Harvest Moon (Virgin River #15)(27)

Jerry smiled at her. “If you like hanging out at farms, you’re going to make plenty of friends around here. Lots of farm kids around here.”

“Yeah, well. I have exactly one friend so far.”

“But do you trust her? Like her? Is she a good person?” Jerry asked.

“She is good. Kind of lame and dorky, but she wouldn’t know how to be a bad person.”

“I’m going to tell you something that might be a little hard for you to buy into right now, but a couple of good, trustworthy, loyal friends—it’s a lot. In junior high and high school, kids collect friends in such big numbers it sometimes seems ridiculous to think you could get by on just a couple of good ones. But really, one good friend rather than a dozen you’re not too sure of—no contest.”

She was quiet for a minute. “I had a lot of friends before my mom died.”

Jerry was respectfully quiet for a minute also. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Courtney. The death of a close loved one can often change the landscape of everything else in your life.”

“Is this where we segue into talking about my dead mother?”

He smiled at her, but it was a comforting smile. “Segue. Movie talk. You’ll probably have to explain that term around here. I thought we’d keep this short today, our first day together, and sneak up on the more difficult subjects over time. You okay with that?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I think I’m already tired. I don’t know why—it’s not like I had to walk here.”

“It’s okay. I think we’re off to a decent start. You didn’t even make fun of my wardrobe or haircut. I don’t always get off that easy.”

“I decided not to hurt your feelings, in case you’re—you know—sensitive.”

“Thank you. Very sporting of you. Want to come back after school on Monday?”

She straightened. “How long do I have to do this?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “I assume we’ll both know when we’ve had enough.”

She scooted to the edge of her chair. “Do we have to do this until my hair is all one color, my fingernails painted pink and my clothes pastel?”

He grinned hugely. “Courtney, look at me. What are the odds I’m going to take pokes at anyone’s style?”

“Do you have any good friends?”

“Yes. A few quality friends, actually.”

She snorted. “That’s promising! I’ll come Monday, but let’s not go overboard.”

“Deal. Now, I want to give you some ground rules. Mine, not yours. I’m also talking to your dad now and then, but I’m not talking to him about you. Oh—he can talk about you if he wants to, but I’m not going to be asking him about you. And you can talk about him, but I’m not going to ask you about him—not unless there’s some compelling reason to ask something. Like if you tell me he beat you up, I’d probably ask about that. But—and here’s the most important thing—I’m never going to tell you what he said or tell him what you said. We have a confidentiality agreement. You don’t have to worry. You can safely air all your complaints or concerns here.”

“So you expect me to believe that if I call him a low-life, blood-sucking, parasite son of a bitch, you won’t rat me out?”

He smiled at her. “Exactly.”

One of the things that Lief had discussed with Jerry in counseling was where Lief had found reassurance, confidence and self-esteem as a kid. It didn’t matter where or how you grew up, these were things all kids needed. Lief told Jerry it had come to him in two places—his writing and his animals. On the farm he’d had a horse and a dog he called his own.

Since Courtney had never showed any interest in writing, Lief found himself at the Jensen Veterinary Clinic and Stable. Before he even got around to looking for someone to talk to, he saw a man in the round pen, working out a colt. He leaned on the rail and just watched for a while.

A young Native American man in the pen moved slowly around a young Arabian—a very spirited young Arabian. The horse pulled on the lead, reared, pawed at the dirt and the man remained focused on the colt’s eyes, his lips moving as he talked softly to the horse. At length the colt calmed and allowed himself to be led in a circle inside the pen. Eventually he lowered his head slightly and allowed the trainer to stroke his neck. The trainer spoke to the colt, and it appeared as if the colt nodded, though that was crazy.

It wasn’t until the trainer was leading the horse out of the pen that he noticed Lief. He lifted a hand and said, “Hello. I’ll meet you in the barn.”

By the time Lief went inside, the horse was secured for grooming and the man was approaching him, hand outstretched. “How do you do, I’m Clay Tahoma.”

“Lief Holbrook,” he said, taking the hand. “I watched you with the colt for quite a while.”

Clay just shook his head. “When I’m working with a horse, I don’t seem to notice anyone or anything else.”

“I have a fourteen-year-old daughter. If you can gentle her the way you did the colt, I’ll put you in my will.”

Clay laughed. “I know a lot more about horses than young girls, my friend. Does she ride?”

“I tried to put her on a horse a couple of times, but she shied. When I offered her riding lessons back in L.A., she wasn’t interested. I thought we might try again. Can you recommend someone? I’ll be honest with you—sometimes she’s a handful.”