Blue Skies by Catherine Anderson
“Are you sure?”
He put his hand to the mare’s muzzle. Sugar expected a treat and chuffed, wiggling her lips over his palm. “See? I’ve still got my hand.” He grasped Carly’s wrist and shoved her slender fingers under the mare’s nose. “Don’t be afraid.”
“Oh, God.” Rigid with tension, she squeezed her eyes closed, clearly expecting to lose half her arm. After a moment, she lifted her lashes and giggled at the ticklish sensation of the horse’s lips on her skin. Hank wished he could nibble on her for a while. “She’s so soft,” she whispered.
“Like velvet,” he agreed, remembering how soft her legs had felt last night. He released his hold on her. “Go ahead and pet her. She’s a big sweetheart.” When Carly hesitated, he laughed. “I’d never tell you to do something if you might get hurt. This horse is so gentle I could lay a newborn at her feet.”
Carly stepped closer. Soon she was touching Sugar’s ears and running her slender hand over the mare’s mane. “Oh,” she kept saying. “You’re so sweet.”
The sentiment seemed to be mutual. As if Sugar recognized a gentle soul, she began nickering and nudging Carly for more petting.
“I think she likes me,” Carly said with a laugh.
What wasn’t to like? Hank liked her, too. Perhaps more than was wise. Uncertain what to do with the emotions she evoked within him, he turned away.
“This is Sonora Sunset, Molly’s stallion,” he said at the next stall. “Poor fellow was whipped within an inch of his life. Molly showed up here one day in a Toyota, pulling a huge two-horse trailer. Sunset was inside, raising sand and shrieking to wake snakes in six counties. That’s how Molly met Jake.”
Carly came to stand by the gate, her stricken gaze moving over the stallion’s scarred black coat. “How awful,” she said softly. “Who did that to him?”
“Molly’s ex, Rodney Wells. He’s a sick son of a bitch.” Hank realized what he’d said and rubbed his jaw. “Sorry. I need to watch my language.”
Carly suppressed a smile. “Your language doesn’t offend me, Hank. I’ve heard much worse.”
“From who? He needs to learn some manners.”
“I went to college, remember—a special school for the blind my first year, but then I mainstreamed at Portland University. On a campus, people use all kinds of expletives.” She fixed her attention on the horse again. “Why did Molly bring a wounded stallion to Jake? Tucker’s the vet.”
“So’s Isaiah. They’ve started a practice together.” He hooked an arm around the stallion’s sturdy neck. “Molly wasn’t looking for a vet. She needed a horse psychologist. Sunset was loco from all the abuse.”
“Jake is a horse psychologist?”
“He and I have a way with horses. A lot of people think we’re horse whisperers. Molly heard about Jake through a trainer, and she brought Sunset here in hopes that Jake could save him from being put down.”
Watching Hank with the stallion, Carly could see that he had a way with the animals. “Are you?” she asked.
He flicked her a quizzical look. “Am I what?”
“A whisperer.”
His white teeth flashed in a teasing grin. “I’ll whisper in your ear any old time you want.”
Carly could well remember the shivers that had run down her spine when he had. She hugged her waist. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” His grin broadened, and he winked. “In answer to your question, no, I’m not a horse whisperer. Is there such a thing?”
“I don’t know. Is there?”
“I doubt it. I’m good with horses, is all. No big mystery. They’re just like people, with fears and phobias, likes and dislikes. Some trainers are old school. They use harsh methods to get the job done. Others take a more gentle approach, but they’ve got a set way of doing things, regardless of the animal. Jake and I follow our instincts and take our time, always bearing in mind that each horse is different and may need different handling.” A teasing twinkle warmed his sky-blue eyes. “They’re sort of like women that way.”
Carly chafed her arms.
“You cold?”
“No.” She was, actually, but she hesitated to say so. He wore no jacket and might offer to share his body heat. She gingerly touched the stallion’s nose.
“He’s a big old love, just like Sugar,” Hank assured her. “Didn’t used to be, but Molly brought him out of it. He’s gentle as can be now—for a stallion.”
