The Law of Moses (The Law of Moses, #1)(57)

Tag started to laugh, the loud bark of stunned mirth shaking out the cobwebs and the lingering sense of horror in the room. He shook his head at me like I was past saving. “You’re sick, man. Really.”

I laughed too, shoving him, needing the contact. He shoved me back and I stumbled backwards, grabbing at him as we each grappled to get the better position to land the other on his ass. We bounced into walls and ended up pulling down the paint covered curtains, letting the fading light pierce the color-drenched room. But it was the walls that would have to go. Not just the curtains. I wouldn’t be sleeping in that house until the walls were white once more.





Georgia



THERE WAS A TRUCK PARKED at Kathleen Wright’s old house. It had been there off and on for two days. The front door hung open, and a few cans of paint sat on the tail gate, along with ladders and drop cloths and a wide assortment of other things. The truck was black and shiny and brand new. When I peered through the window like the snoopy, small-town girl I was, I could see the creamy leather of the seats and a cowboy hat on the dash. The truck didn’t look like anything Moses would drive. And I knew he’d never wear that hat.

But as far as I knew, Moses still owned the house. My stomach clenched nervously, but I refused to acknowledge it. He was probably there to clean it out and then he’d be gone. He probably wanted to sell it. That was all. Soon he would be gone again and I could go about my business. But my stomach didn’t believe me, and I spent the days in a nervous frenzy, accomplishing everything on my to-do list and feeling no sense of satisfaction in any of it. Dad was back home from the hospital and other than a little residual weakness, was doing fine. Mom fussed, which made him irritable, and I just tried to stay out of the house.

But staying out of the house meant looking toward the rear windows of Kathleen’s house every ten minutes. I’d noticed the windows were bare that morning when I’d taken Lucky for a turn around the west pasture that butted right up to Kathleen Wright’s back yard. For years, those curtains had been tightly drawn. Now they were gone, and the windows were open as if someone were airing things out. I could hear music playing and as the day wore on, I thought I caught glimpses of Moses and someone else working inside. I was agitated and distracted, and the horses picked up on it, which was never a good thing, especially when working with a horse named Cuss.

I was breaking the horse for Dale Garrett, and Cuss was a big quarter horse with a bigger attitude. His name summed up his owner’s opinion of him. Dean called my dad, and dad promptly turned Cuss over to me. Funny. The old boys in the county didn’t want to call in a girl to break their horses—it rubbed against their manhood—and not in the way they enjoyed. Everybody knew when you called Doc Shepherd—my dad—to break your horse, you were really getting Georgia Shepherd, but it made the bitter pill easier to swallow. And I didn’t care. Eventually, they would get over it. I would wear them down too. Just like old Cuss. I took inordinate pleasure in wearing down the ornery ones.

We were in the round corral and I was running Cuss, lunging him, no halter, just the two of us getting used to each other. I stood in the center of the corral with a rope in hand and swung it out, using it like a whip, never touching him, just making him change direction and respect my space. Every once in a while I’d step in front of him and make him turn around, making him run if he wanted to get away. Applying pressure. It was nothing new. I’d run him like this several times in the last week, and today I was ready to go to second base. Cuss let me approach, and I swung my rope in a lazy circle, just talking to him as I neared his shoulder. So far, so good.

Cuss was breathing hard and his eyes were trained on me, but he didn’t shift. I laid the end of the rope against his neck gently, and then took it off again. I did it again, a little harder, and he trembled a little. I moved the rope to the other side, stroking his neck with it, getting him used to being touched, getting him used to the rope against his throat, desensitizing him. And then, carefully, slowly, I eased a loop up and over his neck, letting it hang loosely around his shoulders. I waited, holding the lead rope in my hands, waiting for him to tell me no.

“Before long, he’ll be begging Georgia to tie him up,” a voice said from somewhere behind me. Cuss skittered and whinnied, pulling his head away sharply and taking me with him, the rope searing my hands before I dropped it and let him go.

“I see some things haven’t changed.” I dusted off my smarting hands and turned toward him. I didn’t have to see his face to know. It was almost a relief to get this over with.

Moses stood outside the corral, his hands hanging over the top plank, a foot resting on the bottom one. A man stood at his side, a toothpick in his mouth, his posture identical to Moses’s. But that was where the similarities ended.

“Animals still don’t like you very much, do they?” I said. My composure pleased me.

“It’s not just animals. Moses has that effect on most people too.” The stranger smiled and extended his hand over the fence. “In fact, I think I’m his only friend.” I walked toward him, toward Moses, and took the proffered hand.

“Hi, Georgia. I’m Tag.” There was Texas in his voice and he looked like he could handle Cuss handily if he wanted to. He brought to mind a good old country boy with a sprinkling of ex-convict thrown in, just to make you watch yourself. He was good looking in a rough sort of way, even with a nose that needed straightening and hair that needed a trim, but his smile was blinding and his handshake was firm. I wondered how in the world he’d ended up with Moses.