If Wishes Were Horses (12 page)

“Wyatt…?” Mercy called out.

Wyatt walked back and sat down on the bed.

“What happened?” she asked thickly.

“You passed out from too much gin,” he answered. “And you're still drunk. Rather than take you home, maybe I should have laid you down in the family cemetery because, come sunrise, you'll wish that you were dead.”

She groaned and rubbed her face with her hands. “You're right,” she said as she tried to focus on his face. “Either you're circling the ceiling…or…I'm loaded.”

It was an effort, but she managed to rise up onto her elbows.
Her eyes closed tightly for several moments before opening again.

“The poker game…,” she said. “Did I make an ass of myself?”

Wyatt shook his head. “No,” he answered. “You made a
perfect
ass of yourself. You said some pretty awful things, but I'm doing my best to forget them. I can't speak for the others.”

Mercy's eyes filled with tears then she turned over and buried her face in her pillow. Wyatt waited quietly, hoping that her crying would soon stop. He wanted to leave, but first he needed to know that she would be all right.

Mercy finally quieted. When she again looked into his face, her expression was searching. She placed one palm against his cheek.

“Why did you do it?” she asked softly.

Wyatt took her hand from his cheek. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Why did you allow that Powers woman into our lives?” Mercy demanded. “Don't you know how much pain she'll cause to you and to me? She'll hurt us, Wyatt, I just know it. She'll take away what we have!”

Wyatt closed his eyes.
So this is what caused her to go off the deep end tonight. What a fool I've been not to see it.

Wyatt looked sternly into Mercy's eyes. He wanted to make her understand. But if he was going to get through to her, he would have to be harsh. He took her by her shoulders and pulled her nearer.

“Listen to me,” he said. “There is no ‘us.' There never was. You're a wonderful girl, and any man would be proud to be with
you. But I don't love you, Mercy, and I never have. You're like a sister to me, but that's as far as it goes. After what happened between us four years ago, I thought you understood that. If you didn't, you certainly should have.”

Given the absent look in her eyes, he doubted that he was getting through to her.
Perhaps she wants “us” so badly that she simply refuses to listen.

“You're falling in love with her, aren't you?” Mercy asked. The look on her face had suddenly become angry.

“What are you talking about?” Wyatt demanded.

“You heard me!” she shouted. “I was there, in the barn, when you took her and her son in to see Sadie! Then later, outside, I saw how you looked into her eyes!”

“You were there?” Wyatt demanded. “You spied on us?”

Mercy nodded stupidly. “Call it whatever you want! I might be drunk now, but I wasn't last night when I saw the two of you mooning over each other! You might as well have screwed her right there in the grass!”

Mercy's harsh outburst confused Wyatt. As he searched his feelings, he honestly didn't know whether he was angry because Mercy was being so brazen, or because she was right. Tired of trying to reason with a drunk, he let go of her and she slumped against the bed.

“I'm done arguing with you, Mercy,” he said. “And I never want to talk about this again. There's nothing between us and there never has been. I've done all that I can to convince you of it. If you can't accept it, then I don't care anymore. You haven't totally burned your bridges with me, but you've come damned close.”

Wyatt stood and looked down at her angrily. “Despite your condition, I expect you to be at work tomorrow. And one more thing—make sure that Trevor isn't among the teens you will be teaching. Steer clear of Gabby, too. I don't need any more problems than I already have.”

Wyatt turned and walked to the door. As he went, Mercy started sobbing again.

When Wyatt turned out the light, she reached one hand toward him. As he stood there looking at her, the Florida moonlight streamed through the bedroom windows and highlighted his face. Just like Gabby Powers the night before, Mercy wanted everything to remain just as it was so that she could look at him all night.

“I love you…,” she whispered.

“It doesn't matter,” Wyatt answered coldly. Then he shut the door and was gone.

T
REVOR ANXIOUSLY LOOKED
up from his reading. The wall clock in the Jefferson High School library said eleven twenty
A.M.
Only forty minutes remained before the start of his next class, and he wanted to use his time wisely. He had chosen this study-hall period to research American quarter horses.

