

Still Life

A NOVEL

Sean Gleason

CITY THAT WORKS

Newcastlewest Books

Copyright © 2017 by Sean Gleason

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Newcastlewest Books

First Edition: October 2017

ISBN: 978-0-9967131-5-3

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

www. newcastlewestbooks.com

This novel is dedicated to the equine therapy volunteers who bring joy to those with special needs. For more information on therapeutic riding, please visit PATH International at https://www.pathintl.org/.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

About The Author

ONE

Gravel crunched under car wheels, the sound of time running out. The cobweb would have to be left to dance in the late afternoon sun, and Louisa could only hope that the special someone coming to meet her would not notice.

Bourbon County was full of special someones, the sort of people who could make Bedford Farm a booming success. All she needed was one more influential client to make her name among the horse aristocracy. One more influential client and she would show her family how wrong they were when they mocked her dream and cast her out.

"Well, we can't control fate," she said to her daughter, brushing a few stray horse hairs from her jeans. She turned the knob of the kitchen door and paused to catch her breath. "But we can show our best face. Can you do that for me, sweetie?"

The candy apple pink Mercedes had only just come to a stop when Evelyn Cawthon jumped out, arms spread to embrace her tenant. Sporting her usual helmet of platinum blonde hair shellacked into submission, a mink coat buttoned up to her throat, the well-heeled matron radiated control. There was no avoiding the hug, no matter how awkward Louisa felt.

"Say the word, sugar, and I'll have my girls delivered by morning," Evelyn said. Not a word about costs, as if it was a done deal. Before Louisa could respond, Evelyn kept right on going, describing the mares, already in foal, sired by champions and bound to generate all kinds of buzz at the auction next year. "Oh, my, I have forgotten my manners. I haven't introduced you to Norma."

One of horse country's royals, Norma was the very sort of person that Louisa wanted to meet. The success of her stable depended on such people, owners with the means to pay someone to care for their expensive investments. It was clear that she knew a thing or two about the industry when she asked for a tour of the facilities. "We don't have to rush into things, now, Evelyn," she said. "Let's see where they'll be living first."

This was the time to make a phenomenal impression, to concentrate on the sales pitch she had practiced all morning. Louisa indicated the small barn with a wave of her hand, the best place to start. Before she took two steps she heard the car door open. There was a third member of the party, a man who could have been thirty or sixty, with an unlined face and a full head of stark white hair. The corner of his mouth turned up in a charming grin and he winked at Chloe. When he did not make an effort to join the others, Louisa guessed that he was a very well-dressed chauffeur. She focused her attention on business and trotted after her potential clients.

She brought them to the first stall where her prize mare was snuffling oats. Eating money, Louisa wanted to say, to admit that she was as much a gambler as any of her clients. There were never any guarantees in the horse business, and the foal that would drop in late winter could make or break her operation, all on the vagaries of genetic expression. As she turned to close the stall door she almost collided with the gentleman who had decided to join the group after all. His lingering glance caught her by surprise, stealing her breath away. He reminded her of someone, but who? Before she could figure it out, he strode to the back of the barn where the door of the warming room hung open. "What's hiding in here?" he asked.

She was turning the space into an art studio, and did not want to share any of her works in progress with strangers. Too late to stop him after he barged in like he owned the place. Louisa dropped Chloe's hand and ran after him, but he had already removed the canvas drape from the oil painting on the easel. "Come see this, Mama," he shouted. He was no driver. He was Evelyn's son, the resemblance unquestionable.

The pencil lines on the canvas were growing faint with age, so little time did Louisa have to paint. She didn't have time to finish tricking out the studio, let alone complete the portrait that she had promised to give her best friend for Christmas. She sidled between two stacks of uncut two-by-fours and banged her knuckles against the edge of a sheet of drywall as her hand shot out to regain control of her artwork.

"A self-portrait, Ms. Patch?" he asked, a mischievous twinkle in his brown eye. The figure in the painting was nude and unquestionably female.

"A friend," Louisa said.

"Artists are more open-minded than most folks around here," he said, perusing the oil with a collector's eye. "Might I ask you a personal question? Your little girl, she suffered a traumatic brain injury at birth? Was the case settled?"

"Out of court, yes," Louisa said. It was true, what he had heard, the detritus of her past becoming local gossip in the small town. She could not imagine why he was the least bit interested in her private life. "Settled too quickly, but I didn't realize it until after the fact."

"Legally, there's nothing more to be done," he said. "It happens all the time, though. How can anyone think straight when they're in shock?"

"Really, Judge, you could have stayed in the car," Evelyn said. "No need to catch your death."

"I changed my mind is all," he said. With that, Evelyn's face lit up, only to dim when Judge tacked on a disclaimer. He had only changed his mind about the horse-owning syndicate.

Her neighbors had told her about Evelyn Cawthon's son, a few stray comments that had not registered until she saw the truth of those remarks. A man tied to his mother's apron strings, held on a short leash. See one, see the other. It wasn't easy to swallow down the laugh that bubbled up when she noticed Evelyn worming her way over to her son's side.

"This thoroughbred breeding business is looking interesting after all," he said. "What do you think of our schools here in Colmar, Ms. Patch? We like to think we have the finest special education programs that our tax dollars can buy."

