Almost Home. Debbie Macomber

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      Awesome! I chuckled.

      “This is funny to you?” he said.

      “Yep. It is.” I cupped his face, and he turned his head more fully into my palm.

      “It’s a mess.”

      “That, too,” I agreed. I bit my lip but couldn’t suppress my smile. How I wanted that man. He was huggable and kissable, and I had never had such a base, magnetic attraction to any man in my whole life. My body was thrumming for him. Thrumming! “A beautiful mess, though.”

      I saw something flicker in those eyes, eyes that never wavered from mine. “Beautiful, tragic. Complicated. And I really must kiss you again.”

      It was an instant, a millisecond, and we were right back in each other’s arms, sweet, hot, desperate, on-fire kisses, hands going this way and that, legs curved around legs, a roll here and there, an arch or two, a semistraddle.

      Until he pulled away again and panted, “This is out of control.”

      I noticed he was breathing really hard, even harder than me.

      “But it’s fun.” I smiled at him. “So much fun.”

      He gave up, that stressed expression leaving his face as he laughed.

      The dogs circled us, barking, tails wagging.

      “You are a helluva kisser, Zeus,” I muttered.

      And maybe, one day, I could trust this man. Maybe.

      “Hi, Mom,” I said into the phone. “You’re in Dallas? Yes, I got the shiny green coat for winter. It fit perfectly …. I do appreciate the ear flaps on the hood and how the coat reaches my ankles. I resemble an overgrown caterpillar. I’ll take the extra vitamin C and green tea you sent, and I’ll do the earth mud mask …. I love you, too ….”

      Chapter Seven

      Gina Martinez is actually quite famous for her pet-communicating skills. She speaks to animal lovers at conventions all over the country. She’s even been on talk shows and has written newspaper articles about her abilities. She 100 percent believes that she can talk to animals and is quite persuasive.

      She was especially persuasive the next night, when she got me and Brenda in our black burglar outfits once again and drove us down a dark and bumpy road on the south side of the island for the rescue mission. Gina was dressed in purple, head to foot. I have no idea why. Reuby was there, too. He wore black.

      “Don’t take any pictures with your cell phone, Reuby,” Gina warned. “None. We can’t have any evidence.”

      “Got it, Authority Figure. It wouldn’t be cool to be the guy in court who has to tell the judge his mother is a horse thief, he’s got the evidence, and she should go to jail.”

      Gina rolled her eyes. “No wonder your hamster says you drive him crazy, Reuby.”

      I sighed. Now I could add “horse thief” to my resume.

      We watched the dilapidated house and rickety barn where the poor horse who was “battling depression and enduring anxiety attacks” lived. I didn’t know about the anxiety attacks, but there was no disputing Gordon the horse was underfed, sickly, thin, weak, and uncared for, as I had noted days before on our spy mission.

      Red Scanlon, a cantankerous drunk whom everyone on the island hated because he was a cantankerous drunk, would soon leave for the local bar on his bicycle, that was a given. Twice he’d parked his truck sideways in the middle of the main street of the island and passed out after a foray to the bar.

      The second time it happened, with Red locked up in the jail, someone took the truck and exploded it in the middle of a field. The insurance paid out, Red got drunk again, rammed the drugstore with his new truck, almost rammed a kid, and whaddya know, his truck mysteriously ended up in a lake. (Perhaps we did that).

      The chief made sure he lost his license, locked him up again, fined him to the high heavens, and now mean Red was allowed a bicycle.

      When the cantankerous drunk bicycled off five minutes later, we horse thieves pulled our black-knitted hats over our entire faces with only our eyes and mouths showing and went for Gordon.

      Gina turned on the light in that sagging barn as soon as we walked in, and that pathetic, bony horse met my eyes. I wanted to cry. I went over and hugged him with my black gloves.

      “I’ll get the trailer,” Brenda said. Though the black hat covered most of her face, I did not miss the tears in her eyes.

      The next morning the chief was out hunting down the horse.

      Everyone knew that Gina had taken it. About ten people called Gina telling her the chief was on his way out to her property. How did they all know this? The chief stopped by Marci’s Whale-Jumping Café and announced quite loudly that old Red Scanlon’s horse was missing and he knew where he might find it. Apparently Red had roused himself and called in the loss that morning.

      The chief took his time eating his eggs and bacon with three cups of black coffee and pretended not to notice when half the place took out their cell phones.

      When Gina got notice, she trotted Gordon over with Reuby to my place through the field and forest separating our homes.

      Brenda and I met them halfway. I grabbed the reins. Brenda and I were still in pajamas, our hair flattened and sticking out in strange ways. Gina had fed the horse the night before—“I thought he’d never stop eating!”—and had brushed him out. “He says his self-esteem is growing exponentially!”

      “Hey! Can I come over to walk the dogs today, Chalese?” Reuby asked, fiddling with his eyebrow ring.

      “Anytime,” I said. “You can visit the cats, too. I’ve hardly paid them any attention, and they’re getting cranky and spiteful.”

      “Radical. I’m going to take their pictures with my cell phone and put them on my MySpace page.”

      “Fine by me. Shoot away.”

      Brenda and I led the horse with better self-esteem into my dilapidated but clean barn, rustled up fresh food and water, then wearily climbed the stairs to the porch and dropped into the Adirondack chairs to watch the sun warm my land.

      “The horse stealers prevail,” Brenda said, fists shaking victoriously in the air. “We were probably horse rustlers in a previous life, guns hanging all over our hips, big pink cowboy hats, spurs on our silver heels, golden lassos swinging all around.”

      “I think you’re right. I have often felt a real bond with lassos,” I mused. “Horses. Cowboys. The Wild West. Stagecoach drivers. More cowboys.”

      “I think ya got your own cowboy right now, my friend,” Brenda said. “He’s a winner, sweetie. Smart, nice, tight ass, good teeth. Try not to get that suffocating feeling around him, will you? You can do this, you know. To relax, why don’t you dress up as a pirate? That’s what I did the other night with Chatham. I even had a gold ring in my nose. Chatham was the wench.”

      “Man, Brenda. СКАЧАТЬ