Trevor was immensely glad that Wednesday had come. Although he wasn't looking forward to the group-therapy sessions, he was very eager to start the equestrian training. After meeting Sadie, he wanted to absorb as much about her breed as he could. He was stunned by how much there was to learn.

Trevor paused in his reading for a moment, remembering his first day at the ranch. His newfound excitement came as a welcome surprise to him. He had fully expected to hate the Flying B, and everyone and everything associated with it. But now he couldn't wait to get back.

All the way home, he had been an absolute chatterbox. Gabby had listened politely as Trevor went on and on about Sadie and how much he looked forward to caring for her. Trevor had done a marvelous job of overstating his importance, and Gabby had wisely agreed with him.

Trevor's exhilaration continued unabated after he and his mother arrived home. Although it was already late, he stayed up for another two hours, munching Aunt Lou's cold chicken and researching American quarter horses on the Internet. Only after Gabby insisted did he finally give in and go to bed.

Just prior to slipping between the sheets, he carefully placed his boots under his bed and hung his Stetson on one of the bedposts. Before sleep finally found him, he remained awake for hours, thinking of Sadie and the Flying B. The following morning Trevor had surprised Gabby even further when he insisted on wearing his new boots to school. Not wanting to waste another minute, Trevor eagerly turned his mind back to his reading.

Suddenly his schoolbooks went flying off the library table, and at first he didn't know what was happening. He looked down to see his books lying on the floor, still bound together by his father's old leather belt. As he bent down to pick them up, another pair of hands grasped them first.

Trevor looked up to see Tim Richardson, the boy Trevor had scuffled with not long ago, greedily clutching his books. John Hanson and Bill Memphis stood alongside Tim. The three were nearly inseparable. Roaming the school together lent the trio a boldness they might not have possessed individually, and they
used it to their full advantage. Trevor wasn't the first boy they had harassed, nor would he be the last.

Trevor glared hotly at Tim. Like Trevor, Tim was large for his age. His nose remained somewhat bruised from Trevor's punch. As the three boys stood ominously before him, Trevor tried to control himself. His books could be replaced, but seeing his father's cherished belt in Tim's hands made him furious. When Trevor reached for it, Tim backed up. Teasing Trevor further, Tim started swinging the books to and fro by the leather belt.

“Give those to me!” Trevor shouted. “They're mine!”

Tim shook his head nastily. “They're mine now, you dumb bastard,” he said. He pointed at Trevor's boots and laughed. “Look!” he said to Hanson and Memphis. “The horse retard is wearing cowboy boots! Isn't that sweet! Are those the same boots that you wear when you shovel horse crap? We hear that all the horse retards have to wear them!”

Trevor clenched his fists and took another step forward. But Tim was equally quick, and he backed up again.

“What did you just call me?” Trevor demanded.

“You're one of the horse retards!” Richardson answered. “That's what everyone is calling the losers in that stupid program! Horse retards!”

Trevor again reached out one hand. “Give me my books!” he ordered.

Tim made a great show of examining the leather belt. “Is this a
cowboy
belt?” he asked nastily. “It doesn't look lame enough to be a cowboy belt! I hear that it was your old man's belt. He wasn't
stupid enough to be a cowboy, but I guess that his son is. Isn't that right, horse retard?”

“Give it to me!” Trevor shouted. “Or I'll paste you again!”

Tim smiled and shook his head. “This time you're outnumbered.” As the words left Richardson's mouth, Hanson and Memphis stepped closer.

By now, other students had gathered around. Trevor took no notice of them. His eyes still locked on Richardson, he again reached out his hand.

“Give me my books,” he repeated, “or you'll regret it.”

“So this belt belonged to your father,” Richardson mused. “I hear that he was dead drunk most of the time.” Richardson suddenly grasped the irony, and he laughed.

“Get it, horse retard?” he said. “
Dead
drunk! That's funny, don't you think?”

That was the final straw. With no regard for the consequences, Trevor lunged at Tim. Just as he did, a booming voice called out from across the room.