Carly jerked her hand away. “What’s that mean?”
Hank grinned and turned to lead the way deeper into the stable. Trailing behind him, Carly admired the graceful harmony of his movements. His long legs bowed out slightly at the knee, a trait she’d noticed in his father and all his brothers as well. She assumed it came from sitting in a saddle so much of the time. Whatever the cause, it was attractive, giving him a rugged air that went well with his broad-shouldered, tapered torso.
He stopped at each open stall to introduce her to the occupant. Carly knew she’d promptly forget the horses’ names.
“Are the closed stalls vacant?” she couldn’t resist asking.
“Nope. Mamas and babies, down for the night.” At the end of the aisle, he gestured at two stalls that were larger than all the others. “Our version of birthing chambers,” he explained. “They’re bigger so the mare can comfortably lie down and stretch out her legs. We do imprinting in here as well.”
“You brand your horses?” Carly had always felt that the practice was cruel, and she couldn’t conceal her disapproval.
“Imprinting isn’t branding. Most folks don’t do that anymore.” He studied her indignant expression for a moment, then chuckled and scratched under his hat. “Instead of branding, a lot of people tag the ears—kind of like a lady getting her ear pierced. The more expensive horses get ID chips, little information crystals inserted under the skin, or we tattoo the inside of an ear. It doesn’t hurt.”
“Oh.” She was relieved. “What’s imprinting, then?”
“Baby training, essentially. I’ll bring you down to watch sometime—or better yet, to help. It’s fun. Imprinting is basically situational conditioning begun directly after birth and continued over the first several months of life. You get a foal used to all the things that might frighten it as an adult. Imprinting is a lot of work, but in the end, the horse is better off. We seldom have to hobble an imprinted horse, and we hardly ever have to use a twitch. In short, imprinted horses are better adjusted, happier animals, and they’re a joy to work with.”
“What’s a twitch?”
He rubbed his jaw. “It’s a contraption that pinches the nose, one of the most sensitive spots on a horse’s body. You anchor the twitch with just enough tension to make it hurt like hell. If the horse moves, it hurts a whole lot worse.”
“That’s horrible.”
“It’s necessary with a horse that refuses to stand while you give it shots or treat a wound. They’re big, strong critters. You can’t muscle them around. Try, and they’ll show you how the cow ate the cabbage.” His mouth tipped in a slight smile. “Now you can understand why we imprint our foals. We don’t enjoy inflicting pain on a horse. Our imprinted animals seldom have to be subdued. We subject the foals to every conceivable experience, over and over again, until they think nothing of it. As adults, they do a horse version of a yawn while they’re shoed or vaccinated or doctored. Not much throws them.”
“Anything that saves them from a twitch has my vote.”
He glanced at his watch. “We should head back to the house. The stew should be about done.”
As Hank led the way from the stable, he couldn’t help but remember all the girlfriends he’d brought out to the ranch over the years. Most of them had mixed with horses like oil with water. Carly didn’t even seem to notice the horse shit, a fact that was driven home to Hank when she stepped in a fresh pile.
“Uh-oh.” She shook her leg, trying to dislodge the smelly gook. “Oh, yuck. Is that what I think it is?” She
“If you’re thinking it’s horse shit, go to the head of the class,” he said, going back to grasp her elbow.
Hank expected her to be pissed about her shoe. Instead she laughed and glanced around, looking like someone who’d just wandered into a minefield.
He guided her around the bombs as they left the building, smiling at the way she shook her foot every few steps. Once outside, she stopped to rub her shoe clean on the grass. She got all but a couple of blobs. Hunkering down, Hank grasped her ankle to turn her foot. She jumped at the contact and almost toppled over backward.
“Whoa.” He grabbed her by the waistband of her jeans to steady her. When she caught her balance, he returned his attention to guiding her foot. “Now swipe,” he instructed.
When her sneaker was clean, he pushed erect. She wrinkled her nose and smiled at him. “One of the dangers of an untrained visual cortex. I can’t detect irregularities on a ground surface. I never knew the manure was there until it went squish under my foot.”
