This Calder Sky (Calder Saga 3)

Presents were heaped under the Christmas tree. It was Ty’s first Christmas and most of the packages were for him, mostly from Pamela. She would have bought everything in sight for him if Maggie hadn’t finally threatened not to let her take care of him anymore.

Maggie smiled as she watched Ty banging a rattle on the floor and absently opened the Christmas card from Culley. There was a letter inside.

December 19

Dear Maggie,

Remember I told you Fred Dickens, the rodeo guy, went into a coma and died? Well, Buck Haskell was convicted on manslaughter charges. He claimed he was drunk and didn’t know what he was doing. I heard Chase Calder wouldn’t even testify on Buck’s behalf as a character witness. I can believe that. One of their thieves got caught, so they washed their hands of him. I told you they were like that—you get into trouble, and suddenly they don’t even know you.

When the judge sentenced Buck to prison, I guess he started yelling and making all kinds of threats to get even with Chase. I heard it took three men to take him out of the courtroom.

I

t’s snowing.

Merry Christmas,

Culley

She felt pity for Buck Haskell—pity because he’d been betrayed by the Calders, specifically by Chase, who had been his friend. Betrayed just as she had been. Her gaze lifted to the star atop the tree; she hoped the Calders would never know the peace it symbolized.

The early spring foal teetered unsteadily on bandy legs, its whisk-broom of a tail rotating wildly for balance. With legs too long, a head too large, and eyes too big, it blinked at the bright, strange world it had been so eager and insistent to enter only minutes before. It whickered, a sound that needed some practice before it would resemble a horse’s neigh. For a newborn foal, it was good-sized and obviously healthy. It should have been the center of attention, with its snow-white blaze running down the center of its concave forehead.

But everyone’s eyes were on the old mare lying in the straw. Each breath she took was labored. Maggie’s fingers dug into the side rail of the stall; she was mentally willing the mare to move. Morning Mist was a hunting mare, a sentimental favorite of Dr. Phillip’s. He’d kept her, after her career in the show ring finally ended, as his sole broodmare. At twenty-one, even that was becoming too much for her. This time it had been a long and difficult birth. What strength she had, the foal had taken, and the mare appeared to have none left.

When the stud colt whickered bewilderedly again, the mare snorted weakly and tried to lift her head, but she couldn’t get it off the straw. The mare’s eyes closed as Maggie looked on, as the effort had drained the last ounce of energy. With his shirtsleeves rolled up, Dr. Phillip stood to one side of the stall, next to his stable hand. A grim look of worry was etched in his tanned and handsome face.

“Let’s try to help her up,” he suggested.

While Maggie watched, the two men knelt beside the mare and tried to lift and push her into a position where she could get her legs under her, but the horse hadn’t the strength to cooperate. After much struggling, the stable hand, Ralph, gently laid the mare’s head on the straw-covered floor.

“It’s no use,” Ralph said, breathing heavily from the exertion.

“I fixed some hot mash.” Maggie unlatched the stall gate and stepped inside. “Maybe if we can get her to eat something, she’ll get her strength back.”

“See if you can, Elizabeth.” Phillip agreed with the suggestion, but didn’t rely on it as he turned to the groom. “Get some ropes and we’ll rig up a sling. If we can just get her on her feet and keep her there, the foal can nurse, and Misty will stand a better chance, too.”

Kneeling beside the mare, Maggie set the pail of mash on the floor and pulled a clean rag from her hip pocket. She dipped it in the mash and squeezed it into the mare’s mouth. Most of it trickled out. She stroked the mare’s throat to help the horse swallow whatever it could, then repeated the process.

Ralph returned. “I’ve got them, Dr. Phillip. How do you want to work this?”

“We’ll use this crossbeam. It should be strong enough to support her.”

Busy concentrating on her task, Maggie was only half-aware of what the two men were doing. A soft thump was followed by something white slithering into her side vision. Maggie glanced up to see the white rope dangling from a crossbeam. Her mind clicked in another image of the ranch barn and the rope that had hung from its center beam.

A horrible tightness gripped her throat and Maggie stood up. She saw again the plain rope over the stable’s beam. Then another image clicked to replace it. It was the barn again and there was a noose swaying at the end of the rope. She backed up to escape the frightening picture and had a moment’s relief when reality surfaced to bring the stable into focus. But her mind wouldn’t stop its gruesome recall. The color drained from her face as the last picture came to her mind’s eye and stayed—the one of her father’s body swinging from the noose.

It wouldn’t go away. Her hands were raised close to her face, her fingers spread. Maggie squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the mental image. But all the sensation, all the horror and anguish came flooding back to make it as real as if it were happening now. From far, far away, she heard someone screaming—incessantly, endlessly.

She had to get him down! She had to unloosen the rope! She ran to get it down, clawing at the hands holding it. Even when she realized it was just a rope again with no noose on it, it remained imperative that she take it down.

When she had backed away from the horse, she had drawn Phillip’s glance. A frown creased his forehead at the look of terror on her whitened face, bewildered by her fixation with the rope. He was about to ask her what was wrong when she started screaming. His groom had stood motionless in stunned shock when she had attacked him to tear the rope from his hands and pull it off the stall’s crossbeam. Phillip rushed over and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her off the defenseless man.

“It has something to do with the rope. Take it down,” he snapped over his shoulder, prodding the groom into action as he hauled the rope from the crossbeam. “Elizabeth, the rope is gone! Look! It isn’t there anymore!” His voice was firm and commanding, pushing at her to obey. “Open your eyes and look. It’s gone. It doesn’t exist.”

She stopped struggling to get free and turned her head to look. For an instant, she was still. The rope was coiled in a harmless heap on the floor. A violent shudder went through her. Dry, hacking sobs began to shake her shoulders as Phillip put his arms around her.

“Come on. Let’s get you out of here,” he murmured.