I’d spent the night before on my laptop trying to dig up every last piece of information I could on Moses Wright. He wasn’t on Facebook or Twitter. But neither was I. We had established a website and Facebook page as well as a Twitter handle for our Equine Therapy Sessions, and I haunted social media under that cover. But when I googled Moses Wright, I was amazed at what I found. The BBC had done a special on him, and there were videos all over YouTube of his painting sessions with clients, although the camera was usually trained on his canvas, as if Moses wanted to keep his face from the screen. There was a Times article about him and about his ability to “paint for the dead,” and People magazine had done a small feature about the “other-worldly brilliance of Moses Wright.”
I realized then that he had made an impressive name for himself and he was a bit of a star, though it seemed he did his best to keep the lowest profile possible. What had Tag said, just in passing, about them traveling all over the world? Judging from the volume of information coming from all corners of the globe, I had no doubt it was the truth. There were hundreds of pictures of his paintings but few of him, though I did find a couple of shots of him at some gala for a hospital. He stood between Tag and another man, a man the caption listed as Dr. Noah Andelin. I found myself wondering again how Moses and Tag had ended up together. Their connection was deep, it was easy to see. And I realized something else. I wasn’t just ashamed. I was jealous.
“You still talk to your horses.”
I jerked and Sackett shifted, not liking the spike of energy that shot through me or the fact that my fingers had yanked at his mane.
Moses stood silhouetted in the barn door, holding what looked to be a large canvas in his hand.
I hadn’t realized I was still talking to Sackett, and I did a quick examination of what I’d just said. I believe I had just uttered an embarrassing rant on Moses not being allowed in Georgia. Oh, Lord, I prayed fervently, you can make the blind man see and the deaf man hear, so it shouldn’t be too much to ask to make this man forget everything he’s just seen and heard.
“What does Sackett think about those new, stricter laws in Georgia?”
I looked up at the rafters, “Hey, thanks for comin’ through for me, Lord.”
I loosened the cinch that secured the saddle around Sackett’s middle and pulled the saddle from his back, hoisting it onto the saddle horse and removing the blanket beneath without looking at Moses. I was kind of surprised that he remembered Sackett’s name.
Moses took a few steps inside the barn and I could see a small smile playing around his lips. I gave Sackett a firm pat on his rump signaling I was done, and he trotted off, clearly eager to go.
“You’re back,” I said, refusing to embarrass myself further by getting angry.
“I took Tag home. He had big plans to train for his next fight old school, like Rocky, but discovered that it’s a little more appealing in the movies. Plus, I don’t do a very good Apollo Creed.”
“Tag’s a fighter?”
“Yeah. Mixed martial arts stuff. He’s pretty good.”
“Huh.” I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t know anything about the sport. “Didn’t Apollo Creed die in one of the movies?”
“Yeah. The black guy always dies at the hands of the white man.”
I rolled my eyes, and he grinned, making me grin with him before I remembered that I was embarrassed and ticked off that he had kissed me and left town. It felt a little too much like the past. The grin slipped from my face and I turned away, busying myself shaking out the saddle blankets.
“So why did you come back?” I kept my eyes averted. He was quiet for a minute, and I bit my lips so I wouldn’t start to babble into the awkward silence.
“The house needs more work,” he replied at last. “And I’m thinking of changing my name.”
My head shot up, and I met his smirk with confusion.
“Huh?”
“I heard there was this new law in Georgia. Nobody named Moses can even visit. So I’m thinking a name change is in order.”
I just shook my head and laughed, both embarrassed and pleased at his underlying meaning. “Shut up, Apollo,” I said, and it was his turn to laugh.
“Good choice. Apollo it is. There aren’t any laws in Georgia about guys named Apollo, are there?”
“No,” I said quietly, still smiling. I liked this Moses. It was a Moses I had liked before too, the Moses who teased and taunted and pushed and prodded, setting my teeth on edge while making me love him.
“I brought you something,” he said, turning the canvas around and holding it in front of him so I could see.
I could only stare.
“Eli helped me,” he said, quietly.
I couldn’t look away even though his words repelled me. I didn’t want this Moses. I wanted the Moses who smiled and teased. I didn’t want the Moses who talked about the dead as if he were intimately acquainted with them.
“I started seeing him for the first time after I saw you in the elevator at the hospital. I didn’t know who he was. I didn’t put it together, not until I stepped back from the painting and saw you, riding a horse, holding Eli against you. And still . . . I didn’t understand. I just knew I had to come here and find you.” He stopped talking then. We both knew what had happened next.
“I want you to have it,” he insisted gently.
When I didn’t move to take it, he set it gently against a stall and left me alone with the gift from my son.
Georgia