Chloe was nowhere to be seen in the small barn, sparking a flicker of fear in Louisa's heart. She had to get these people out of her private space and back on task, or better yet, get them out of the barn so she could search for her daughter, who wasn't likely to have gone far. Chloe could walk, but not well, and the wheel ruts in the driveway were like navigational hazards that could send the child sprawling.

Back out in the bright sunshine, Evelyn inhaled deeply, as if the aroma of horse manure was a magic elixir. "I think we've seen all we need to see, and we are ready to sign a contract," she said, without inspecting the main barn. Of course, she was familiar with the lay-out since it was her farm, but even so, anyone boarding expensive animals should have taken a look at every square inch of the facilities. To argue when someone was offering money was foolish. Two important people had faith in her, that was what mattered, and landing such clients was critical to the success of the boarding stable.

The party trooped back towards the house, discussing the protocol to be followed if they wanted to visit their mares or possibly be present at foaling. Louisa's head swiveled, searching for Chloe, who had taken refuge on the back stoop, unable to turn the door handle to get back inside the warm kitchen. One sight of her mother and the little girl lurched forward, tumbled off the step and landed on her face.

Without a thought to his expensive suit, Judge was on one knee, dabbing at Chloe's scraped chin with his monogrammed handkerchief. "Not the first time someone fell off that porch," he said. He waited until Chloe calmed down before he expressed a legal opinion. "I didn't pick you for stupid, so who's idea was it to settle the case?"

She cradled Chloe's head, recalling the marks left by carelessly applied forceps. "You were right before, about being in shock. I wasn't in any state to decide about anything at the time," she said. Traumatized, she never questioned a choice made by someone she thought was looking out for her best interests.

A quick inspection, performed often in the past seven years, showed that no teeth were dislodged or bones broken. Louisa shepherded the group into the house for coffee and formalities, to obtain signatures on contracts that contained enough gibberish to distract the readers from the haphazard state of the kitchen. She set the table and put out a plate of cookies, startled by an unexpected recollection of afternoon tea with her grandmother. It had been a long time since she had thought about her family, a long time since she ran off with a cowboy to chase her love of horses. Had they ever given her a thought in all those years?

"Did you paint this?" Norma asked. She ran her manicured hand over the top of the table where the meadow just beyond the kitchen door was reproduced. Her finger stroked the nose of the mare that grazed in the corner.

"I picked it up at a yard sale, and it needed refinishing," Louisa said. "Plain old varnish just wouldn't do."

"Evelyn, I am so glad that you asked me to come along today," Norma said. "I am genuinely happy to have met you, Louisa. We're going to see a lot of each other, I'm sure. This town has needed a breath of fresh air like you for a long, long time."

While Louisa made a paste of cookie and milk for Chloe, Judge set the tone for the business meeting by shooting his cuffs and clearing his throat until he had the ladies laughing at his foolishness. He kept at it, hemming and hawing over onerous clauses, drawing rebukes from his mother for making her worried and not taking the matter seriously.

Judge flashed a conspiratorial wink at Louisa, drawing a smile. "All in order," he said, pushing the papers towards his mother for her signature. "You should find yourself a good attorney here in town, Ms. Patch. We are living in a very litigious society and you want to protect your assets."

"I'm sure you can recommend someone," Norma said.

"You really should," Evelyn said to her son. "None of us are getting any younger, you know."

A car flew up the driveway, sending gravel pinging against the house. Louisa jumped up, not expecting company, and saw a well-dressed young lady climb out of a BMW. The woman scanned the yard, her eyes fixed on the barn, and Louisa was out of the door before the stranger get any further. A structure that held several million dollars of horse flesh was not going to be invaded by anyone, not without Louisa at their side.

"Judge is here. I know he is," the woman said.

"Yes, he is," Louis replied.

"He's not alone." Tears rolled down her cheeks, trailing mascara.

"Of course he's not alone," Louisa said.

The visitor turned towards the kitchen and Louisa countered, not sure what the woman intended to do once she found Judge. Her path blocked, the lady screeched and stormed over to Evelyn's car. She threw herself into the driver's seat and slammed the door with the violence of a child in the throes of temper tantrum. One flick of her finger and all four doors were electronically locked.

Alerted by the commotion, Evelyn marched across the driveway and proceeded to pound on the window, demanding to be let in, while the intruder shouted right back, her voice muffled by thick glass. From time to time, she used the car horn to punctuate her tirade, which in turn drew Judge into the fray. He strolled up to the side of the car, an oasis of calm in a sea of insanity, and pointed an electronic fob at the car. The locks sprang open. With a look that could have killed, the woman pushed the button inside the car and the locks snapped shut once again.

The farm's manager leaned against the barn wall, a safe distance from the commotion but well within hearing range, entranced by the soap opera playing out in full volume. If three adults wanted to act like fools in front of the hired help, it was their problem. Louisa had no desire to sit through the next act of the farce. She retreated to the kitchen, where she found Chloe smeared head to toe in cookie mush. Norma sat by, cheering on the child's uncoordinated attempt to feed herself, encouraging Chloe to try again.

"Looks like I said the wrong thing." Louisa went at her daughter with a wet rag, upset that someone was pushing the girl to do something she could not do. She needed to remain in Norma's good graces, however, and did not dare complain about the interference.

