Out Of The Blue Page 7

  I hit speed dial.

  “Jaime’s engaged.”

  “Hold that thought.” I hear a muffled, “Stephen, I’m going to lunch. Put all my calls through to my cell…” A beat later, as I’m pacing the threshold of the barn, “Tell me every delicious detail. Is she a dirty hooker?”

  “Worse. She’s one of those wholesome types.”

  “He’s so predictable. God, I loathe him and his air of superiority.”

  “I’m sending you a screenshot,” I tell her and send the picture over.

  “I think I just threw up in my mouth. Well, you know what they say, one woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure.”

  Jessica is not a fan of overtly sentimental or romantic displays of affection. In fact, much to her very large family’s chagrin, she’s often said she’s eloping if she ever gets married because she doesn’t want to share what should be a personal moment with a bunch of “booze and buffet freeloaders.” Her words not mine.

  “It’ll never work,” she continues after seeing the screenshot.

  “Why would you say that?” I ask, truly at a loss to understand how she can tell from this picture. “I mean other than your general anti-Jaime sentiments.”

  “Because they’re too much alike,” she says with complete authority. Then a muttered, “Gross, they could be kissing cousins.”

  Upon closer examination of the picture, I realize she’s right. Similar hair color. Similar tall athletic build. They even both have similar freckles covering their matching angular faces.

  Huh. “True. But what does that have to do with anything?”

  “Tita always says you can’t marry anyone who’s anything like you. If you’re short, you need to marry tall. Fat needs to marry skinny. An introvert needs to marry an extrovert. Otherwise, the kids come out messed up or something––missing a chromosome. It’s the only reason she let my dad marry my mom. She’s short, fat, and dark and he’s a tall, skinny, pasty Mexican.”

  Laughter bursts out of me. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Hello, you’ve seen my dad a million times. Have you ever seen him outside without a hat? He gets a sunburn on a rainy day. My brother calls him Powder.”

  The laughter has me crying. At least she knocked me off my train of rage. “I’m talking about the other stuff.”

  “Ask Tita next time you come over. She took one look at Christian and told me it would never work. She was right.”

  “Christian was a selfish, self-serving prick. That’s why it didn’t work out.”

  “Yeah, he also had dark brown hair and eyes the same exact shade as mine, a medium complexion, and a pointy nose. We coulda been related.”

  I swallow more laughter. “You may be overthinking it.”

  “You’re not upset he’s getting married, are you?”

  “Not even a little. The dogs pissed me off. He never wanted to have pets with me.”

  Or kids. He wasn’t sure about them either.

  In hindsight, we really were a terrible match. But who’s paying close attention to the important stuff when you’re twenty-two and meet a six-foot-five, two-hundred-twenty-five pound fireman with a movie star smile?

  The ugly truth is that by nature, I’m tragically monogamous. I like being in a relationship. Being part of a team really is my thing, and the bigger the team the better. My L.A. therapist had a field day with that one. She said it’s because I was often left alone when I was a kid. Whatever the reason, I won’t apologize for it. And I’m not about to compromise. I’ve always wanted a big family and although I didn’t hide it from Jaime, I didn’t fight for it either. And to think if it wasn’t for the assault, I’d be married to him now.

  “What about those poor dogs? They have to live with that cold bastard until the divorce. The good news is his hairline is receding.”

  “Silver lining?” I chuckle and lean against the door jam now that all the angry energy has worn off.

  “Super shiny silver lining.”

  Aidan steps out of the Airstream and glances around. What in the love of all that is righteous and holy is this?

  He’s wearing Arena swim trunks, the kind the pro swimmers wear, work boots, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. That’s it.

  Jesus save me.

  Raising his arms in the air, he grabs one elbow and stretches to the side, then he does the other. How a man that is physically perfect in every way could make my stomach churn is a mystery. Or maybe it’s a skill. I mean, it certainly takes effort.

  “By the way,” I say to my supposed best friend, “next time one of your harebrained schemes involves me, know that there will be consequences that include you shoveling a lot of goat shit.”

