Ruth Logan - Healing The Cowboy's Heart

“Is your daughter strong enough to handle this?” She jutted her chin toward the group of watchful teens.

“My niece, actually. And yes. She’s quite strong. Why?”

“Watching animals die is no picnic. And you and I both know this one’s on shaky ground.”

Regardless he still had to try. “We’ll do our best and leave the rest in God’s hands.”

Doubt clouded her features. “Whoever left the fate of these animals to God didn’t give them much of a fighting chance, did they?”

He faced her, calm and cool, and made sure she understood exactly what he wanted to say. “He brought them here, where they’re surrounded by helping hands. I’d say He’s done all right.”

She didn’t argue with him, but her expression indicated she wasn’t buying into his reasoning.

No matter.

He needed her help. She needed work. They didn’t have to get along or be friends, but when she murmured soft words of encouragement as they moved the mare forward, he wondered how someone so innately gifted with horses could be that far removed from God?

That was her business. Not his. And he would have enough on his plate once people realized that he’d just gone against a two-decades-old death sentence. A sentence that had never been carried out. A sentence decreed against a horse who hadn’t done one thing wrong.

God had given him the chance to fix an old mistake. One way or another he was going to make up as much of that error as he could, and that would depend on how long Ginger and her baby lived.

Isaiah Woods’ ranch was about the prettiest thing Char had ever seen, and that was saying something for a girl raised on an elite Kentucky horse farm.

She drove her van beneath a wooden arch that read Dancing Meadows and was pretty sure she’d taken a step back in time. An L-shaped rustic log cabin stood to her right, shaded by towering pines. Wind chimes hung from the braces connecting the wooden porch pillars. They jangled a mix of sounds into the afternoon breeze as sunlight bathed the western side of the house. The natural light deepened the golden tones of the wooden logs. The whole thing created a suitable-for-framing Western-ranch image. As she followed the graveled drive to a system of pristine barns, she angled the van to the left and then paused.

Three meadows spread out behind the barns. Two lay fairly flat, with an occasional dip and roll. The third went up a hill toward the deepening forest that served as the backdrop to this beautiful landholding. But it wasn’t the pretty green pastures that brought her to a stop.

It was the amazing array of colorful Appaloosas that made Char catch her breath.

Grays. Chestnuts. Buckskins. Blues. It was like viewing her favorite childhood poem, the one Corrie would sing to her, lulling a busy girl to sleep with promises of a new day coming. Hushabye. Don’t you cry... Go to sleep, little lady... When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses.

Her heart went tight, remembering. Corrie Satterly had cared for all three of the Fitzgerald girls, from the time her oldest sister, Lizzie, was a baby. She had surrounded Lizzie, Melonie and Char with faith, hope and love. And yet...despite Char’s love for her surrogate mother...it never seemed to be enough. Someday she’d have to take some time and figure out why. But not today.

“You like our horses?”

She turned, surprised.

A copper-haired boy faced her, and then he hopped up on the fence and pointed. “See that blue roan?”

There were several, but she saw the one he meant right off. “With the wider blanket.” To the right a gorgeous horse stood slightly apart. The blue-gray coloration faded as it reached the horse’s back, then merged with a wide blanket of pale cream, lightly speckled. “She’s a stunner.”

“She’s named after me. Liam’s Little Lady because we were born on the same day. Only I’m eight and she’s four.”

“A birthday present.”

His eyes shined when he looked at her. “Yes, that’s right. And I remember my daddy holding me up and saying, ‘Well, then, what do you think, boy?’”

“And what did you think?” asked Char.

“I thought we would be like that forever.” His voice went soft. He stared out at the horses as if suddenly watching a different kind of scene. “All of us here, with Uncle Isaiah, eating rice pudding and raising horses.”

Sadness wound through his words, enough to keep Char from asking questions.

“Doctor?” The teen girl—he’d called her J.J. at the Armbrusters’—came their way from a service barn. A big red-gold dog trotted alongside her, ears up, tail wagging. A family kind of dog, happy and healthy. “We’re over here.”

Char indicated the passenger seat to the boy. “Want a lift?”

The boy shook his head. “Uncle Isaiah says if you can walk it, walk it. And if you can run it? Better yet.” He dashed off in the direction of the older barn.

Wise words.

Char followed, then pulled the van near the broad, open doors facing the driveway. In a time when many old barns were in a state of neglect, this one wore its age with dignity. Three extra-large stalls lined the western wall, while neatly stacked hay and straw did the same on the opposite side.

“You came straight over.”

Oh, that voice. His voice.

It drew her, but it wasn’t just his voice. There was something else. Something in the firm, strong way he stood. His quiet demeanor. No excessive movements, as if simple stoicism meant more than meaningless activity. She didn’t mention that she hurried this way because Ginger’s prognosis was the trickiest. He already knew that. “I wanted to see her settled.”

He led her to a big stall. The floor was thick with clean yellow straw. The chestnut roan was snatching hay from a wall-mounted hayrack. Nearby a clean water trough was full. A broad Dutch door faced the outdoors. The top half of the door stood open, bathing the stall in fresh air and light, while the bottom half of the door was firmly latched.

“Hey, pretty.”

Ginger perked her left ear when Char spoke, but kept right on eating.

“I hate to interrupt the first solid meal she’s had in who knows how long.”

Caring. Kind. A man of conviction. Not exactly the kind of man she was used to. Was that her fault? Or theirs?

“Can we put off the testing for a day?” he continued.

She faced Isaiah as the two kids came into the barn. J.J. came their way. Liam hung back, close to the haystacks. The dog sat by his feet, quietly watching the scene unfold.

“My thoughts exactly. Let’s let her get her bearings, and we’ll run tests tomorrow. Right now good hay, fresh water and a clean stall are her best friends, and you’ve taken care of that.”

“That was all J.J.” He settled that look of pride on the girl again. “She’s my right-hand gal with horses and she’s already determined that Ginger’s going to make it.”

Char could write the girl a list of reasons why the horse probably wouldn’t make it, but they’d face those hurdles in the days to come. “I like a solid optimist,” Char told her as she extended her hand to the girl. “Especially when optimism is paired with a good work ethic. I’ll come by first thing in the morning and take some samples. In the meantime I want to do a general deworming and start a course of antibiotics for whatever is causing that runny nose and cough. We’ll go more specific if needed when we have the test results.”

“Shouldn’t she have a bath?” asked J.J. “I think she’d feel better after one, don’t you?”

“She’d look better to us, but for her comfort’s sake, let’s just worry about food, water and the cleanliness of her surroundings right now. I promise you if this works, she’ll look a lot better four weeks down the road.”