“What's going on over there?” the head librarian shouted.

Trevor turned to see Mr. Sanford approaching. He was relieved, but disappointed. He wanted his father's belt returned, and it seemed that he would get it. But he would also be deprived of taking another whack at Tim Richardson, and he had wanted to.

Sanford was a tall, burly man in his early thirties. He was the school wrestling coach and head librarian, and known for not taking any guff from unruly students. As Sanford neared, Tim smiled innocently.

“I said,
what's going on here?
” Sanford demanded.

“Nothing, sir,” Tim said. “Powers dropped his books, and I picked them up for him.” He happily returned Trevor's books and belt.

Just then the period bell rang. Sanford gave Tim and his friends a harsh look.

“This is over,” he said. “Get lost.”

Tim sneered at Trevor. “Another time,” he said.

“You bet,” Trevor answered.

After Tim and his friends were gone, Sanford looked at Trevor. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“It wasn't my fault!” Trevor protested. “Those jerks started it! All I was trying to do was get my stuff back!”

Sanford nodded. “I believe you. Those three are real trouble. It's a good thing this didn't happen outside. You'd have probably gotten your lights punched out.”

“Not without a fight,” Trevor countered. Suddenly regretting his comment, he gave Sanford a contrite look. “Are you going to report this?” he asked.

Sanford shook his head. “No,” he answered. “But I'd love to, if for no other reason than to put those three on notice. I'm a friend of your mother, and I know how badly she wants you to stay in the New Beginnings Program. So as far as I'm concerned, nothing happened here.”

“Thank you,” Trevor answered.

Now that the moment had passed, Trevor suddenly realized how close he had come to being expelled and perhaps never seeing Sadie again. All the other times he had gotten into trouble, he
hadn't cared about the consequences. To his great surprise, a wave of relief ran through him.

Sanford gave Trevor a quick smile. “Now scram,” he said, “before you're late for your next class.”

 

“WHOA THERE, HOSS!”
Ram said. “If you keep that up, you'll dig all the way to China! You got an ax to grind or something?”

Trevor lowered the pitchfork and wiped his brow. His blood was still boiling from today's run-in with Tim Richardson. Desperate to work off his frustration, for the last twenty minutes he had been flinging soiled straw into a nearby wheelbarrow as if his life depended on it. Because of the heat, he had removed his red Windbreaker and laid it on top of the stall door.

Panting heavily, Trevor lowered the pitchfork tips to the stall floor and leaned down onto its handle. Under Big John's watchful eye, Trevor had done his best to learn how to brush down Sadie. He had done a poor job of it, but it had been a start. Before Trevor started cleaning her stall, Big John had led Sadie from the barn and into an outdoor paddock.

Like he had seen Big John do earlier in the day, Trevor took a handkerchief from his jeans and wiped the sweat from the inner band of his Stetson. With the hat back on his head, he finally turned and looked at Ram.

“You been there long?” he asked.

Ram smiled and leaned his forearms down on top of the Dutch door of Sadie's stall.

“Long enough to know that you won't last at that rate,” he
answered. “A fella has to pace himself around here. This work isn't for sissies.”

Trevor laughed derisively. “Oh yeah? That's not what they're saying at school.”

Ram scowled. “What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” Trevor said. “It's my problem, not yours.”

Again reminded of his close call with Tim Richardson, he returned to his labors. He certainly wasn't adept at handling a pitchfork yet, but that didn't slow him down. As he hurried, sometimes more of the soiled straw went back onto the floor than into the wheelbarrow.

Ram could sense something was amiss. Two nights ago, after visiting the barn with Wyatt and Gabby, Trevor's mood had been joyful. But today he was clearly troubled.

Despite the short time he had known Trevor, Ram had come to like him. It had been a long time since Wyatt and Morgan had been boys, and having young people swarming over the ranch helped make Ram feel vibrant again. Moreover, Trevor possessed the same brooding attitude that Wyatt had once had, and those dusty memories tugged at the old man's heart. Ram could see that Trevor was hurting, and, like Wyatt, he wanted to help.

