who raised her brows a tad. Everyone knew which of them had been designated Wicked Witch of the West. Give Sophie a pair of striped tights and pointy shoes and she'd have to keep a weather eye out for falling houses.

“I didn't mean you
should
have,” Casie said. “It's just that you usually do. It's like having our very own bloodhound.”

“Sorry,” Emily said, but she didn't expound.

“You don't have to be sorry.” Casie's voice was quiet and typically upbeat. “I'm sure he's a perfectly nice guy.”

“I think he's weird,” Sophie said, remembering the conversation in the barn.

“Weird how?” Casie asked and watched as Lumpkin made a dramatic twist in the air and tore off toward the living room.

“Snooping around,” Sophie said. “Asking a lot of questions.”

Casie shrugged. “He's from the city. He's probably just curious about how we live. That's part of the appeal of the Lazy, I guess. To see a different way of life and—”

“Sophie's right. We should get rid of him,” Emily interrupted.

They turned toward her in tandem surprise.

“What happened to ‘Trust your neighbor but brand your calves'?” Casie asked. It was something Ty had said on more than one occasion.

“I thought we needed the money,” Sophie added.

“We don't need it
that
bad,” Emily said, and setting the onions aside, quickly wiped her hands on a washcloth. “Let's just give him his deposit back.”

“Are you kidding me?” Casie asked. “We can't do that.”

“Of course we can.”

“We don't have any
reason
to do that. Do we?” Casie asked and peered carefully into Emily's face.

There was a long moment of silence, then, “No,” she admitted. “But that's just it. When I Googled Lincoln Alexander, all I came up with was a ninety-year-old politician and a toddler who can play ‘Chopsticks' with his toes.”

“I would have guessed he was somewhere in between those two ages,” Casie said.

Sophie didn't even bother to give her a look. “Did you try Facebook?”

“Of course I tried Facebook. You think I'd eschew the most irritating of all social media?”

“Excuse
me,
” Sophie said, but Emily's shoulders drooped.

“I just . . . I don't trust him, that's all.”

“Why?” Casie's voice was concerned, her expression solemn.

“Because . . .” Emily shook her head as if at a loss. “
Lincoln Alexander?
That doesn't even sound like a real name. And why is he asking so many questions?”

“He's asking you questions, too?”

She winced. “No, but . . .” Pursing her lips, she hammered away at a chicken breast. “You know who doesn't show up in a search?”

“People who think their lives are nobody else's business?” Casie guessed.

“Criminals!” Emily corrected. “Murderers, rapists, arsonists, embezzlers—”

“Emily . . .” Casie said, interrupting quietly. “If you know something about—”

“Thieves,” she added. Her voice had gone soft.

Casie glanced sideways as the lamb trotted through with a sock in her mouth. Sophie shrugged. Casie tried again. “If you knew anything about this guy, you'd tell us, wouldn't you?”

“I'm not a thief!” Emily said. Her face looked unusually pale, her eyes tortured. “Not anymore,” she added, and tossing the washcloth onto the counter, rushed from the room.

The kitchen went quiet. Casie exhaled slowly. “Do you have any idea what that was about?”

“Insanity?” Sophie guessed.

“I'm serious.”

“So am I,” Sophie said and returned to chopping vegetables. “Speaking of which . . .” She drew a careful breath, wondering if she was even close to sounding casual. “How long have you known my mother was planning to come?”

The air around her seemed to tighten. She felt rather than saw Casie turn toward her.

“I'm sorry about that, Soph.” The words were very quiet. “She asked Colt not to tell you.”

“How long?”

“She called last night.”

“Figures,” she said and callously decapitated a carrot. “Something must have fallen through.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged. The movement almost hurt. “Her current
amour
must have had other plans.”

“I'm sure she just missed you and—”

“Of course she missed me. She always misses me. Who wouldn't?” she asked, and because she needed something to do with her hands, scooped up the chopped vegetables and dumped them into the nearby pot. It steamed and splashed.

“People make mistakes, Soph. Your mother's probably no exception. But she's here now.”

Sophie glanced toward the stairs above which Monica Day-Bellaire was sleeping. “I know she's here,” she said. “In
my
bed.”

“I'm sorry,” Casie said again, and lowering her voice even more, glanced guiltily toward the doorway. “I didn't know what to do with her.”

Sophie deepened her glare, but it was almost impossible to be angry with Casie Carmichael. That was probably the most irritating thing about her. Letting her shoulders drop a little, she forced out a hard exhalation. “Welcome to my world,” she said.

Casie scowled a question.

Reticence seemed like a wise course, but maybe it was too late for that. “She's always been . . .” She shook her head, searching for words. “Bigger than life. Jetting off to Istanbul, dissertating in Luxembourg, skiing in Zermatt. But she was never able to just be . . .” She winced at her own words. Was her tone as whiny as it seemed? “I know I shouldn't complain. I mean, Ty's mom . . .” She picked up the cleaver again, gripping it hard, but still she couldn't force out any more words.

“We're all disappointed in our parents to some degree,” Casie said.

“Colt's not,” she argued, somehow managing to sound even more childish.

“Well, Colt was such a little—” Casie began, then stopped herself.

Sophie raised her brows, intrigued. “Such a little what?” she asked, but the other woman had returned to vigorously slicing beef.

“He was lucky his parents didn't turn him loose with the coyotes.”

Sophie felt a smile tug her lips a little. “Ty thinks Monty Dickenson's a saint,” she said, but Casie didn't seem to notice.

“How could he have fit inside?” Casie's voice was very small.

“What?” Sophie asked.

“My locker,” she said, seeming to come out of her trance a little. “Did you know a sophomore boy can fit inside a regular-sized school locker?”

Sophie had seen such antics in movies, but
she
didn't seem to be the type of girl who prompted that kind of behavior even if she
had
been sent to public school.

“I was in a hurry between classes,” Casie said. “Had to get to chemistry. God forbid I made the teachers the least bit unhappy. Had to earn A's. Had to . . .” She paused. “I actually felt my heart stop when he jumped out.”

“Then what happened?”

“He laughed.”

“Did you hit him?”

“No,” she said, sounding disappointed. “He was too low.”

“Mentally or—”

“Physically,” she said. “He had fallen on the floor laughing. Literally fallen on the floor.” She narrowed her eyes. “So I kicked him.”

“You what?” She was trying to imagine the scenario. But honestly, Casie Carmichael was the least aggressive person she had ever known. Usually, anyway.

“It was the first and last time I ever saw the inside of the principal's office.”