Thirty-Nine
With the doors at either end flung wide, the barn aisle at Briar Hall was icy cold, horse breath pluming like smoke in the bright afternoon light.
“This must be dedication,” Sam said, “because usually I can’t even get her to take out the trash if it’s this cold.”
Emmie was wearing a long down jacket that made her look even tinier, usual baseball cap crammed low and covered over with a beanie. She blew the steam off her coffee and said, “Yeah. She’s really putting the work in, and she’s doing well.” She glanced over with a smile. “In my experience, horses have the power to make girls do things they never would ordinarily.”
“Thank God for horses, then.”
In the wash rack in front of them, Erin was busy unsaddling Sherman, crooning and talking to him, absorbed in her task in a way Sam had never seen.
“And thank you,” Sam said in an undertone. “Emmie, seriously. I was so afraid she’d end up in some kind of alternative school or something. And her grades are better, and she’s making her bed, helping around the house.”
Emmie waved off the gratitude. “Nah, it’s not me. Like I said, it’s the horses. Who knows where I would have ended up if it wasn’t for this place.”
Tack set off to the side on all the proper racks and hooks, Erin selected a brush from the box and began to curry Sherman’s thick winter fur, putting her whole arm into the effort, until the horse’s chestnut coat stood up in sweat-damp cowlicks.
Sam had no real desire to take up riding herself, but she could watch her sister groom one all day. It had that lulling, fish tank effect, the regular strokes of the brushes, the quiet sound of the horse breathing, like bellows working. She’d come to love their trips to Briar Hall, Erin’s lessons peaceful hours of escape, when the various worries of the day were overtaken by the scents of hay and sawdust. Emmie was good company, when she wasn’t delivering calm, competent instruction. Sam had come to realize that she and Walsh’s wife had more than just bikers in common – they were both teachers, in their own fields, both consumed by knowledge that they then wanted to impart to the next generation.
But as lovely as it was, the world of Briar Hall could only hold back reality for so long.
“Emmie, can I ask a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Will you give me Tonya Sinclair’s home address?”
Emmie gave her an assessing look. “You really want it?”
“Yes.”
~*~
Aidan clenched his teeth together so they wouldn’t chatter as he swung off his bike. No matter how many layers, or how thick his gloves, or how much coffee he drank beforehand, riding in this kind of weather always ate through the leather and sank into skin and bone. It was a dry cold, the sky bright, Dartmoor windswept. He’d used his lunch break to run an errand, and was glad to see that Mercy and Carter were still out, only Tango inside. Good. He could kill two birds with one stone…so to speak.
The roll top doors were half-closed against the cold and Aidan ducked beneath one, stepping into the relative warmth of the shop bays. They had big radiant heaters plugged in, and they took the chill out of the air.
Tango sat on a stool beside a client bike, bundled up in a hoodie and fingerless gloves, hair hidden under a stocking cap. Even in profile, he looked like shit. Like he didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, and didn’t care about anything. His broken fingers had healed, and his bruises had faded. But mentally? He was still in bits.
“Hey,” Aidan greeted, taking the stool opposite.
“Hey.” His look was one Aidan hadn’t seen in years, laced with a caution that hit Aidan like a shove to the chest.
He decided to ignore it, push past and see if he could draw the guy back. So far, Tango hadn’t wanted to talk about anything that had happened, clamming up when anyone broached the subject. It was unhealthy; he was a powder keg ready to blow. But they couldn’t force him.
“I wanted to show you something,” Aidan said, reaching into his pocket for the velvet box he’d just picked up at the jeweler’s. “What do you think?” He opened the lid and showed him the modest white gold band with it’s even more modest diamond solitaire. “The saleslady tried to get me to look at one of those round ones, with all the little diamonds around it, but damn, everybody has a ring like that now. And I wanted…” He trailed off, feeling stupid.
Tango’s mouth twitched, a pathetic smile. “You wanted it to be special. Like Sam.”
“Yeah.” He blushed; actually felt the warmth and color come up in his cheeks and ducked his head.
“Hey.” Tango’s expression was absolutely haunted when Aidan looked at him. “You deserve to be happy. And she deserves a ring.”
Aidan said, “Any hope of you being happy?”
“No. None.”
~*~