  “He’s the sexiest movie star in the western world according to People Magazine. It can’t be that bad.”

  I take a surreptitious picture of the sexiest movie star in the western world in the midst of lighting a cigar and send it to her. The only reason I don’t run over and knock it out of his hand is that he’s standing in dirt, not a flammable piece of anything in his immediate area. Except his swimsuit perhaps.

  “He’s about as sexually appealing as soggy oatmeal. I’m so turned on in his royal presence I’m ready to check myself into a mental health hospital.” It’s clear as crystal that Aidan is a monkey, and everyone knows monkeys and collies do not mix. “Remember what I said about the goat shit.”

  “Smokey. Come in, Smokey,” Mona’s excited voice blasts out of the walkie talkie clipped to the back pocket of my overall shorts. “Smokey, this is urgent.”

  I stop what I’m doing––picking crap patties out of the small animal paddock––and grab it. Meanwhile, Pumpkin Spice, one of the mini horses, nudges my leg and I fish a soft peppermint plop out for her. “Copy, Bandit.”

  “Get your butt in here. Something happened!” Then she thinks the better of it, “Nothing terrible, I’m still alive, but get in here anyway! Out.”

  I place the pitchfork in the wheelbarrow and push it to the paddock gate, closing it behind me. Not before Billy almost makes a run for it, however.

  “Sorry, Billy. I have to go up to the house and you have to stay here.”

  My little shadow. He bleats as I leave him and I do my best not to look back. I’m not strong enough. Love’s got a stranglehold on me and I’ll give in to his demands like I always do.

  On my way back to the house, I spot Shane’s Cobra parked outside the guesthouse. It hasn’t moved since I last saw him a day ago, so maybe he shook off the writer’s block he was wrestling with the other night. Still no sign of Aidan or any willingness to put in the time.

  Inside, I find Mona in the kitchen.

  “Do you remember Donna Jo who I used to be friends with from card night?” Mona says the second I walk in, eyes bright and full of excitement, her body positively vibrating with energy as she pours coffee in a traveling mug. “The one that said she thought she saw Hank hanging out with Maggie when he and I was dating, but it ended up being a lie ’cause she wanted to date Hank and went about trying to break us up—and she did, basically. Anyway…” she takes a deep breath, “I was on Facebook looking at her posts, because I forgot to unfriend that bitch, and saw another post for a senior horse that some dude in Casitas Springs is giving away, but we have to go pick him up right now or he’ll ship him off to the killers.”

  It takes me a minute to process everything she threw at me including the kitchen sink. “So we’re going to get this horse right now?”

  “Right now.”

  “Why the long story about Donna Jo?”

  “Oh, I just wanted to know if you remembered the bitch.” She hustles around the kitchen island with two travel mugs in hand. “Can you believe what she did? Thank the Lord Christ I am not dating Hank anymore. He had a bad tendency to do this thing with his tongue––”

  I put my hand up to stop her. “No. No more please.”

  “Let’s go then. I got our jet fuel.”

  She hands me my traveling mug and I follow h
er out to the ancient, baby blue Chevy pickup truck with the horse trailer attached. I hate to leave the animals unattended––even the one living in the Airstream trailer––but time is of the essence with rescues, and we don’t have any to spare from the sound of it.

  It doesn’t take long to reach Casitas Springs. We drive down a bumpy dirt road flanked by brush on both sides.

  “I saw a movie that started this way…” It was based on the very real story of all the women who have gone missing on the El Paso Mexico border.

  “The one with the ball gags and handheld saws? ” She nods. “I saw it, too.”

  The hell? I examine the woman sitting next to me. She looks so sweet and innocent most of the time and yet…

  “I’m scared to ask what movies you’ve been watching.”

  At the end of the dirt road is a tan-colored trailer home that’s seen better days, paint peeling off the siding, dust covering nearly every small window. The shack next door to it, the one I assume is the barn, is surrounded by old tires and a broken lawnmower rusted beyond repair. The tin roof of the shack looks ready to cave in any moment. My stomach somersaults.

