The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope - By Rhonda Riley Page 0,170

They don’t seem to be able to transform themselves as you have. I think they will always be women, like me. But in this other way, they may be like you. If they are, they will need you. You should stay as you are, the man they have known as their father, and I’m not saying this just to avoid spinning new lies or to spare you the physical pain of aging. Our daughters will need you here with them. When their husbands are old men, if they still look like thirty-year-olds, they’ll need someone who has been through this to guide them. And when their husbands are old men, I won’t be here.” My jaw clenched on my last words.

His eyes widened. A dark, horrible grief flashed across his face and something in him seemed to collapse. He nodded his agreement as he opened his arms.

We wept, holding each other as all around us dawn broke.

In the months that followed, we made love more frequently, Adam embracing me as if touch could alter what words were powerless to change. At times, I had the impression that he was trying to absorb from me the aging process itself or to literally press his youthfulness into me.

For me, the sorrow came in waves. My heart, at times, awash in loss.

I’d always known there would be an eventual, inevitable parting, but now I understood its approach and the difficulties it would, in time, bring. However extraordinary he was, we were, in this respect, very ordinary.

Soon after we returned from Kentucky, one of Adam’s favorite thoroughbred mares, Rose of Jericho, was ready to breed. Over the years, our business had settled on breeding and boarding, mostly thoroughbreds and quarter horses. Adam still had a special talent for handling disturbed horses and rehabilitating misguided riders, but he’d also developed a strong reputation for matching sire to dam for a good foal. By then, we had two stable hands: Manny, our full-time groomer and trainer, and Bruce, a pre-vet student at the university, who helped us part-time when Adam was out of town.

Jericho’s owner, a Jacksonville investment banker and one of our best boarding clients, wanted his most recent purchase, Hurricane, to sire. The stallion, tall and powerful, was broad-hoofed, but a light, swift racer. Jet-black with a startlingly white blaze, he was also temperamental and willful. We did not use artificial insemination. All our horses bred live-cover—a standard practice with some breeds and for some owners who wanted their sire’s line guaranteed, but risky if a stallion became aggressive.

One afternoon, I watched from the kitchen window as Adam led Jericho down the stable to the breeding shed. Within minutes, I heard a horse’s scream. That alone was not unusual, but more screams followed. I recognized the kick of hooves on wood and men’s voices, harsh and alarmed. I started from my chair. Adam appeared at the back door, his shirt bloody. “Call Ray! Now!” he shouted, then dashed back to the stable.

Unnerved by the sight, I dialed Ray Bentley, our veterinarian.

When I hung up, I grabbed gauze, a sheet, scissors, and the extra first-aid kit we kept in the house, then ran to the stable. Bloody footprints led to the first stall, where Jericho lay on her side. Adam and Manny had stripped to the waist. A broad smear of red darkened Adam’s chest. Kneeling at Jericho’s shoulder, he held bloody, wadded-up shirts, one pressed at the base of her neck, the other at her chest. His cheek was abraded, and a long, shallow cut oozed at his bicep.

The mare lay still. Only her eyes moved, wildly. She breathed in staccato snorts.

I heard nothing else, but when I touched Adam’s back, his voice vibrated under my hand. “The vet’s on his way,” I said.

Manny muttered a soothing stream of Spanish as he grabbed the sheet and began tearing it into strips.

“Never seen anything like it!” Adam winced as I handed him two thick gauze pads. “He bit the crap out of her, then all hell broke loose. Rearing. Over and over. His hooves slashing.” He tossed the shirts aside and pressed the gauze firmly to the wounds. “He wanted to kill her. We barely got her out.” Blood blossomed through the compress immediately, oozing around his fingers.

“Loco, loco,” Manny muttered.

Jericho nickered weakly when the vet arrived. Ray shook his head as he knelt to examine the mare. I gasped when he removed the compress. A fist-sized chunk of flesh slid sideways from her withers,