She points to the stall on the opposite side. I walk over and peer into the stall.
“That should do,” I mutter, more to myself than to her.
“I be so surry, Mr. Coleman, if our stables aren’t to yer likin’,” she says, trying to sound like a backwoods country bumpkin—and doing a poor job of it, I might add. I’ve lived among people in the most backwoods of places, and she isn’t even close in her impression. I throw a look her way, trying to let her know how poor her impression is, and turn toward the open stable door.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say as I walk away. It seems that whatever I say to Miss Parker, she takes offense.
She follows me out as I disappear into the trailer. I grab the Irish by the lead rope and he immediately rears back. The first stallion is my own; this one is new. Today is the first day I’ve set eyes on him. He’s large, shiny black without an ounce of any other color on him—with the exception of pure white coronets near each hoof. He is magnificent.
I lead him out of the trailer with as much gentle persuasion as possible, to find Niahm peering around the corner, interest lighting her face. It’s a look I haven’t seen on her face before, and it completely transforms her. The horse rears up, front legs pawing the air in fright. My attention diverted, I give the Irish a little lead, but not too much. Niahm takes a quick step back.
She hurries into the barn, standing behind the stall door, ready to close it as soon as I get the beast inside. Smart girl. With a little work, and a lot of coaxing, I finally lead the stallion in. The horse’s eyes are rolling, but I’m able to sooth him just enough.
Once the stallion is in the stall, Niahm pushes the door closed, trapping me within—exactly what she should do. I unclip the lead, backing toward the stall door, not looking, trusting her to open it. Once I’m out of the stall, I smile triumphantly in Niahm’s direction—and to my surprise, she smiles back, sharing in my victory. Suddenly, the faux intimacy of the moment strikes us both, and she turns away.
“What kind of horse is that? I don’t recognize it,” she asks.
“He’s an Irish Draught. Striking, isn’t he?”
“He’s absolutely gorgeous. I’ve never seen anything like him.”
“I’m glad you like him,” I say. She doesn’t comment on that statement.
“What’s his name?” she asks.
“He doesn’t actually have one yet. He’s new, not even green broke yet.”
“That would explain the tantrum. You have someone coming to break him?”
“Yeah, me.”
“You?” Surprise laces her tone.
“What, you don’t think I can break a horse?” I throw her words back at her, though in a less harsh tone than she used on me.
She looks thoughtful, as if the question bears scrutiny.
“Actually, I believe you can.”
I freeze in the act of hanging the lead, turning her way.
“What? Was that an actual compliment from the inimitable Niahm Parker?”
I can see her narrowing her eyes at me even through the sunglasses as she turns away, refusing to answer. I follow her from the stable.
“My uncle said to let you know that we’ll only be keeping them here until we can get the barn rebuilt on our own property.”
“Oh.” Her response is almost—wistful. “Well, while they’re here, you can come over anytime. The stable is never locked.” She points to her left. “There’s a paddock over there that you are welcome to use. If you let them through the gate just over there,” she points again, “they can graze in there. The tack room is right there,” she thumbs over her shoulder.
“Sounds good,” I say, watching her closely. I’m impressed by her professionalism.
“I’ll feed and water them, but I won’t muck your stalls.”
I laugh at her overly fervent tone.
“Gotcha.”
Her shoulders drop, as if relenting. “That’s not necessarily the complete truth. If you’re going to be out of town, or just can’t get over for some reason, just call. One of us will do it.”
“One of us?”
“Me or, if they’re around, one of my parents.”
“Oh. Are they here? I’d like to meet them,” I respond, wondering about the type of people who could produce a being such as Niahm Parker.
“No, they’re in Egypt. They’ll be home Friday.”
“Egypt? What are they doing there?” That was hardly the response I expected from the daughter of two small town farmers.
“Work,” she says. “My dad’s a photographer, and my mom’s a writer. They write beautiful, interesting travel books.”