"Boy needs to grow up and straighten out his life," Norma said. Turning to Chloe, she added, "Didn't your mamma buy the sweetest little cookies for the sweetest little girl?"

"She can't smile," Louisa said, afraid that Norma might think Chloe was not responding on purpose. No smiles, no words, no laughter. Louisa had learned to read her child's eyes.

"The way she was gobbling up this cookie, I'd say she was happy as could be." She dusted a few crumbs from the table and brushed them into a saucer. "It's so nice to see this place decorated for Christmas. Last tenant didn't bother and that's such a shame."

The syndicate partner wandered off to the living room, drawn by the Christmas tree, while Chloe arched her back in an attempt to escape from the booster chair. Once set free, she followed the person who fed her sugary treats. Louisa had no other choice than to trail behind and find some way to distract her guest from the dust bunnies multiplying along the baseboards.

Shelves were decorated with handmade Christmas cards from her art school friends, intermingled with the usual array of framed photographs, books and souvenirs of childhood vacations. Norma fussed over the skimpy tree that was dressed with a few of Chloe's kindergarten art projects, the result of gross motor skills not fully mastered.

"We share a common interest," she said. "The therapeutic riding association? Mind if I put your name forward? The board could use some new blood, and it wouldn't hurt to have someone who uses the program."

"Thank you, I'd very much like to be more involved," Louisa lied. She could sit on their board if she gave up sleeping, since that was about all the spare time she had. Yet no matter how crowded her schedule was, she had to take the offer. There was no better way to insert herself into the upper echelon than through a charitable organization that she just happened to believe in, and if being tired was the cost to be paid, she'd learn how to live with exhaustion.

"The horse world is so important to us down here, and that young man has never before shown the slightest interest," Norma said. "You only just met him and already you're a positive influence. Don't let one silly incident give you the wrong impression."

"There are drama queens in every corner of the world," Louisa said.

"Poor Evelyn's probably humiliated."

"I hope not, not for my sake. If her son is such a player, what's she supposed to do about it? He's a grown man." A grown man who must be packing something powerful in his tailored trousers, Louisa wanted to say, but that was a topic best giggled over with a girlfriend. And not a subject to be lusted over by a woman who hadn't so much as been touched by a man for years.

"I suppose you have a pretty poor opinion of our Judge."

Chloe still had his handkerchief clutched in her hand. She dabbed at the faces of her dolls, coming close a couple of times, and Louisa's opinion of 'our Judge' climbed a little higher. Few people paid any attention to Chloe, beyond the usual stares of pity, and it was rare for a man to have such an effect on the child. "Actually, I'm favorably impressed," she said.

"That's good to hear. Now, let's see if the circus has pulled out of town."

By the time Louisa arrived in the side yard, the distraught woman was tucked safely in her car, nodding in agreement with whatever Judge was whispering in her ear. He stood aside and watched her back out, waiting for her to turn onto the road before helping Norma into the Mercedes. With everyone in place, he came over to Louisa with head bowed, the picture of contrition.

"We had a misunderstanding," he said. "I'm sorry if you or Chloe are upset."

"Not at all. Already forgotten," Louisa said. She was stunned for a second, shocked by his concern for a little girl who was largely oblivious to the world around her.

His head lifted, his electric smile sending a charge through Louisa, a ripple that settled south of her navel. "I'll make it up to you," he said. "But what can I give you that you won't want to return?"

Her mouth opened and shut on a sexually-tinged retort, the words that expressed her true thoughts. "That's not necessary. You were so kind to Chloe, and really, that's the greatest gift I could ever receive."

"Here's what I can give you. Free publicity. We're on our way to a cocktail party, and I am going to talk up your stable until everyone I know is boarding their brood mares here."

With a grateful wave, Louisa bid her guests goodbye. She was going to be a success. She was going to prove her parents wrong. They would have to start speaking to her again, wouldn't they?

TWO

With so many horses to care for, it was impossible for Louisa to get away from the farm, not that she had any other place to go. Let her parents gloat over their foresight, that her relationship with a cowboy was as big a disaster as predicted. Let her brother and sister mock her lifestyle choices from the warm comfort of the family home in Durham. She would spend a remorse-free week with her closest friend, who was coming off a bad break-up with a hedge fund manager. For the next seven days they would commiserate, drink, and have a few laughs, and whatever the rest of the Patch clan did was their affair.

When she heard a car stop in the drive, Louisa hurried to the door to welcome Amy on her first visit to Colmar. To her surprise, it was Judge who stepped out of a mud-splattered Suburban, looking every inch a ranch hand in jeans and a barn coat. "Sorry to drop by without calling," he said. "I do have better manners than that, most of the time."

Tucked under his arm was a small wooden crate that had seen better days. Louisa invited him in for coffee just to be polite, hoping that he would decline and save her a little embarrassment. The cupboards were more bare than anything Mother Hubbard ever envisioned. To her chagrin, he accepted with an abundance of charm that made Louisa's knees go weak. "Is Miss Chloe receiving callers at this early hour?" he asked.

Normally shy around strangers, Chloe used her iPad communicator app to wish Judge a Merry Christmas, a study in concentration as she pressed her pudgy finger on the icon. She did not hesitate to demonstrate some of the other things she had learned to express with a touch that took a great deal of effort to control, each electronic word eliciting gasps of awe from Judge. "What a remarkable world we live in," he said. "Well now, you seem to have just about everything a girl could ask for, Miss Chloe, but what might you like for Christmas?"