The way she said “squish” set Hank to laughing again.
Hank lay on his back, arms folded beneath his head, feet dangling over the end of the mattress. Moonlight spangled the cedar ceiling of the back bedroom, the shadowy patterns shifting as the night wind swayed the trees outside the window. He couldn’t sleep for thoughts of Carly—how she’d timidly petted the horses at first and then warmed to them; how she’d laughed over the manure on her shoe; how startled she’d been by the touch of his hand on her ankle; and how painfully nervous she’d been later when they returned to the house.
She was so beautiful he ached when he looked at her. He wished he could tell her that, but if he tried, she’d just think it was another hokey come-on line. She’d made that blatantly clear last night.
No question about it, he was swimming upstream against a strong current with her, and the best he could probably hope for was friendship. That frustrated him. He’d hoped, perhaps foolishly, that they might make this marriage work. But the more he was around her, the more convinced he became that he’d burned his bridges with her. Some screw-ups couldn’t be fixed, plain and simple, and he’d screwed up big time. She had it in her mind that a second go-round with him would be awful, and he had no idea how to disabuse her of the notion.
So . . . friendship, it would be. All and all, that would be better than nothing. When she filed for divorce and moved out, they’d be able to keep in contact and work together at parenting, making things easier on their child.
Hank sighed and closed his eyes. Friendship. He could think of far more satisfying ways to spend two years with a beautiful woman, but a man didn’t always get his druthers.
Chapter Fifteen
Over the next couple of days, making friends with Carly became Hank’s goal. In order to accomplish that, the first order of business was to make her feel at ease with him. To that end, he began calling her at different times during the day, just to say hi. He invariably caught her busily at work, trying to train her visual cortex. One afternoon, she was going through all the kitchen drawers, identifying utensils by touch.
“There’s this thing,” she informed him. “It has handles you squeeze, with a little box at the end that has a bunch of small holes. I have no idea what it is.”
Hank thought for a moment. “A garlic press?”
“Excuse me,” she said with mock seriousness. “I’m asking you.”
He laughed. “It has to be a garlic press.” He explained how the peeled cloves are pushed through the holes. “It works, slick as greased owl shit.”
“What a nauseating comparison. A garlic press. Hmm. That goes on my list of new things to try. When can we press garlic?”
Hank hung up smiling. Most people would feel silly not recognizing a garlic press, but Carly took it in stride, determined to learn all that she could as quickly as possible.
At other times when Hank phoned, he interrupted her daily eye-exercise regime. The specialist had given her charts to tack to a wall. One was headed by the basic colors, and below was a diagram, showing many of the possible shades that could be created by blending the basics. Another was a chart of shapes and symbols—shapes, squares, triangles, figure eights, and the like. Carly spent hours working to train her visual cortex to recognize them on sight. One morning, Hank walked in to catch her trying to work what looked like a child’s puzzle. She quickly dumped the pieces back into the box and shoved it under the sofa, clearly embarrassed to have him know that she was struggling to master an activity that a five-year-old could easily do. The discovery enabled Hank to better understand the battle she was waging. It was horribly difficult for her to fit certain shapes together, something that most people had been doing all their lives.
In order to spend more time with her, Hank began taking all his meals at the cabin. He ate poached eggs on toast for breakfast because the smell of fried food made her sick, settled for sandwiches at lunch, and donned an apron at night to help prepare dinner.
After the kitchen was tidied, he used the hours before bedtime to take her to the main house to visit with Jake and Molly or to recline with her in the living room to watch TV or chat. Their time alone together was always tense. While walking, she kept an arm’s length between their bodies and didn’t say a whole lot. At the house, she sat across the room from him and fidgeted, toying with her clothes or plucking at the fringe of a sofa pillow. She frequently said goodnight early, claiming exhaustion.
All Hank’s life, he’d been told that he had more charm than all his brothers combined. He tried using it to best advantage with Carly. But in the end, Hank was the one to be charmed.
