The Blessings of the Animals: A Novel - By Katrina Kittle Page 0,46

I carried a steaming cup outside, where Muriel met me on the porch and escorted me down to the barn, her little tail twitching.

Biscuit’s stall was empty. I looked at the rosy sunrise and figured Gabby was out on a trail. A bike path and bridle trails ran between the end of our back fence line and the highway.

I gathered the buckets, hoof pick, and Epsom salts I’d use once Helen arrived, then sat on an upside-down bucket in the barn lot. I watched the sun rise, cradling my coffee cup in my lap. Muriel knelt beside me, only her front legs folded, her rear high in the air.

My daughter’s soft laughter—one of my favorite sounds in the world—made me turn to see her approaching bareback on Biscuit. “You two look like you’re praying,” she said.

I smiled. “Maybe we are.”

Gabby walked Biscuit close to me. “Yep,” she said, lying down along his neck and hugging him, her dark hair intermixing with his golden mane. “This is my church.”

I scratched the coarse hair along Muriel’s back. “Mine, too.”

Gabriella wore a helmet but it wasn’t snapped, and she had only a cotton lead rope looped through Biscuit’s halter, no bit.

Biscuit nickered amiably to Moonshot, who bared his teeth. Biscuit flicked his ears, nonplussed, then bent his nose to Muriel. They exchanged breath. “I read somewhere,” Gabby said, watching them, “that if you blow into a baby bison’s nostrils, he’ll follow you anywhere.”

“Hmm. Too bad I don’t know any baby bison to test this.” I’d personally always thought that animals smell our breath because they’re able to smell our intent. I’d lately become envious of this ability. “I wish you would talk to your dad.”

She sat up and entwined her fingers in Biscuit’s mane. “Did he call you?”

I didn’t answer one way or the other. “We’re all trying to figure out how to make this work, but he’s your father, Gabriella. I don’t want you to lose your relationship with him.”

“He’s your husband, and he threw your relationship down the toilet.”

I swallowed. Her anger seemed to radiate from her in waves. “I just want you to know,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “that what happened between your father and me has nothing to do with you, and it did not ‘wreck’ me. It’s a whole separate—”

“And what did happen between you?” Her face was flushed, her lip curled back. Even sweet Biscuit raised his head, agitated. “Nothing, right? He just up and left. He’s an asshole.”

“Gabriella. It’s more complicated than that. He’s been very unhappy for a—”

“God, listen to yourself, Mom. Why are you defending him? Have some self-respect.”

Thank God, she swung herself down from Biscuit and led him into the barn before I could speak. If a horse hadn’t been between us, I might have yanked her by that auburn hair and slapped her face. I felt like she’d slapped me. But what smacked the hardest against my cheekbones was the realization that I’d said those same things to my mother.

I sat seething until Tyler walked into the barn lot. He carried a box from David’s Hot Buns. He could barely meet my eyes, and two red spots appeared high in his cheeks.

Oh, God. I remembered what I’d asked him. He was smart enough to know what his bungled answer had revealed.

“Hey,” I said lightly. “I’ve got a veterinary situation you might be interested in.”

When Gabby walked out of the barn, I saw the flash of pain that crossed her face before she hid it behind a mask of cool indifference. “You’re early,” she said.

“I know.” Tyler held up the box. “I thought we could have breakfast. I got your favorite.”

“I still have to shower,” she said, walking away, not even thanking him.

I itched to follow her up the path and shake her shoulders. She was a better person than this! Why was she being so coldhearted? She was acting just like Bobby.

Tyler looked crushed. “She and I just had an argument,” I said to him. “I think you got blasted with the aftereffects.”

He looked grateful but said, “That’s more than she’s spoken to me all week, unless we’re talking about debate.”

Fortunately, Helen arrived, distracting us.

Helen held Moonshot’s halter as she had last night while I leaned into him to pick up his foot. Again he seemed in worse pain when the foot was held off the ground, which didn’t make sense to me. I tried to work quickly with the hoof pick, prying loose the embedded layers of dirt, gravel,