“Why didn’t you go with them?” I wonder aloud.
“Been there, done that. They dragged me all over the world till I finally dug my feet in and refused to go anymore.”
“I can imagine that,” I mumble, well acquainted with said stubbornness.
“I haven’t been more than fifty miles from Goshen since I was thirteen.”
I stop, stunned. “They left you home? Alone?”
“I can take care of myself,” she bristles. “Besides,” her voice pitches upward, mischievously, “I have a protector.” She whistles, and a black lab comes bounding in, tail wagging. I laugh.
“That’s your protection?”
“Get ‘em, Bob,” she says calmly. The dog immediately crouches forward, snarling, teeth bared aggressively. I take a step back—he can’t really hurt me… at least, not too much. But I don’t want witnesses to that fact. The dog, Bob, continues to move toward me, growling from deep within his chest, punctuated by threatening barks.
“Call him off,” I warn calmly, continuing to back slowly away, my voice as calm and soothing as I used with the Irish.
Niahm cocks her head, looking for all the world as if she is rather enjoying this. “I don’t think I will,” she says with a smile. I take my eyes from Bob just long enough to give her a look, letting her know how crazy I believe her to be.
“Good dog,” I soothe, clucking, turning my attention back to the snarling fury in front of me. The dog begins to back down, giving in to my cajoling, growls becoming whimpers.
“Get ‘em,” Niahm repeats. Bob steps up his assault stance. Just as he gets near me, and I’m wondering how I’m going to explain the healed bites tomorrow, he lunges—past me, continuing his growling threat to the tree behind me. I turn toward Niahm, perplexed. What just happened?
“Back, Bob,” she says, and he comes bounding back, tongue lolling, waiting to be praised for his performance.
I look at her in stunned disbelief. And she’s grinning.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to pull that trick on anyone since most folks around here know it by now,” she grins. Anger floods my entire being.
“Are you kidding me? Is that supposed to be funny?”
“It was to me,” she laughs.
“You’re protection is some… some party trick?” I think of all the things that can happen to a young, beautiful, teenage girl left alone… apparently with the knowledge of the whole town that not only is she alone, but also that she is protected by an overgrown puppy.
She shrugs, and my anger surges dangerously close to fury.
“You didn’t know he wouldn’t hurt you. Most people would’ve turned tail and run. You’re either really brave or really stupid. Which is it, Sam?”
“I believe you’re completely insane,” I half-yell. When she doesn’t respond, my frustration boils over. “I think you’re Sybil reincarnated.”
“Who?” she asks, reaching up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear.
“You know, Sybil… multiple personalities… it was a movie… based on a true story… Sally Fields?” I’m holding my hands out toward her in supplication and, realizing the silliness of the gesture, I pull them back and tuck them into my rear pockets.
She shakes her head, “Sorry, never heard of it.”
Her words stop me. Frustration has made me carele
ss. What seventeen-year-old kid would know about an old movie? I rock back on my heels, cursing my stupidity.
“I guess it was an old movie, from the seventies, I think.”
“You’re into old stuff?”
I look at her, trying to push the anger back into a manageable place.
“Maybe I am.”
“Okay, grandpa,” she jokes, and I feel the anger boiling up again—mainly because she has no idea how close to the truth she is.
“You are either like her, with about twelve different personalities,” I spit, “or you’re just plain schizophrenic. Either way, certifiably insane.”
With that, I stride to my truck, annoyance radiating from me in waves. I glance back while driving away, and if I didn’t know better, I would almost swear Niahm looks as if she feels the smallest bit of regret for baiting me.
She has no idea how close she came to forbidden territory.
Chapter 7
Niahm
“You are my sunshine…” The booming, off-key song comes from the front porch. I light up at the sound, pushing away the slight irritation at their lateness. They were supposed to be here early this morning. It’s now nearly noon.
“My only sunshine,” I holler back, jumping up from the gray-carpeted floor where I’d been lying, watching TV.