She studied the iPad screen, as if the answer could be found there. What did she want for Christmas, Louisa wondered. Chloe was only just learning how to use the communicator to express her most basic needs. Would she ever learn to share her deepest thoughts and desires? Were there any, or was the working part of her brain limited to the most primal animal instincts of eating and drinking?

"I know Santa can't bring everything in his pack," Judge went on. "Some things are just too delicate and they'd get all crushed up in that big sack."

In the middle of the kitchen floor, he positioned the crate and then shifted Chloe around to the side. He kept his hands at her waist until he was sure that she had found her footing, and then he lifted the lid. Something small and white was inside, something alive.

"What is it, Chloe?" Louisa asked.

Only Louisa's quick reaction kept the iPad from crashing as Chloe dove to the floor. The little girl grunted in a way that sounded like a yip, as if she wanted to say 'dog' despite being unable to speak. Louisa caught herself looking for the slightest a hint of a smile, hoping and praying that muscles had awoken from a paralyzed sleep, but there was no joy on the blank canvas of Chloe's face. If she could have been granted one Christmas miracle, Louisa would have asked for that, a single smile. "You didn't have to get her anything," she said to Judge.

"The ladies sure like these little dust mops." He held a squirming bichon under Chloe's hand so that she could pet it. "I'd take a good hunting dog any day of the week, but a coon hound wouldn't do you a lick of good, baby girl. Besides, a lady can never have too many accessories."

"Thank you. Thank you very much." Thank you for adding to an already over-filled schedule with a new puppy that had to be house-broken and thank you for adding a new vet bill. Louisa watched her daughter express joy, with a light in her blue eyes that only Louisa could see. Without question, the child was beyond happy with the dog that was, in fact, the perfect breed for her. "Chloe is very grateful. You are too kind."

With a wave of his hand, he brushed aside the accolades. Before he could say another word, his cell phone rang and he paused to take the call. It was his mother, reminding him of some appointment or other. Louisa couldn't make out everything that was said, nor did she want to eavesdrop on a private conversation that was none of her business. Too much more information and she'd be rolling on the floor laughing at a man who was, by and large, his mother's accessory.

The already crowded kitchen became even more populated as Amy breezed in without knocking. Dropping her suitcase at the door, she cracked a high-voltage smile with eyes at half-mast. "Hello there, sorry, didn't mean to barge in," she said. "I'm Weezie's best friend forever and you must be?"

"Amy, this is Judge Cawthon. His mother owns this place," Louisa said.

"Actually, I own it. My mother minds it for me. Keeps her busy so she's not gambling away my inheritance at the track," he said.

A high voltage smile went nuclear. A sly wink was thrown at Louisa, a lewd accusation that had no truth in it. Louisa would have corrected the error at once, if she hadn't been thrown off-base by his remark. His mother sure acted like a property owner in all their dealings, and Judge didn't even get the rent checks. Could he possibly be serious, and was Evelyn addicted to gambling? There was probably a more sensible reason for the arrangement, something dealing with tax issues and legal technicalities that were far beyond Louisa's understanding. It was none of her business, at any rate, as long as she held a long-term lease.

From his coat pocket, Judge extracted a piece of kibble and put it into Chloe's flattened palm. He helped her to extend her arm so that the dog ate from her hand, a slobbering that had the girl rubbing her wet fingers on the front of her pants while he laughed at the show. When the dog peed at Chloe's feet, he just about split a gut. It didn't help that Amy found it just as hilarious, while it was left to Louisa to mop up the mess.

"Too bad Santa didn't have any housebroken puppies," Louisa said, getting Chloe to her feet so that she could change her out of dog-piddled pants.

*****

Without so much as an acknowledgement that Aunt Amy had arrived, Chloe went right back to the very spot where the dog sat in the crate. With Judge's help, she put the puppy on her lap and grunted her version of 'dog', over and over until Louisa thought she would go insane. Too much excitement was not good for Chloe, unable to cope with an overabundance of stimulation. "Your puppy has to learn how to go outside," she said, but Chloe was not about to let go. The little scholar was not going to stop demonstrating her remarkable verbal skill, either. "Yes, that's right sweetie, dog, dog. That's enough now. Let's put her back in her crate so she can take her nap."

After coffee and cinnamon toast, since there was nothing else to eat in the house, Judge pulled on his coat and wished everyone a Merry Christmas if he didn't see them again before Wednesday. His hand brushed against Louisa's back as he quietly drew her attention to the little girl who was sitting on the floor, eyes glued to the sleeping dog. "Not one of the Kardashians could buy that much love with all their fame and money," he said.

"I think I might have a good name for our new addition," she said.

As she held the door open, Judge stood on the porch and discussed business, to ask that the blankets be put on his mares during the cold weather. Not that he planned to sell them, but if the right offer was made, he'd want the horses looking sleek, not hairy. Louisa thought that it was odd for him to mention it. Not thirty minutes ago he said he had seen the horses grazing in the paddock and she had covered every mare herself that morning. The chill of December blew through her sweater as she stood outside, wondering why the man was delaying his departure. Hard to imagine that he was so smitten with Amy's urban sophistication that he couldn't bear to leave her side. Ridiculous to imagine that he was lingering because of Louisa Patch.