  “Because this doesn’t look suspiciously like a human trafficking operation,” I mutter under my breath, which my partner in all-things-good ignores.

  As soon as we get out of the pickup, a large and very old dog starts barking at us. He looks like a cross between a lab and a black bear, except he’s so old his entire face has gone gray. Almost immediately, he gives up and plops back down on the landing to the trailer.

  “Hello…” Mona shouts. “Mr. Wilson! Its Mona Harris. I came to get the horse…”

  Nothing. No sign of Mr. Wilson. We’ve been in some sketchy situations before, but we usually have law enforcement or animal services backing us up.

  “Are you sure this Facebook post was for real?” I hiss. Why am I whispering? Who knows.

  “’Course it was.”

  “Because I won’t survive captivity,” I joke. A nervous bubble of laughter escapes me.

  “Mr. Wiiiillllsooon,” Mona hollers, hands cupped around her mouth. The dog barks some more. His efforts seem half-hearted, though. He soon gives up and lays back down.

  “I heard you the first time, dammit,” an old man grumbles as he steps out of the screen door of the trailer while buttoning his fly. “I was in the toilet when you got here.”

  Yeah, okay, too much information.

  Wilson has to be close to eighty-years-old. He’s slouched over and walks with a serious limp. The stained wife beater tank he’s wearing with his faded blue pants exposes two old scars on his shoulder that look to be gunshot wounds. I can only wonder what their story is.

  “He’s over here,” he says, limping toward the makeshift shack.

  Exactly what I was afraid of.

  We follow and with every step I take, the smell of ammonia, of urine left to breakdown over time, gets stronger and stronger until I can hardly breathe. I do my best to cover my nose with the collar of my Mother Goose Rescue t-shirt, but it still makes me dizzy. Next to me, Mona’s hiding behind her hand.

  Dread hits me in the gut as we step inside the dark shack. And with good reason. Feces are stacked up along the walls. Black flies are everywhere. In the back, with his head hidden in the corner and hung low, is a medium-sized, black horse that looks so thin I don’t know how he’s still alive. He’s emaciated beyond anything I’ve ever seen.

  I thought I was done being surprised by life’s cruelty, but no such luck. Today is another reminder that there’s always a new bottom to be discovered.

  Neither one of us speaks at first. Mona and I know the drill. Pointing out the obvious will not help this animal, it will only harden the owner against us. Humans are complex creatures and their motivations and intents will surprise you sometimes. I don’t know how many animals we’ve pulled from horrible circumstances where the owner believed he was doing the right thing or just didn’t know any better.

  “This here’s Legend,” Mr. Wilson says, shifting from foot to foot. He won’t meet my or Mona’s eyes all of a sudden. “Can’t afford no hay… can barely afford my medication.”

  Shaming him won’t do dick. Judging from the look of this place, Mr. Wilson is holding on to life by his fingernails.

  Mona, in her infinite kindness, reaches out and pats his shoulder. “You posted that you needed help,” she says gently, “and here we are. You did good, honey.”

  He nods, embarrassed to look up. “You do what you can do for him,” he replies and shuffles out of the shack, disappearing into his trailer. Back to a life of solitude and hardship.

  As soon as he walks out, we jump into action. “I’ll put the ramp down and call Tom,” I gasp. Tom being the hero veterinarian who cares for all our babies. I run out of the shack and drive the trailer up as close as I can get it.

  Halter in hand, Mona slowly approaches Legend who finally raises his head to look at us. Big, soft eyes stare back, begging for help. Still willing to trust. I’m not ready to give up, his eyes tell me.

  Mona gets the halter on and very slowly leads him out. He’s weak and unsteady on his legs, his hooves overgrown.

  It takes two of us and twenty minutes to slowly get him in the trailer. Mona insists she wants to ride in the back with him, but I veto that idea. The road is bumpy, and if he falls on her, I’ll be powerless to help either one of them.

  Relief washes over me the minute we drive into the vet clinic and three animal techs run out to help us. Legend is a critical case and they’re treating him with the urgency he requires. Still, there’s no guarantee he’ll survive.