“You make me happy,” the male voice cracks on the high note.
“When skies are gray.” I pull the front door open.
“You’ll never know, dear—” he sings, extremely off-key, with a wide grin.
“—how much I love you,” I join in with him, “Please don’t take my sunshine away.”
I launch myself into my father’s arms, which close around me in a bear hug.
“You two are beyond ridiculous,” my mother says, grinning at us both. I release him and throw my arms around her. She’s right, and I would never in a million years admit to my friends this strange little coming-home ritual we have. I would miss it if we were to stop—almost as much as I miss them when they’re gone.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” I say with absolute sincerity.
“You know, honey, I’ll sing with you anytime you want. It doesn’t just have to be on our homecoming.”
“And have them run us out of town?” I tease. My father is well known for his completely off-key, tone-deaf voice, which he happily shares at the drop of a hat. “How was the sphinx?”
“Beautiful, as always,” they intone together.
“You guys spend way too much time together,” I grimace, watching as my father drops to vigorously rub the sides of Bob’s neck, letting Bob lick his face unheeded. “And that’s really gross, dad. I wish you wouldn’t let him do that. Then he thinks he can do it to anyone.”
“How did everything go while we were gone?” Mom asks, giving my father’s shoulder a little push to move him into the house, as he completely ignores me, not pushing Bob away.
“Great. No problems. Got two new horses in the stable.”
“Oh yeah? Who bought new horses?” Dad asks.
“The people who just moved into the Stanton place.”
That stops them both in their tracks. I have their complete attention now; my father even pushes Bob down off him, Mom stops trying to get him to move. Bob gives a snort of disgust then tromps happily off, probably to chase butterflies.
“Someone bought that old, rundown place?” my mother asks at the same moment my father says, “Someone moved into town?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Okay, spill,” Mom exhorts, practically pushing me back into the house, followed closely by my father.
“Guy named Shane Coleman, and his nephew Sam.”
“Uh-oh,” my father says. “What have they done to offend you already?”
I hate that my father can read me so well.
“Nothing. Shane is really nice, from what little dealing I’ve had with him.”
“The nephew, then,” my mother says to him.
“Do I need to pull out the shotgun?” my dad asks. I laugh aloud at the thought of my father with a gun in his hands. I myself can shoot a pop can dead-center from a hundred yards, but he would not even know how to load the bullets.
“No, he’s not that bad.”
“Let me guess,” my mother says, opening the fridge to pull out a bottle of water. “He’s your age, or close to it, good-looking, and all the girls are falling all over him.”
I grimace, then admit, “All but the good-looking part.”
“Must be gorgeous,” my father mutters to her.
“Dazzling,” my mother confirms with a wink.
“I’m in the room,” I complain. “I can hear you.”
“What did he do, darling?” Mom says. I think about telling them about the pie, but realize how ridiculous it will sound. And knowing they will laugh at me. And that they will have every right to—it was a stupid reaction to such a trivial thing. I’m still unsure of why I react the way I do to Sam Coleman.
“Nothing. He’s just really annoying.”
“Hum,” they both murmur meaningfully at the same time. I choose to ignore them.
“You should come out and see the horses. They’re amazing.”
I knew that would distract them.
Church in Goshen is as much about worshiping as it is about socializing. I’m not sure exactly when it started—long before I existed, anyway—but church always ends at noon, to be followed by a picnic, when the weather holds, or by a potluck in the gym if the weather is bad. No matter your degree of belief, everyone shows up at least for the food. Unless you’re new in town and don’t understand the rules, that it.
I guess Mrs. Bradley forgot to inform the Coleman’s about this particular ritual as they aren’t at church, or the picnic following. In a town like Goshen, this isn’t just worthy of being noted, it’s cause for gossip and speculation. Of course, because they aren’t here to hear, the gossip runs rampant.