"Thank you again for thinking of Chloe," she said. "I think Miss K is a good name for the puppy. What do you think?"

"I like it," he said. "Very fitting."

Their heads turned in unison when a muffled rumble bounced from the road and grew louder. A small RV pulled to a stop next to Amy's car, the front bumper hitting the paddock fence and making it rock. The driver put the vehicle in reverse, accompanied by a beeping alert, and finally came to a stop. The side door opened and Louisa's sister Daryl jumped out, looking seasick.

Introductions were made while Louisa's brain tumbled in surprise. She had never been particularly close to her older sister, given the considerable age gap, making an unexpected visit that much more shocking. Why was Daryl not spending the holiday with their parents? More to the point, where was she going to put an extra person in the tiny house?

The Suburban rolled away up the driveway and Louisa turned, to run into the house before pneumonia struck her down. She nearly plowed into the young man who was standing behind her, suitcases in hand, proud grin plastered on his wide face. "You must be the sister I've heard so much about," he said. The accent was heavily Slavic, Russian or Bulgarian if she had to make a guess.

Daryl was a trifle over-exuberant as she presented Grigor, but she was more subdued as she explained that they were on their honeymoon. "So? Congratulations, anyone?" Daryl said.

"Sorry?" Louisa stammered. "Yes, of course, congratulations. Married, you said? Did I hear right?"

"Amy, you're here too," Daryl said as she waltzed into the kitchen. "Come give the blushing bride a hug."

Despite the rattle and clank of luggage, Amy's squeal of amazement, and the lack of oxygen in the room, Chloe did not move from her spot against the wall where Miss K's battered wooden crate had been placed. She barely acknowledged her aunt, too focused on making the 'dog' sound as if she was introducing Aunt Daryl to Miss K in the same way that Aunt Daryl introduced Grigor to Chloe. "Isn't that something. She's learning how to talk. Well, I'll admit I was wrong about the special education facilities here," Daryl said. "Of course, if you'd gone back to Chicago there's no telling how far advanced Chloe would be, but you and your horses."

The tour of the farm house took all of five minutes to cover both floors. It was two rooms up and two room down, with a tiny bathroom wedged between two small bedrooms upstairs and a powder room on the first floor that had most likely been a pantry off the kitchen at one time. Louisa had splurged on fancy guest soaps, holly leaves scented with bayberry, and her best towels were hanging in an orderly array. Everything was charming, cozy and lovely to Daryl, who then explained that she and Grigor would be staying in the RV. It was like bringing a hotel room to the farm, with all the convenience of being close by without cramming two more bodies into a place that hadn't been built for a crowd.

Another pot of coffee was brewed and Amy prepared a second round of cinnamon toast. Finally, Chloe accepted the fact that the puppy was going to sleep for a good long time, and she let her aunt pick her up and hold her. She demonstrated her communication device, pushed the 'dog' icon about a million times until Daryl pulled her hand away, and then sat quietly on her aunt's lap while the adults caught up on the news. The fact that Daryl had gotten married was certainly deserving of a long discussion. Eleven years older than Louisa, the perennial bachelorette had never shown much interest in settling down. Something had changed Daryl's mind, and that something looked to be about fifteen years old.

The questions that Louisa was too shy to ask were exactly the sort of thing that Amy blurted out with a casual panache. Nibble on a corner of toast, ask where the happy couple met. Wipe crumb from corner of mouth, ask Grigor what he does for a living. Choke on coffee, fail to respond when he says he's finishing up his senior year and will be starting dental school in the fall. Listen to silence, calculate age difference and lose ability to speak. The groom was twenty-one. Daryl had recently turned forty.

For a moment, Louisa observed her sister and her new brother-in-law, trying to picture the poised and accomplished college professor as a cougar on the prowl. Daryl made a remark about their mother, about her disapproval, and Grigor responded with a smile that hinted at arrogance. He spun a romantic tale of the night he asked Daryl to be his bride, proudly describing the trail of rose petals that he cast from the front door to the master bedroom of Daryl's restored Victorian. Candles lined the path, softly glowing, and all that Louisa could picture was the old wood going up in flames. The scene that Grigor painted was so saccharin and smarmy that she couldn't believe her level-headed sister would fall for such a thick pile of horse manure, but she had, obviously.

"A man who shares the chores," Daryl said. "Isn't he just the perfect husband?"

Amy leveled her brown eyes at Grigor, glaring daggers, while Louisa sat with her jaw dropping. How could Daryl not have seen it? How could she have been so foolish? How could Louisa save her sister from misery and split the couple apart before Grigor did any more damage?

*****

After wasting half the day in town, the best she could manage for dinner was a loaf of white bread and packets of cold cuts. For drinks, there was tap water or iced tea, hardly the stuff of fine dining, but this was a working farm and not the sort of spa that Daryl normally patronized during her school vacations. Poor Chloe had to settle for randomly selected jars of baby food, hastily heated in the microwave until tepid.

