He’s not much of a phone person.
The fifteen or twenty seconds it took her to give up on someone answering were torture. My heart still pounding in my ears, I pushed back the urge to shudder with relief. “You didn’t leave a message.” My voice sounded amazingly calm.
“Messages get deleted,” she said dryly. “I’ll try again later.”
The knots in my stomach tightened. I’d dodged a bullet. But with Gramps the way he was, I couldn’t afford to sit around and wait for round two. She wanted me to talk. She wanted me to share. Fine.
“Ryan Washburn,” I said. “Mr. Simpson has it in for him. He’s a nice kid. Quiet. Smart.” I paused. “He leaves that class every day feeling stupid.”
It shouldn’t have been my job to tell her this.
“Do you know what we do out at my grandfather’s ranch? Other than raise cattle?” I caught her gaze, willing her not to look away. “We take in the horses no one else wants, the ones who’ve been abused and broken and shattered inside until there’s nothing left but animal anger and animal fear. We try to break through that. Sometimes we win.” I paused. “Sometimes we don’t.”
“Tess—”
“I don’t like bullies.” I stood to leave. “Feel free to call my grandfather and tell him that. I’d say it’s a good bet he already knows.”
CHAPTER 2
My gamble appeared to have paid off. The phone didn’t ring that night. Or the next. I kept a low profile at school. I got up early, stayed up late, and held my world together through sheer force of will. It wasn’t much of a routine, but it was mine. By Thursday afternoon, I’d stopped expecting the worst.
That was a mistake.
Standing in the middle of the paddock, my feet planted wide and my arms hanging loose by my sides, I eyed the horse channeling Beelzebub a few feet away. “Hey now,” I said softly. “That’s not very ladylike.”
The animal’s nostrils flared, but she didn’t rear back again.
“Someday,” I murmured, my voice edging up on a croon, “I’d like to meet your first owner in a dark alleyway.” Behind me, the sound of creaking wood alerted me to the arrival of company. I half expected that to send the horse into another fit, but instead, the animal took a few hesitant steps toward me.
“She’s beautiful.”
I froze. I recognized that voice—and instantly wished that I hadn’t. Two words. After all this time, that was all it took.
My chest tightened.
“I’ll be a while,” I said. I didn’t let myself turn around. This particular visitor wasn’t worth getting riled up over.
“It’s been too long, Tess.”
Whose fault is that? I didn’t bother responding out loud.
“You’re good with her. The horse.” Ivy didn’t sound the least bit angry at being ignored. That was the way it was with her—sugar and spice and everything nice, right up to the point when she wasn’t.
Go away, I thought. The horse in front of me gave a violent jerk of her head, picking up on the tension in my body. “Hey,” I murmured to her. “Hey now.” She slammed her front hooves into the ground. I got the message and began to back away.
“We need to talk,” Ivy told me when I reached the outer limits of the paddock. Like her presence on the ranch was an everyday occurrence. Like talking was something the two of us did.
I jumped the fence. “I need a shower,” I countered.
Ivy could not argue with my logic. Or more likely, she chose not to. I had the sense that the great Ivy Kendrick was the kind of person who could successfully argue just about any point—but what did I know? It had been almost three years since the last time I’d seen her.
“After your shower, we need to talk.” Ivy was nothing if not persistent. I deeply suspected that she wasn’t used to people telling her no. Luckily, there were benefits to being the kind of person known for taking my time with words. I didn’t have to say no. Instead, I walked toward the house, my stride outpacing hers, even though she had an inch or two on me.
“I got a call from your guidance counselor,” Ivy said behind me. “And then I made some calls of my own.”
Her words didn’t slow me down, but my gut twisted like a wet towel being wrung out and then wrung out again.
“I talked to the ranch hands,” Ivy continued.
I climbed up on the front porch, flung open the door, and let it slam behind me when I’d stepped inside. There was a time when slamming a door would have drawn my grandfather’s attention. He would have called me a heathen, threatened to scalp me, and sent me back out onto the porch to “try again.”
Not anymore.
Ivy’s been asking questions. I escaped to the second floor but couldn’t get away from the certainty bubbling up inside me. She knows.
“Enjoy your shower,” Ivy called after me. “Then we’ll talk.”