“Of course we’ll wait,” Ryan said as Clyde turned off the engine.
But not everything was still. At the sound of the child’s voice a nicker came from the far field, loud and eager in the night, and then the sound of hoofbeats.
“Tango,” she cried, and a louder whinny reached them and Mindy was racing across the moonlit yard past the house, dropping her backpack, her sweater flying, the child herself flying to the back fence and under it where the big buckskin pony came galloping, still whinnying, so excited he rushed the fence and rushed Mindy. He slid to a stop beside her as she ducked between the rails; her arms went around his neck, he nuzzled and pushed and mumbled the child’s cheek, nosing at her tears, and that made her bawl the harder. Ryan had gotten out, and she was crying, too. And were those tears in Clyde’s eyes? Kit wiped her black-and-brown face with a tortoiseshell paw. If Joe Grey and Pan turned away, it was only because tomcats weren’t supposed to be softhearted. They all watched Mindy slide bareback onto the pony, without even a halter, and ride away into the moonlight.
13
When Mindy scrambled on Tango, she looked back toward the house, too, longing for her grandpa. But he would be asleep, and Grandpa was hard to wake—while Tango was wide awake, bright and sassy with the excitement of her return; he looked away through the pasture and beyond, ready to go anywhere; Tango loved the night; and when she leaned forward he broke into a canter. Her thrill of being home, of being on his back, of guiding the pony with no halter, with only her gentle movements; the thrill of his loving response filled her with the joy she had so longed for. They were together, free, with miles of country around them, just the two of them alone in the moonlight.
Far behind her at the house, Clyde tried the kitchen door, found it unlocked, and he and Ryan stepped in, the door squeaking, the three cats crowding against their ankles. Ryan found the wall switch and turned on the overhead bulb. Harsh light glared in their faces.
They stopped cold.
They stood looking, both guns drawn, as the cats slipped back silently into the shadows. They scanned the open doors and what they could see of the living room—then stared at the floor where the old man lay sprawled silent and unmoving, blood seeping from his torn arm. Blood flowed from his wounded head and face, running across the scarred linoleum. Clyde grabbed his phone and called the chief’s house as Ryan called 911.
Max said, “On my way. Call the station, get a medic. Are you carrying?”
“Did that. Of course we are.” Clyde grabbed the kitchen towels Ryan handed him, they both knelt trying to ease the bleeding but still watching the open doors to the bedrooms and the living room. The three cats slipped away staying to the shadows, meaning to inspect those rooms even before the cops arrived. Ryan couldn’t tell if Zeb was conscious but when she took his hand, his eyes flashed open filled with rage and he came up swinging.
Then he saw who it was, and he lay back down; gently she helped him, supporting his undamaged arm. Clyde said, “Lie still, it makes the bleeding worse. The medics are on the way.” And in the silent night they heard a truck come barreling over the back road from the Harper place, soon they saw its lights out the kitchen window and saw, at the far end of the pasture, the pony veer away to safety, Mindy leaning over him. In minutes they heard the medics’ sirens, too, from the highway, and could hear two cop cars, could see their flashing lights.
As the rescue team pulled into the drive, the kitchen door squeaked open and Mindy stood in the doorway staring down at her grandpa, her face white, the pony pushing through where she’d forgotten to latch the gate, pushing into the house behind her. Ryan put her hand on his nose and backed him out as the little girl knelt beside Zeb.
The next half hour was all confusion, front and back doors wide as the cops cleared the house, the four EMTs bringing in their equipment and a gurney. Ryan led the pony into the pasture and locked the gate properly. Max arrived in wrinkled jeans and a work shirt. He questioned the old man as much as he could, with the medics hushing him as they tried to do their work. Mindy tried to cling to Zeb, but a medic gently moved her away. When Zeb did talk, his speech was shaky, sometimes muddled. “It was the boys, fighting. Fighting bad . . .”
He spit up blood, then spoke more clearly. “I was in bed, I heard a car pull up, heard someone come in . . . I thought a burglar was in Nevin’s bedroom . . . a light went on . . . I put on a robe and went out. It was Nevin . . . rummaging like he was packing some of the stuff he’d left . . .”
He was quiet for a while, then, “I sat down at the table . . . another car wheeled in . . . the kitchen door opened again, I’d forgot to lock it . . . Footsteps . . .”
A medic tried to hush him. “If you’ll be still, maybe I can bring your blood pressure down.”
Zeb paid no attention. “His white hair . . . It was DeWayne, he headed right to Nevin’s bedroom, he must’ve seen his brother’s car . . . maybe seen the light . . . They began talking real loud then yelling at each other. I got myself some crackers and a glass of milk . . . I sat listening to them fighting. I shouted, ‘Keep it down.’ I didn’t give a damn what they were arguing about, I just wanted them out of there.
“Nevin yelled that DeWayne was into his bank statements, that they were all out of order. ‘Or you were,’ he shouted at me. He said he saw my horse one day over at the Harpers’, said maybe I showed them to Harper. He looked back at DeWayne, said, ‘Either him or you were pawing through them.’ They came reeling out to the kitchen stumbling and pounding each other . . . red faces . . . then stopped and stood staring at me.”
Zeb was running out of steam, his voice dropped to a whisper, weak and angry. “I was afraid. Afraid of my own boys.
“Nevin grabbed me, shouted, ‘You know, don’t you, old man! You know about the money. And you know what happened at the bank. You say a word, and Thelma goes to jail right along with me—it was her car—there’ll be no one left at home, and where does that leave your precious Mindy? Child welfare.’”
Mindy stood in the corner against the old refrigerator, stood straight and silent, her face white. She hurt for her grandpa and she prayed for him; but she knew the medics and the doctors would make him all right. And there was something else in her brown eyes besides her worry and pain for Zeb; there was a gleam of fear which, slowly, morphed into the hard look of fight.
This was not the end of her life as she knew it! This was not the beginning of something far worse, of years in child welfare! She’d run away, first, where they’d never find her.
But, watching Max Harper kneeling beside Zeb, she knew that, despite what might happen to her thieving family, Max wouldn’t let her be sent to welfare, that Max and Charlie would somehow see that she stayed with Grandpa; and she leaned down and kissed Zeb on his forehead.
The medic sighed, and grabbed fresh ice packs to ease the bleeding. He wished the child would back off, wished the old man would shut up. The old guy was hyped with anger, and if he had a concussion they couldn’t give him a sedative. He wanted to get him on the gurney, get him to the emergency room.