No doubt Grigor tagged along when Louisa went out to the barn that evening so he didn't have to help wash dishes. She showed him her studio in the making, and the kid found something that really excited him. He ran his fingers along the sheets of drywall. He studied the bare two by fours that would one day become a ceiling; he asked about the framed gap that would be a skylight when she could afford to finish out the space. Finally, he wandered among the stretched canvasses and tubes of oils, all scattered on empty boxes that she was using as shelves.

"I do carpentry on the side," he said. "To pay for school. Maybe you could use a carpenter here?"

"Use, yes. Pay? That's another story," Louisa said.

"Not all at once," Grigor said. "Unless your man friend wants this to himself."

"Who, my landlord? The guy you saw leaving when you got here?"

"A man in love works for no money if he can find a better reward." His hand hovered near the cloth that she had draped over the portrait that would probably become Amy's birthday gift before morphing into next year's Christmas present. With a sly grin on his face, he tilted his head so that he was looking at her from the corner of his eye. "Better that you be the artist and not the builder. Daryl tells me that you are very hopeful of finishing this studio so that you can paint. How can you finish, with all the other things you have to do?"

"After the foaling season," Louisa said. Who was she trying to fool? After the foals dropped there was the sales season and harvesting the silage and stocking the hay loft. There were visits to racetracks to drum up business, to kiss up to current clients, and then it all started again. Running like a never-ending stream through the whole endless cycle was Chloe and her special needs. The studio would get finished when hell froze over if she tried to do it all with only her farm manager to help, which was why it wasn't finished yet.

"Maybe a little now, while I'm here." He stepped away from her painting, interest lost or distracted by a new idea.

He was possessed of a certain charm, more like a snake oil salesman than a used car dealer, but equally unnerving. There was an artificial quality about him, as if he were playing a role on stage. But what if he was serious about this offer? The honeymoon couple was supposed to stick around for a few more days, returning to Chicago before New Year's Eve, which didn't allow for a whole lot of construction. The conduit was on site, ready to be installed. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility that he could put it all in before he left, and maybe he'd be willing to work cheap. At least he would have something to do while the ladies went shopping, and Louisa would be spared his oleaginous presence for a few hours.

She computed a reasonable figure for compensation and Grigor agreed at once. He looked around, asking where the tools were, as if he meant to jump right in. From the other side of the block wall she could hear the manager laughing with a stable hand, followed by the chug of the tractor motor. She should be out there, supervising her employees and monitoring the horses, not wasting time on some pet project, but she couldn't expect Grigor to read her mind and automatically know where she wanted an outlet or a junction box.

"You need a hand there?" Billy asked through the open studio door.

"I have to get back to work," she said. With some haste, she roughed out a sketch of where she wanted a light and the switch, just enough to keep Grigor occupied so he would stop tailing her. She needed those moments of peace to be found in the company of horses that did not judge a woman based on her material possessions.

The door to Lula May's stall popped open with the slightest touch, a sign that Billy had oiled the hinges. She dumped a bucket of oats into the feed bin and stroked the mare's swelling belly. Come spring, she'd have a foal that she would sell as a yearling at Keeneland the following January, and with the money from that she could buy another quality brood mare. A year later there would be another foal, and then there'd be another mare, and she'd have her own line of winners one fine day. She would paint, she would raise horses, she would do the things she had always wanted to do. Running a hand along Lula May's long snout, caressing the strong neck, Louisa believed it would eventually be possible to enjoy life.

She made her daily inspection of the stalls in the big barn, to be sure that all the animals were well, and then returned to the studio. With her head pressed against the door, she heard Billy testifying about Our Lord and Savior, the fervor of the born again in his delivery. He could extol God's glory until the end of time, Louisa thought, but Grigor would never feel a prick of conscience. Con men never did.

What about the mysterious generosity of Judge Cawthon? Was he a religious man? He had given Chloe a warm and cuddly friend, a dog that served no other purpose but sitting on the girl's lap, to listen to her grunts without complaint, to be a constant companion. Some might call it Christian charity. Louisa stifled a guffaw that would give away her presence and retreated to the barn door. "From one pampered lap dog, a pampered lap dog for Chloe," she whispered to Lula May. "Don't you step on Miss K."

He was no light-weight, Louisa realized, despite his apparent choice of female companionship. Too much thought had gone into the choice of breed, and the fact that he had taken the time to pick out a perfect gift for Chloe suggested some greater significance. What kind of landlord had that kind of concern for people who rented his property, who were not family or even neighbors? Outward appearance did not mean a thing, and Louisa was mistaken in her first impression. Maybe Judge was a little spoiled, but he had the capacity to be kind and considerate. She would make an effort to return the sentiment.

THREE

Louisa trudged back into the kitchen, shaking with cold. No one had told her about the frigid weather when she lived in sunny Texas, thinking that Colmar was a horse breeder's dream world. "What are we cooking up for our pre-Christmas feast?" Daryl asked. "Shall we reproduce our mother's fabulous 'I'm so worn out from getting ready for Christmas I don't have energy to cook' special?"

"What's that? Canned soup, eaten cold?" Amy asked.

"Dining out," Louisa said. She was distracted by Chloe, who was playing on the floor, smack dab next to Miss K in her crate that was resting on a bed of newspaper at least an inch thick. The little girl's fingers were showing signs of contorting, the sort of muscle flexion that was associated with a lack of therapy. Ever since the aides at the school had added the exercises to Chloe's daily regimen, Louisa had fallen out of the habit. With so many guests, how would she ever find the time?

