I dropped to my knees beside him. I must have looked like I was praying.
Manny stepped forward to pull a blanket over the mare and help Ray collect his tools. Then I heard one of them pour coffee. A spoon clinked on a cup. Footsteps. Then Manny’s hands appeared in front of me, holding half a sandwich and a cup of coffee.
A small dread bloomed in my chest. I steeled myself against that familiar pang of anger and shame, against what I’d seen in the faces of Clarion.
Manny set the sandwich and coffee down on the floor in front of me.
I looked up.
He regarded me only with somber concern and a brief nod. “Eat,” he said.
I picked up the sandwich and pushed myself up off the floor.
Adam didn’t move.
The men turned their gaze expectantly from Adam’s back to me. I saw with a start of relief: their dazed faces were respectful, almost reverent. No judgment, no fear. “Please help yourselves to the food.”
Adam sat, slumped, one hand still resting on Jericho. I held the sandwich out to him.
“I’m okay.” He waved it away.
I followed Ray out of the stall. “Let’s let them rest,” I said and pushed the stall door shut behind us.
The three of us ate quietly, standing up. I was grateful for their silence as the whiskey flask passed from hand to hand.
After we finished the food, Ray squatted beside Adam and, including me with a glance, gave us instructions for Jericho’s care and the dates and times he’d be returning to check up on her. He spoke quietly and to the point, his hand resting on Adam’s shoulder.
Adam, bleary-eyed, simply nodded; then, when Ray was done, asked me if I was okay. “Good,” he muttered when I told him I was fine. Then he returned his attention to Jericho.
I walked Ray outside. I was suddenly reluctant to have him leave and felt I owed him something. He paused at the door of his truck and turned to me as if to speak. But he said nothing, simply opened the door and got into his truck.
I touched his arm propped in the window. “Thank you” was all I could manage.
“I don’t know what to say. I’m glad to have—” He blinked away tears, then sighed.
“You don’t have to say anything, Ray.”
He nodded and drove away.
I returned to the stable to find Manny standing outside the stall as if guarding Jericho and Adam. He startled briefly, then waved his hand indicating the whole stable. “Is so quiet now.”
It was unusually quiet in the stable. I heard only the gentle swish of a horse’s tail, then, from one of the far stalls, the faint rhythm of chewing. Adam slept beside the mare.
“They’ll be okay. You can go now. Go on home. It’s been a long day.”
He studied Adam’s back for a moment. “Gracias,” he whispered with a nod. As he walked to his truck, I saw him cross himself.
My chest still hummed and my ankle felt hot. I went outside and took my first deep breath since Adam had touched me. Overhead, the sky was brilliantly clear, the horizon low and softened by the distant tree line. Florida lay gentle and flat in all directions. Miles away, the sea kept rhythm. Under my feet were the tributaries of springs. This land was different. The men in the stable were not a bunch of stoned hippies, not a congregation in pain. They’d heard a soothing, powerful command, not the rage of loss.
I returned to the house for a sleeping bag and pillows to make him a pallet. Adam slept the rest of the afternoon by Jericho’s side. All day, I could feel the imprint of his hand on my ankle.
Breath, Adam’s and the horses’, purled through the stable when I visited late that night. He lay beautiful in his sleep, his face placid and firm, one hand on the mare’s shoulder. She slept on her opposite side. He must have awakened and gotten her to stand and turn, a good sign. The bandage on her chest was bloody at the center, but the edges were white.
The next day, Manny stopped me on the back porch. He spent his days in the stables and rarely came up to the house. His normal serious, calm demeanor was unchanged. Still, I braced myself.
But there was only kindness and curiosity on his face. “What happened in the stable?” A quiet, almost formal man, he seldom asked me direct questions.
“I don’t know. I really don’t know