Catherine Lanigan - Fear Of Falling

He hadn’t really missed having relatives around. Today, the house was filled with friends who had become like family. Austin McCreary was nearly a brother to him. He liked old Mrs. Beabots. But when he got down to it, his life had been wrapped up in his father, his mother and his brothers, this farm and his horses.

He’d never needed much else. Naively, he’d thought it would all go on forever. He’d never once thought about his father dying. Angelo had been the essence of good health and had always had a strong body. Sure, they’d been worried about his heart condition in recent months, but Rafe had chalked it up to a bit of aging. He couldn’t believe there was anything seriously wrong with his dad. He was Angelo. The invincible Italian.

Rafe looked down as he neared the stables. His father had hand-laid the drive and pathways when Rafe was just a baby. Angelo had built half the house with his own hands and as the boys got older, they were expected to do the same. They’d all worked on the barns and the horse stable. Rafe had painted every board, shutter, gate, fence post and board in and around the paddock. He’d hauled dirt, raked loam and planted grass to make the horse arena the finest in the area.

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and looked at them. Rafe had believed he could build a dream with his hands, just as his father had. But they couldn’t stop death. He’d pressed on his father’s chest with all his might, and it hadn’t made a difference. He felt incompetent and inadequate. In the days since Angelo’s collapse, Rafe had wished over and over again that he’d been Nate instead. A heart surgeon. A man who could have saved his father. But he was just Rafe. A farmer. A guy who loved horses and horse racing.

Rafe went into the stable and closed the door behind him. To his left was the tack room and next to it was the office, complete with a sofa and television that Curt used. There were six wide horse stalls to his right. Years ago they’d installed heaters to keep the horses warm during the bitter Indiana winters. Warm, dry air blasted into the hallway between the stalls. It felt good on Rafe’s back as he went over to see Rowan.

Curt must have just cleaned the stall because the concrete floor was strewn with fresh hay. Rowan’s feeder was filled with food, and the plastic water bottle that fed into the trough had been replenished.

Rowan, hearing Rafe’s approach, turned from the back of the stall where he’d been taking a drink and walked to the white half door. The horse raised his neck and bowed his head as he always did when he saw Rafe. It was their greeting. Rowan held his head still for a long moment, as if assessing his owner. Then he put his head on Rafe’s shoulder.

Rafe curled his arms around Rowan’s neck and wept. For three days Rafe had felt a burning inside him that cut off his breath and strangled his heart. Yet even as tears slid down his cheeks and soaked the horse’s mane, the pressure didn’t subside. It grew worse. He nearly fell to his knees but he clung tight to Rowan.

“Sorry, boy.” Rafe didn’t recognize his own voice, raspy and filled with a pain he’d never known. Rafe struggled just to open his eyes. But feeling Rowan’s heartbeat surging through his chest and the warmth of his breath cascading over his shoulder, Rafe suddenly felt safe in a way he hadn’t in a very long time. Rafe had loved his father, but Angelo had rarely shown him physical affection. He hadn’t cradled Rafe in his arms when he fell off a horse, spraining his ankle; or when he nearly drowned in the swimming pool attempting a swan dive when he was eight; or when he’d broken his collarbone during the rival football game his junior year as quarterback.

Every time he’d needed comforting, it was his mother’s arms that held him. Her hands that smoothed his sweaty hair from his face, and her lips that kissed his cheek, giving him the courage to try again.

He’d tried to prove himself to his father, but nothing he’d done had ever been good enough.

Except for Rowan.

This horse had saved Rafe in his father’s eyes. By the time they’d bought Rowan, Rafe had learned how to ride like a jockey, though he was much too tall and at a hundred and seventy-five pounds, far too heavy; but he had the skills. Angelo had seen that and admired it.

But now Rafe’s chance to show his father just what he could do with Rowan was gone.

There was nothing left to prove. Rafe’s dreams were dust in his hands.

Rowan snorted and jerked out of Rafe’s embrace. He backed up and stomped his foot.

“What is it, boy?”

Rowan whinnied. He cocked his head, and Rafe read challenge and chastisement in his eyes.

“You can’t know what I’m thinking,” Rafe said.

Rowan walked back to the door, lowered his nose and pushed Rafe. Hard.

Rafe stumbled backward and nearly slipped on the cement. Extending his arms out to his sides, he caught his balance and righted himself. He stared at his horse. “I get it. You think I’m feeling sorry for myself. Well, I was. I have a right to. Everything has changed.” Rafe’s voice rose as his emotions battled between grief and anger. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. There’s just me and Mica now to run things. That leaves no time for you or for training. Maybe it would be best if I sold you to someone who could do you justice.”

Rowan stood stock-still and leveled his eyes at Rafe.

Rafe rubbed his forehead. “I must be losing it. I wouldn’t do that. I promise. In the long run, you may not like staying with me, but I won’t abandon you.” He put his arm around Rowan and then placed his face against the horse’s neck. Rafe exhaled so deeply he thought he might have expunged all the sorrow and guilt inside him. But when he inhaled again, he felt the same painful barbs clinging to his ribs. Maybe he deserved it.

It was his fault his father was dead.

Just as his dark thoughts were about to overwhelm him, Curt Wheeling came through the door carrying a bucket of feed and a plastic jug of water on his right shoulder. Curt was wearing his familiar plaid wool jacket, faded jeans, Western boots and brown work gloves. He had a horse brush sticking out of his jacket pocket and a red bandanna hanging out of his back pocket like a warning flag.

“Hi, Curt,” Rafe said, releasing Rowan’s neck and swiping his hands over his face to clear any evidence of tears.

“Rafe. Thought you’d be up at the main house.” He put the bucket down and squinted. His bushy gray eyebrows crept together until they were almost a single shelf across Curt’s forehead. “Why aren’t you with your friends and brothers?”

“I needed to get away in the worst way,” Rafe said. Clearly, it was a night for confession.

Pursing his lips, Curt replied, “I understand.” He lowered his head and picked up the tin bucket. “Gotta feed Pegasus. Your mom said she wants to ride in the morning.”

Rafe looked at Rowan. “Yeah?”

“Capital idea if you ask me. Nothing gets the cobwebs out like a ride.”

“Cobwebs?”

“Yeah. Those sticky echoes of all the ‘should haves’ and ‘would haves’ that death brings around.”

“You sound like you know about this kind of...feeling.”

Curt walked to the next stall where Gina’s purebred gray Arabian mare stood. Pegasus was only fourteen point three hands high, just barely making it past the cutoff that distinguished a pony from a horse, but she was regal and strong-boned.

There were three other Arabian horses on the farm: Rocky, the black stallion his father rode, Gabe’s chestnut, Merlot, and Mica’s bay, Misty. Angelo preferred Arabians because they could carry a heavier ride, possessed great endurance and were suited to many types of riding. Thanks to centuries of domestication, Arabians were willing to please, good-natured and quick to learn.