"I'm looking for a real Kentucky experience," Daryl said. "We passed a nice-looking spot, not too far from the courthouse. Italian, I think."

"Judge told me it's good," Louisa said. Good, but out of her price range.

"Well, if Judge said it's good," Amy said.

"You do the nasty with him yet?" Daryl asked.

"He's my landlord, Daryl. Get a grip," Louisa said. "Besides, he's too much of a Ken and I ain't no Barbie."

"No, not when you smell like horse shit," Amy said, her nose wrinkled.

Miss K woke up when Louisa picked up the crate to change the paper. She stuck the puppy's nose next to the new bowls, one labeled water and the other food, as if the beast was capable of reading and wouldn't know the difference without guidance. Then she snapped on the leash, made sure that the newspapers wouldn't slip away from under little paws, and bundled Chloe into her coat. It was time to start training, the same as the foals that had been born on the ranch in Texas. No time to lose, show them who's in charge so they could learn to do what they were bred to do. Horses had to accept a bridle and bit so they could be ridden, and Miss K had to learn to do her business outside so she could live in the house with Chloe. By the time the puppy mastered lesson number one, there was little time left for fancy primping before dinner.

Showered and shampooed, face painted, Louisa was looking forward to eating out at the swankiest spot in town, especially since Daryl wanted to pay for it. The official wedding reception was scheduled for the start of spring break, which was also the heart of the foaling season, and only by staging this preliminary party could the two sisters celebrate the marriage. With Amy behind the wheel of her little rice-burner of a car, they all crowded in and sang along with the radio. Patsy Cline yodeled Blue Moon of Kentucky, "Whispered on high, love said goodbye", her voice blared from the tinny speakers as Amy maneuvered into a parking spot on the street. Hers was the only compact car, wedged in among hulking SUVs and luxury sedans.

"This is a very nice area," Grigor said.

"Horse country," Louisa said. "Plenty of money if you know where to find it."

"He knows," Amy whispered.

The restaurant hostess lost her radiant smile when her eyes took in all of Chloe, communication device clutched to her chest as she stood askew. No special needs children in public in a place like Modigliani's, and Louisa was sorry that she hadn't thought of that sooner. They usually ate at the diner near the gas station, so often that the cook went into production of a modified Hot Brown, created expressly to meet Chloe's limitations, as soon as they walked in the door. By expanding their culinary experience, Louisa would have to start from scratch, to explain what her daughter could and couldn't handle. Everyone around them would stare, that was the worst of it. At least if they'd gone to the diner they wouldn't have to feel like they were on stage.

Judge called out to them, rising from his seat so that he could cross the dining room and shake hands with people he'd seen a few hours earlier. Making conversation, he recommended the steak and the pasta carbonara, asked about the health of the horses he'd also seen a few hours earlier, and reiterated his desire to produce a Derby winner before he died, in which case he was planning on being immortal. Louisa backed away, aware that the hostess was standing next to their table and not happy to be left waiting to seat the party. Before she could move, Judge got down on one knee to ask Chloe how Miss K was getting on.

"She's behaving herself?" he asked. "Do you like her?"

Chloe pushed the appropriate button on her communicator, "Yes."

"Well, did you ever see the like?" he said. "You've got to show my friends, Chloe, they won't believe it."

The man who had given her a dog was no longer a stranger and Chloe followed on his heels, her rolling gate threatening to bring her crashing into the backs of every chair she had to pass. Louisa tagged along behind, to reclaim the child before she aggravated someone else with the electronic sound of the iPad app.

The party of Kentucky society cream included a gentleman who had bought two horses from Louisa's Texas operation, the same man who talked her into moving to Colmar. The conversation turned to thoroughbreds, with Mr. Coots extolling the sharp eye of a woman blessed with uncommon skill when it came to gauging bloodlines. "Good to see you left all that bad business behind," he said. "I never did like the way that man of yours treated his own daughter."

"A man?" Judge asked.

"Worthless. A real piece of work," Mr. Coots said. "You're better off without him, Louisa, and you can't deny it's true."

The attractive woman sitting next to Judge rested a hand on his back and leaned over to talk to Chloe, but she seemed to be forming a human barricade to hold Judge in check. "Did you know that you are the prettiest little girl in the place?" she cooed through collagen enhanced lips.

"Yes," said the communicator, and the table erupted in laughter.

"Can I come visit Miss K some time?" Judge asked, and the communicator tendered its invitation. Dog, yes, was the response, something more complex, two separate thoughts, and Louisa was so filled with joy that she didn't care if everyone in the place was staring at them, from now through dessert.

"You're always welcome," she said to Evelyn and Judge together. Welcome as business partners, welcome as neighbors, but that had to be as far as it went. Men who gave gifts were dangerous, especially the ones who changed girls as often as they changed underwear. Especially men who injected themselves into her stray thoughts.

With Chloe in tow, Louisa threaded through the tables, eyes focused on her destination so she wouldn't have to know if they were the object of pity or rude curiosity. Once Chloe was propped in her chair, she reached for the crayons that the hostess had left, along with a children's menu that served as a drawing pad. Just trying to pick up the thin wax sticks and manipulate them on the paper would take all of Chloe's concentration. As long as she was occupied, and not pressing icons on the iPad screen, all would be well.

