Wild Horses (Sadie's Montana #1)(21)

Slowly Sadie advanced, not even breathing. Her hand slid under the long, black forelock and stayed there. Up came his head then, the long, black eyelashes sweeping over his blue eyes. And he looked, really looked, at Sadie.

He whinnied. But not really a whinny. More like a soft nicker or a long, shaky breath. But Sadie felt it, she heard it, and she put her hands on each side of this poor broken horse’s head and gathered it against her coat. She squeezed her eyes shut, bit so hard on her lower lip that she tasted blood, and still a sob rose up from the depth of her being.

Poor, poor thing. Who did this to you? Where do you come from?

She turned her back to Richard Caldwell, not wanting him to know how emotional she was. She bent her head and murmured, telling the horse how much she loved him, how much she wanted him to be strong, to be better, get well, and be healthy, and did he know that she might be allowed to keep him? She still had to ask Dat, though.

Richard Caldwell blinked his eyes, looked away, cleared his throat, tapped his toes, then yanked angrily at his collar. He never cried. He was never touched by any old, sick horse, and he sure wasn’t planning on starting now. But when the horse tried to nicker, and out came only a rumpled breath, he had to swallow hard, fighting back feelings of tenderness and pity. And when Sadie bent her head and murmured to the horse, he was horrified to feel the hot sting of genuine tears, an emotion he had not experienced for so long, he hardly knew he was capable of it.

The sun’s morning rays found their way through the glass, highlighting Sadie’s shining brown hair, the circle of her dark lashes on her perfect cheek, and the glistening mane and forelock of this black and white horse. The picture rooted Richard Caldwell to the floor of the stall.

Suddenly he could smell earth, dripping leaves, a sort of fishy, wormy wet coolness where he had found the dying dog. It was a stray dog—a matted, dirty, thin dog down by the wet mud of the creek.

He could still feel the holes in the knees of his jeans and the way the frayed denim stretched across them, almost hurting if he bent too far. He had used his old t-shirt to lift the dog. He strained and slid but whispered the whole time to the frightened animal.

You poor, poor thing. Come on. I’ll take you home. What happened to you? Poor baby.

Now he felt his father’s wrath. He felt the words he said, the finger he pointed.

“Get that flea-infested mongrel away from me, and don’t even think of keeping him. The only thing good enough for that dog is a shot of lead. Get away. Get away!”

Oh, he got away, both ears stopped with muddy, shaking fingers. But it was not soon enough or far enough to erase the single, mind-shattering slam of his father’s shotgun.

He ran then, blindly, through grass almost as tall as he was—the tops of it raking his wet cheeks, slapping his moist forehead as he fell to the ground. He lay there for hours, shaking and crying.

His revenge had been burying the dog. When the alarm clock on his tattered nightstand showed 1:26 a.m., he crept down from his bedroom with a pink towel from the bathroom. He remembered the touch of the soft towel, how sacred it seemed, and how clean.

He was amazed at how loose a dead dog felt. There were a lot of bones and skin and not much to hold him together. His cheeks were wet as he tenderly folded the jumbled limbs, then covered the dog neatly, making sure the towel was straight.

He crept to the shed for a shovel, then dug a hole behind the lumber pile where the ground was low and soft. He carried the dog, laid him carefully into the shallow grave, and wondered what a preacher would say. Shouldn’t God be involved somehow?

“God, I need you to look after this dog. If you care about dogs, I named him Sparky. So there you go, God. Be good to him. He has a pink towel.”

Richard Caldwell blinked again, then cleared his throat. He had believed in God that night. He had. If he had ever felt the presence of God in the times in between that childhood memory and now, it had never been as real as this. Sadie looked like an angel administering her magic to this lovely creature.

“Look!” Sadie whispered.

Richard Caldwell came closer and bent to look.

“It’s a hammer!”

He could see it, too. Beneath the black mane, the shape of the black hair was much like a hammer, depending which way you viewed it.

Sadie stroked and stroked, beaming, her face illuminated by the morning sun.

At that moment, Richard Caldwell promised to himself that this horse would receive the best medical attention from his trusted veterinarian, and Sadie would never know. He would never tell her. He could not bear to think of this horse dying and that angelic face bearing the disappointment.

“Can I … I mean … do you think he’ll live? Do you want him moved? Is he a bother? In your way? I don’t know what my father will say…”

Sadie broke off, miserable. Richard Caldwell was a hard man. How many times had she heard Dorothy say, “If the boss don’t see no profit in it, out it goes.”

Richard Caldwell knew he could not put a price tag on this feeling. It was a kind of redemption, a chance to prove himself a better man, a moment to show he was not his father.

“Dad, can I keep him? He won’t eat much.”

The blast of the shotgun.

He cleared his throat to relieve his tightening emotions.

“Let’s give him a couple of days. He’ll be in no one’s way here. If you want, you can come out and talk to him on your dinner break. Probably be best if you came to see him often, but you know Dorothy.”