Hannah sighed and smiled into Grace’s face. “All’s right with the world,” she exclaimed with relief. “He’s got his baby back.”
Grace chuckled as they descended the hill and followed the procession to the barn. Each time she entered it, she felt a flush of pride. Built in the New England Craftsman style, it had a stone foundation, wood paneling, and vaulted ceilings to provide air circulation. She’d embellished the barn with hunter-green metal grilles topped by freshly shined brass finials, and on each of the two gambrel roofs was a weathervane with a fox. Under her feet the hall and stalls were padded with cushy rubber herringbone pavers. She and Charles treasured their horses and provided the best living conditions they could afford.
The air was thick with humidity that clung to the skin, but inside the barn the large and low-speed overhead fans moved air comfortably throughout the space. Charles ushered Butterhead into the first stall, closest to the entrance. Angel slipped the halter off, then gave her ears an affectionate scratch, tracing a finger over the narrow white marking down her nose. His affection for the horse was obvious.
The three other horses in the barn, hearing the commotion, stuck their heads far out of their stalls to check out the newcomer.
“Curious, are you?” Grace asked as she walked to the stall across from Butterhead’s. Inside stood her Percheron/Thoroughbred, Andy. His ancestry was part draft horse, so he was a massive animal. His coat felt like velvet against her palms as she stroked his neck.
“He’s got his eye on the pretty lady,” teased Hannah, also reaching out to pat Andy’s neck.
“Too bad, too sad,” Grace said. “He’s a gelding.”
Grace moved on to greet the two other horses waiting for attention down the avenue of stalls. “This old boy was Moira’s ride in competition,” she said, standing before Quicksand, a gray Irish Sport Horse. “And you remember Superman, Charles’s horse?”
“Yes, he brought him to Florida.” Hannah paused. “Isn’t that the horse that caused the accident?”
Superman, a Dutch Warmblood, moved to the gate and stuck his head out. Grace reached up to stroke his neck. “No, that horse passed.”
“Does Charles have any, you know . . .” Hannah hesitated. “Bad feelings?”
“No, not at all. He took care of him until the day he died. They both were great jumpers in their time. Comrades.” She deftly sidestepped the issue. “All these horses,” she said, letting her gaze sweep across the stalls. “They gave us their all. Now, they’ll enjoy their final years in the pasture. They’ve earned it.”
Hannah turned her head to glance at Butterhead. “It breaks my heart to hear of a horse being discarded when it’s no longer needed.” She nudged Grace. “You can bet that’s not going to happen to me.”
“Don’t get me started,” said Grace with a short laugh. “Seriously, though, Charles and I work with a team that rescues horses from kill lots. Some truly great horses are just tossed aside when they’re used up. It’s heartless. Owning an animal is a lifelong commitment. When their work is done, they’ve earned their rest. And our care.” She paused, then added with a chuckle, “Though we sometimes call this part of the barn the old folks’ home.” She gave Superman a final pat, then turned to walk back toward the stall where Angel and Charles had settled Butterhead.
The mare had fresh water and hay and Angel was brushing her shining coat. Charles opened the stall window that offered the horse a view overlooking the green, rolling hills in the distance. Fresh air circulated with the sounds of chewing as Butterhead bent to her hay.
“She’s one beautiful horse,” Charles said, crossing his arms and watching the mare.
Angel didn’t reply as he tended to his horse.
Grace moved closer. “Where did you get the name Butterhead?”
Hannah burst out with a short laugh. “You tell them,” she said to Angel.
Angel looked up from his task, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth. “It’s, how you say, a nickname. My name for her, you know?” Angel looked at his horse affectionately. “She has great bloodlines. Her lines are perfect. Her movement is fabulous.” He shrugged. “But she has pig eyes. And her nose . . . Roman,” he said, and ran his palm gently down her slightly convex nose. “She is perfect.” He shrugged lightly and cut Grace a telling look. “But for her head.”
“But her head,” Grace repeated, a smile twitching at her lips. “Got it. But I have to ask, what are pig eyes?”
“Oh, you know,” Charles prodded. “Eyes that are too small for the head.”
“And . . .” Angel faced Charles and made a show of narrowing his eyes.
“Squint?” asked Charles.
“Sí, that’s it. They squint.”
“No, they don’t,” Hannah exclaimed, walking up to pat Butterhead’s head. “Don’t you listen to them.”
“Who cares about her eyes?” asked Charles. “She’s a great athlete.”
“Yes!” Angel exclaimed, latching on to that comment. “Exactly. For dressage, maybe looks are important.” He lifted his shoulders as if to say, who cares about that? “But for jumping. We care how high the horse can jump. How fast. And how great a heart. A champion needs that most of all.”
“I agree.” Charles reached out to stroke the mare’s neck, the hair smooth and glossy over her taut muscles. “You are fortunate to have such a fine horse.”
“Yes,” Angel said, running the brush down Butterhead’s coat. “But my heart is broken. Butterhead is no longer able to do Grand Prix. She can still jump lower jumps,” he hurried to add. “That is good enough for most riders, eh?” He looked over his shoulder to Charles for agreement.
Charles nodded. Grand Prix heights were for a select few.
Angel began brushing again, using long strokes. “But I need a Grand Prix horse. Of course, eh? For the Olympics. I must begin training soon. I must find a home for my Butterhead.”
Charles visibly straightened at the remark. “You’re letting Butterhead go?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Angel paused again to look at Charles. He shrugged sadly. “I don’t know.” Angel looked down at the brush in his hands, then moved to the horse’s other side. “I only want what is best for her.”
Grace could see Charles’s blue eyes gleam. Oh, he wanted that horse. Every muscle in his body was twitching. Grace felt her own body shaking, but with fear. She didn’t want to see Charles on any horse again, to see him take the risk of another fall. And a famed jumper like Butterhead? Grace could feel her blood pressure rising.
“Charles,” she said, stepping closer to him. She wanted to break the spell that Angel was casting. “Remember? D or D.” She said this last part in a foreboding tone.
“What’s D or D?” asked Hannah. “Drunk and disorderly?”
Charles cast Grace a half-smile of acknowledgment, then moved closer to pat Butterhead’s neck, letting Grace answer the question.
Alarmed by his budding attachment to the horse, she spoke loudly so he—and Angel—could hear inside the stall.