  “He’s a mess,” Tom says, his handsome face telling the same story. Then he smiles at me. “But we’ll do everything we can.”

  “Tommy Holland,” Mona starts with a dimpled smile, “I’ve known you since you were a little boy. Don’t you dare let this sweet baby die on us.”

  Tom chuckles. “He’s around fifteen, and I’ll do my best. If we can get him through the night, our chances look better.”

  Tom is the kind of guy that every woman dreams about marrying: handsome, kind, a natural healer with a sense of humor. Unfortunately for me, Tom is about as sexually appealing as a pair of hand-knitted acrylic mittens. Otherwise, I’d be campaigning hard for him right now. There’s something seriously wrong with me. I blame Simply Sinful.

  We spend some time giving Legend love and affection and promising him a great life from here on out if he can just hang on. I take pictures of the physical state we found him in. It’s to protect the animals in case the owners change their minds and decide they want them back. One threatened to sue us until I sent him the vet bill and a few pictures of the fresh wounds the vet found. Then I threatened to get the cops involved.

  I post all the pictures on our social media accounts for two reasons: education and education. People need to be made aware of what’s happening and learn how to help stop it.

  We head home and pull into the driveway around six. Shane’s car is gone and the lights in Aidan’s trailer are on. It’s weird, but I’m starting to like having them here. Even if they are still strangers.

  I park the pickup and head straight to the barn. The day’s not over yet; the animals need to be fed dinner. Loud brays and nickers greet me at the door. Without fail, they always manage to lift my mood.

  “You guys have a new brother to welcome soon. I want you to be extra nice to him.”

  The very loud greeting continues. I pet every velvety nose poking outside the stalls as I make my way down the aisle to the feed room. All in a normal day’s work. And I wouldn’t do anything differently.

  Later in the evening, after I let Mona stuff me with her delicious meatloaf and a baked potato, I drag my tired ass up the stairs to my bedroom and pull out the binoculars. It’s become a nightly ritual of sorts––taking stock of the paddocks and barn, making sure all is quiet.

  I put them to my face, adjust the focus, scan the property. My line of sight moves left,
and then keeps scanning until I reach the guesthouse. The lights are on, the drapes pulled aside.

  In the back of my mind, where the healthy conscience I used to possess now lives, I know I shouldn’t be lingering. That I would be appalled to learn someone was spying on me. And yet I don’t stop. Not even when Shane Hughes moves across the window completely naked.

  Holy helloooo. What in the cheeseandnuts is this?

  Instead of stopping, I lean in. Yep, I lean in. Because this man is worthy of crazy behavior. Jaime had an impressive body, but nothing like this. Every muscle on Shane Hughes’ body is honed to perfection. All the way from his pectorals to his butt. Nothing like his brother’s––which is more flash than substance. Those muscles are not a vanity project. They come from hard work and necessity.

  He turns and I get a full-frontal view. Do I stop? No. I’m going full pervert tonight. He has girth and length. Of course. Of course, he would have a perfect dick. Why couldn’t he have an ugly one with a kink in it? Because I’m not that lucky and the universe has a sick sense of humor. Now I’m going to picture him naked, that perfect dick of his swinging in my mind’s eye every time I see him. Damn you, Mona and these binoculars.

  Shane closes the drapes and saves me from further debasing myself. I take a shower thinking about him. I get into bed thinking about him. I find my relax-her thinking about him. I feel guilty for about a whole minute. Why let a good fantasy go to waste, right?

  Chapter 7

  “Best I can do is deliver by two tomorrow,” the sales clerk informs me, his cheek stuffed with dip.

  It’s already past 6 p.m. when I make it to the feed store. Mice got into the bags we had left and I need to replace them ASAP now that we have one more mouth to feed.

  I went to visit Legend first thing in the morning. With the meds and nutrition he’s getting at the clinic, he’s already looking so much better and more alert. Tom says he’s making remarkable progress and should be able to go home by the end of the week. That’s when the hard road to recovery really starts.