Brant's Return

I felt the weight of his stare but I didn’t turn my head. “Are you supposed to be out of bed?” I asked.

I heard the scowl in his words when he spoke. “I’m supposed to do whatever the hell I feel up to doing.” I nearly laughed out loud. Nothing had changed.

We watched Isabelle with the horse for a few minutes, the silence more comfortable than I would have imagined.

“That one’s full of piss and vinegar,?

? my father muttered.

“Isabelle or the horse?”

My father chuckled, a low, raspy sound. “Not Isabelle. Oh, she’s got backbone, I think that’s clear. But piss and vinegar? Nah. Not her. Nothing sour about that girl.” He was quiet for a moment. “She’s a natural.” He sounded reverent, and I glanced at him, surprised by how much the look in his eyes matched his tone.

He loved her. Maybe not as a partner, or a lover, but he cared about Isabelle and saw her as more than just a secretary. That was clear. Emotions churned inside me, feelings I didn’t know how to categorize or identify. Questions better left unanswered.

Who is she? Where did she come from?

I looked back to the pen where Isabelle had retreated to the other side, leaned against the fence casually. The stallion pawed the ground with his front hooves, shaking his head back and forth as Isabelle merely watched him, crinkling something in her pocket. Some sort of horse treat? Peppermints maybe? He took a minute to simply watch her then pounded at the ground again, stirring up dust, but taking a step toward her, then two.

“How long has she been training this one?”

“Couple of weeks.” He chuckled, and it sounded raspy. “Big fool has already been broken, and he doesn’t even realize it,” my father said, inclining his head. “But watch. She’s going to make him think it’s all his idea. Poor bastard never stood a chance.”

Something about his words made my own hackles rise, though I couldn’t say exactly why. I narrowed my eyes at him, wondering what he was playing at.

“Not too long now and he’ll be eating out of her hand, praising himself for his flexible personality and generous spirit.” He let out another throaty-sounding laugh. “It’s a push and pull, isn’t it? All part of the dance. They’ll both have to work for it.” For a moment his voice took on a note of some emotion I couldn’t name. He was still watching Isabelle and the horse, though I couldn’t read his expression as I could only see his profile. “She’s as stubborn as he is and not afraid to let him know. How many rounds do you think they’ll go?” he asked, and when he looked my way whatever had been in his voice a moment before hadn’t lingered in his eyes.

I didn’t answer the question he posed, instead murmured, “She’s good.” Unconventional, but good. I’d watched enough horse training growing up to spot a natural when I saw one. The old man wasn’t telling me anything I couldn’t see with my own eyes. “To break a wild thing, but keep his pride intact? It takes skill.”

He nodded. “And the patience of a saint. Watched her stand just like she is now for half a day once before that stubborn horse gave in. Red Ticket they called him.”

I looked at him, surprised. “Horse that won the Kentucky Derby last year?”

My father looked at me, head tilted. “So you do still follow the races.”

I looked to where Isabelle leaned casually against the fence, the horse halfway to her. I shrugged. “Not really. That kind of stuff tends to show up as headlines on the Internet.”

“Ah. Course it does.”

I ignored the sarcasm in his voice. Isabelle looked off into the pasture, not giving the horse any attention at all, at least seemingly. “You’re grooming her,” I stated. “To take over Graystone Hill. She knows every part of this operation. You have her doing a little bit of everything, and she’s damn good at it.” I considered him for a minute. “Does she know?”

He paused for a second. “No. I don’t think she’d do it all if she did.”

I watched him for another few seconds. He looked troubled as his eyes remained on Isabelle. After a moment, I looked to where she was too.

“That horse she’s training reminds me of Challenger,” I said. Challenger was a thoroughbred I’d helped train when I was a teen. I’d loved that horse. Loved his power and his feisty nature. He’d been a winner, almost taking the Triple Crown. So close.

“We bought Challenger a few years back,” my father said. “He’s at the new stable, enjoying his second career.” I caught his meaning and chuckled. So Challenger was a breeding horse now. Not a bad job if you could get it. Lucky bastard.

“Lots of changes around here. I didn’t know you bred horses and offered therapy classes.”

“No, I guess you wouldn’t.” His eyes met mine, his gaze sharp right before pain flashed in his expression. He stumbled backward, clutching at his heart as his eyes widened in terror. He gasped for breath. I caught him before he hit the ground, going down onto my knees as I held his struggling body in my arms. He wheezed out a panicked breath, his face stricken, hands clasping at my shirt.

“Help! Someone help!” I yelled. Footsteps came running from every direction, then three people were kneeling beside us as I heard someone calling 9-1-1.

My father lay in my arms struggling to breathe, his eyes locked on my face, his mouth moving in silent communication, saying words I couldn’t hear.

CHAPTER SEVEN