“Did anyone tell them what time services begin?” Mrs. Wittmer whispers—loudly enough to be not really a whisper.
“I’m sure they were informed, I believe I told them myself…”
“Do you think they are anti-social?”
“Maybe they’re hiding something… what do you think it could be?”
Stacy and I wander around, listening to the ridiculous gossip, mimicking some of the more meaningless chatter. I have to admit, Stacy is good at imitating voices, almost to perfection, definitely to my amusement.
After the picnic, I meet up with Stacy and the double-H on my ATV—and them on theirs—to go for a ride. It’s one of the beauties of having my parent’s home—a little freedom. It’s Stacy’s turn to lead the way, and we dig in. When Stacy leads, you can count on a fast, wild ride. We’re speeding down dirt roads, me eating the dust of the other three, when suddenly she stops. As the person in the rear, this requires me to do a little panicked turn off to the side to avoid a collision, into the soft dirt which gives me a final spray from forehead to chest to knees.
I pull my sunglasses off, which are now almost impossible to see through, wiping them on the underneath of my t-shirt before replacing them, glad for the reprieve as I backhand the dirt off my mouth and loudly cough up what feels like dirt clods.
“Well, hey there, Coleman’s, fancy meeting you here,” Stacy’s voice, full of saccharine, oozes.
I look up in horror, stopped short by Stacy’s words in the act of about to let loose the stream of muddy spit that I’ve worked into my mouth, my horrified eyes snapping up to see Sam, and his uncle, working on a fence—their own fence—right in front of her.
Shane chuckles. “Not exactly a surprise to find us on our own property, though, is it?”
Stacy looks around in mock surprise. “Gee, I didn’t realize we’d come so far.”
I roll my eyes. Stacy doesn’t ever end up anywhere that she didn’t explicitly intend to. I risk a glance at Sam, to see him watching me, a slightly amused look on his fa
ce. I get the distinct feeling that he is more than cognizant of the sludge currently residing behind my teeth. I straighten a little, throwing him a look intended to make him feel inferior. It only makes his grin a little wider. I slowly slide my sunglasses back on, turning Sam into a slightly smudged version of himself.
“Well,” Shane sweeps us all with a glance, “Samuel and I were just about done.” The look Sam shoots him negates his uncle’s statement, but he doesn’t say anything. “Would you girls like to come up to the house for some lemonade?”
I begin to roll my eyes at the silliness of the request as well as at Stacy and the double-H’s over-enthusiastic response, until I notice Sam doing the same thing. I try to stop mid-roll, refusing to agree with him on anything. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to stop an eye-roll smack in the middle. It’s quite painful. My eyes immediately begin to water. I reach up to wipe the pain-tears away, only after dragging my fingers through the grit remembering about the dirt on my face.
Great, now I have mud streaks down my face. I look at Stacy, whose face is virtually clean and at the double-H, also clean. I guess my refusal to wear a bandana over my face beneath my glasses is my payment for my current predicament.
“We’d love to,” Stacy gushes, echoed by Hilary and Heather. I risk another glance at Sam, who is grinning openly at me now. I’m sure it has something to do with the wet, muddy track now leading from the corner of my mouth. He cocks an eyebrow at me, as if daring me. Stacy and the double-H swing gracefully off their bikes, and follow Shane toward the ranch. Sam stays behind to mock me.
“Coming, Niamh?” he asks, laughter in his voice.
I nod, glaring.
“I’m sorry, what? I couldn’t hear you,” he laughs. “Got something in your mouth?”
I stand up slowly, straddling my bike. Not taking my eyes from his, I slowly swing my leg over. Climbing down, I walk toward him. His eyes widen slightly, but the grin never leaves his face. As soon as I am right in front of him—standing this close I decide he must really be at least six-five—I pucker, and breathe in through my nose. Then I spit the whole, disgusting muddy mess—right next to him. I admit it; I seriously considered spitting it on him, or at least on his shoes. I chickened out.