If there was a character trait he most admired, it was courage, and Carly proved to be the most determined, courageous individual he knew. Though he suspected her eyesight was growing worse, she never so much as hinted that she was worried or experiencing any difficulty.
When he returned to the cabin to check on her at various times throughout the day, he often found her poring over books she’d brought with her from the apartment. Sometimes she studied a tome titled What’s What, a visual glossary of everyday objects. Other times, she worked on recognizing the letters of the alphabet. The print in her books was small, forcing her to lean close with her nose mere inches from the page, and more times than not she propped an elbow on the table, absently rubbing her temple as if she had a headache.
Hank wanted to ask why she tortured herself. She wouldn’t be able to see a damned letter soon, let alone recognize one. Why get headaches for no good reason? Her determination to train her visual cortex worried him as well. Was she ignoring the obvious and clinging to the false hope that she wouldn’t lose her sight during her pregnancy?
On Wednesday afternoon, five days after their marriage, Hank returned to the house unexpectedly to change his shirt. When he found Carly with her nose in a book again, he could keep quiet no longer.
“Honey, couldn’t you put your time to better use?”
She cast him a bewildered look. “Why do you say that?”
Careful, Hank. “According to your doctor, it’s possible that your eyesight may go before the baby comes. If that happens, what good will it do to recognize your letters on sight?”
Hank half expected her to get upset. If he were faced with going blind again, he sure as hell wouldn’t appreciate a reminder. But Carly only smiled.
“Some lattice patients skate through pregnancy without a problem.”
“So your sight seems to be holding steady?”
“Not holding steady, exactly.”
Hello? If her sight was growing worse, she obviously wasn’t going to skate through. “That’s not a good indication, is it?” he asked cautiously.
“No.” Her smile dimmed. But then she brightened again. “Lattice is unpredictable. Every patient is different, and every pregnancy is different. The disease may do damage swiftly, leaving me blind as a bat in only a few months—or it may go like wildfire and then slow down. I
Hank believed in positive thinking. He just didn’t want her to be disappointed. A few months? Even though she’d noticed the deterioration of her vision, she obviously hadn’t faced the truth yet, that she might go blind in a very short while.
“I’ve known people with lattice who’ve never gone completely blind,” she said. “They’re legally blind, of course, but they can still see to some degree for years and years. Who can say how severe my lattice actually is?”
She’d been totally blind, hadn’t she? How much worse could it get?
“In addition to the lattice, I was born with congenital cataracts,” she explained. “Which condition initially caused my blindness? Everyone assumes it was due to both conditions, but what if it wasn’t? Maybe the lattice wasn’t that bad when I was born, but worsened over time, and the initial blindness was caused by the cataracts.”
Uncertain what to say, Hank sank onto a chair to study her small face. On the one hand, he could understand her reasoning—and her frantic hope that the lattice by itself wouldn’t rob her of sight that quickly. On the other hand, he’d seen evidence that her vision was deteriorating at a rapid rate. If it hadn’t escaped his notice, how had it escaped hers?
Maybe, he decided, she had noticed—and she was simply choosing to be optimistic until life kicked her in the teeth again. Taking measure of her determinedly cheerful grin, he wanted to weep for her.
“Well, I guess we’ll wait and see. Maybe you’ll be one of the lucky ones.”
She nodded. “Please don’t think I have my head buried in the sand. I know the odds are stacked against me.” She rested her chin on her hand and narrowed her lovely eyes slightly to search his expression. “You look worried. There’s no reason to be.”
Hank rubbed beside his nose. Worried? He was heartsick.
“I’m a big girl, Hank. If the worst happens, I’ll deal with it.”
How could she sit there and look so calm? No tears, no outrage, no shaking her fist at God. He’d never even seen her act mildly depressed. Instead, she seemed at peace about it. Searching her expression, he knew she really was aware of the odds and that she would accept whatever came. The thought of being trapped in darkness for months on end terrified him. Carly might not be happy about the possibility, but she wasn’t quailing in fear, either.