“That's good enough,” Ram said. “This is a barn, not a surgical ward.”

Trevor shook his head. “I'm not done,” he answered as he sloppily slung yet more soiled straw toward the old wheelbarrow, some of it hitting the wall instead. The stall was already satisfactory, but that didn't seem to matter.

“I own this ranch, young man,” Ram said, “and I give the
orders around here. Now put down that pitchfork. Wheel the barrow out into the aisle and then bring in some fresh straw, just like Big John taught you to do.”

Trevor shrugged his shoulders. After wheeling out the barrow, he lugged four fresh straw bales into the stall. He soon realized that he had no way to cut the bale strings. When he had done this job for the horse that had been assigned to him, Big John had cut the strings.

Ram smiled and fished around in his Levi's. After producing a pearl-handled pocketknife, he handed it to Trevor.

“Flying B rule number two,” he said. “Always carry a knife. Wyatt and Morgan have knives just like that one, and they wouldn't be caught dead without them.”

“What's Flying B rule number one?” Trevor asked.

“I already told you,” Ram answered. “I give the orders around here.”

Trevor looked at the knife. It was old, but still beautiful. When he unfolded the blade, he saw the letters
RB
engraved on it. After cutting the bale strings, he folded the knife and offered it to Ram.

Ram shook his head. “It's yours now.”

Trevor's jaw fell. “I can't accept this! It looks like you've had it for a long time.”

Ram winked at him. “That doesn't matter. I don't do this kind of work anymore, but you're going to be doing a lot of it. It belongs in your pocket now.”

Trevor beamed. “Thank you,” he said.

“You're welcome,” Ram answered. “Now finish your work. Sadie and her unborn foal are counting on you.”

Trevor pocketed the knife, then scattered fresh straw all around in Sadie's stall. When he finished he grabbed up the pitchfork and his Windbreaker, shutting the door behind him. Ram took the pitchfork from him and leaned it against the wall.

“Come with me,” Ram said.

When they reached the end of the aisle, Ram motioned for Trevor to sit in one of several weathered Adirondack chairs near the barn's western exit. Trevor was more than happy to oblige. He was tired and hungry, but in no hurry to go home. Ram sat down beside him and stretched out his legs.

Trevor took a moment to look around the barn. Although he was still new to the ranch, he already loved this huge old building. Its unique smells, sights, and sounds provided a comforting feeling that he found nowhere else. And of perhaps even greater importance, it was becoming a sanctuary where he could be around horses and escape his troubles for a while. Then the memory of Tim Richardson seeped in again, and he scowled.

Ram casually crossed one booted foot over the other. “So tell me,” he said, “how was your first real day of New Beginnings?”

Trevor looked down at his boots. “Okay, I guess.”

“It's time you learned Flying B rule number three,” Ram said. “Men always look into each other's eyes when they talk.”

Trevor sat up and looked squarely at Ram.
That's better,
Ram thought. Ram crossed his arms over his chest.

“How'd your first group-therapy session go?” Ram asked.

Trevor shook his head. “It was weird! We were supposed to talk about our feelings, but I'd rather shovel horse manure! The girls talked a lot more than us boys. They seemed to want to, for some reason. Jesus…”

Ram laughed heartily. “You'd best get used to that! It's the way of the world, my boy!”

Just then Jim Mason walked by, carrying an old saddle and bridle. When Jim tipped his hat, Ram replied by doing the same. When Trevor did not, Jim stopped and waited. Guessing that he should respond, Trevor did his best to imitate Ram's gesture. At last Jim smiled and went on his way.

“Let me guess,” Trevor said. “That was Flying B rule number four.”

“Number six, actually,” Ram answered.

“How many rules are there?” Trevor asked.

“Can't say,” Ram answered. “Nobody ever wrote 'em down. Besides, don't forget that we're also a family of lawyers. If the Flying B rules were written down, I couldn't change them whenever I wanted. After all, if it wasn't for lawyers, the world wouldn't need any.”