They perused the menu, debating choices, wondering about ingredients or seasonings. Louisa looked at restaurant food in a different way, seeking out the soft, the pureed and the finely minced. Creamed soup, bread and milk would do in a pinch on the rare occasion that they didn't eat at home. Missing out on a protein source wasn't the end of the world, Louisa had discovered, and it saved her the grief of trying to order chicken fingers, blended with hot water into a paste. An unbalanced meal was easier than asking the kitchen to heat up a jar of pureed baby food for a seven-year-old.

Grigor tucked into his steak like a starving wolf, while Daryl picked at a chicken breast with a delicacy that Louisa associated with their mother. Not that Mom ate like a bird anymore, picking at a bit here and a speck there. As Daryl explained it, a stroke suffered six months earlier left their mother limp on her right side, and she ate with a spoon these days. Louisa shifted in her seat, to shift her thoughts. Would anyone have told her if their mother had died? She swallowed hard, to clear away the lump that formed in her throat.

"Many wealthy people here," Grigor said, stating the obvious. Imagine what equally brilliant phrases he could form if they had gone to dinner at one of three golf clubs in the area.

Stupid, maybe, but it was something to talk about when they didn't have a whole lot to say. Amy was being unusually quiet, which was a good thing, because otherwise she'd be peppering Daryl with one question after another, all of which could be summed up in one sentence. What were you thinking when you married this child? Not exactly pleasant banter, so Louisa launched into a travelogue of sorts, explaining the different strata of Colmar society. Things were no different than in Texas, except that in Texas all the wealth drifted towards Dallas and all the poverty clustered around Wilmer. Of course, there was the horse racing industry that set the two towns apart as well, with plenty of Arabian oil money invested in Kentucky horseflesh. In general, Colmar was much better off than Wilmer could ever hope to be, and the special education unit at the local elementary school was proof enough of that.

"You make a lot of money in your farm?" Grigor continued. He was a man obsessed, an immigrant searching for the streets that were paved with gold.

"In a couple of years, I hope to at least break even," Louisa said.

"Oh, come on, Weezie, all you need is one Derby winner out of Lula May and your fortune is made," Amy said.

"What is the chance of it?" Grigor asked.

"What's the chance of being struck by lightning, twice, during a snow storm in Miami?" Amy said. "I think the odds of breeding a Derby winner are twice that."

"It isn't all about Derby winners," Louisa said. "It's all about fast horses at any track anywhere. Get a reputation for breeding winners and you're on everyone's radar. Produce one old plug after another and you're incompetent and out of business."

"How much is a good eye and how much is pure luck?" Daryl asked.

"Think Judge is getting lucky tonight?" Amy cut in.

She couldn't resist peeking at the table across the room, where a pair of slim legs were undulating like octopus tentacles in an effort to cross left over right. The woman on the prowl tipped her body towards Judge, soft fingers tickling the nape of his neck as she laughed her little Southern belle laugh. This was what passed for courtship in these parts, this aggressive dance, and Louisa was glad that she was done with the whole game. Been there, done that, paid the price, and it was going to be her and Chloe taking on the horse world, while the Judges of the world could chase all the skirts they liked.

While her friends made their way to the door, Evelyn stopped at the table to say good-bye. She felt compelled to explain what had happened the other day, when a spoiled girl pitched a fit because Judge ended their relationship. "When you're part of the horsey set, you just can't make a good match with someone who doesn't understand our way of life," Evelyn said. "You know exactly what I mean, Louisa. You're one of us."

The waiter returned with a tray filled with after-dinner drinks, courtesy of Judge Cawthon. He placed a large milk shake in front of Chloe, who dunked her fingers into the whipped cream and swiped more on her face than she got in her mouth. Louisa snatched the glass away, wishing that people would stop giving her daughter sugar when it was not part of her normal diet. With Chloe threatening to erupt into a rage when she could not reach her dessert, Louisa had to give in or risk an explosion.

"Please tell Judge thanks from all of us for the drinks," she said, spooning the sweet concoction into Chloe's open mouth. Too busy serving her child, she couldn't get to her bourbon and she wanted it as badly as Chloe wanted the ice cream. The little girl grunted with anger until she had another portion of milkshake in her mouth. Then she grunted again, a different tone that Louisa would describe as a happy sound. "And I think that's a special thank you from Chloe."

The happiness did not last, as Louisa knew it could not. The buzz crashed into a sugar hangover that left Chloe difficult to manage, a period of misbehavior and lethargy that lasted until the morning of Christmas Eve. Louisa did not have much time to recover from the ordeal before Daryl and Amy decided to prepare a proper afternoon tea as a tribute to Patch celebrations of years past, when Professor and Mrs. Patch opened their home to various faculty and graduate students while Louisa and Amy served as the wait staff. The scones that Daryl brought from home were far better than anything their mother had ever baked.

"UPS," Amy said, catching a glimpse of the brown panel truck pulling into the driveway. "They don't ship horses, do they?"

"I'm not expecting anything," Louisa said.

She met the driver at the kitchen door and accepted a fairly heavy box. With everyone gathered around the kitchen table, she read the return address. "I don't believe it," she whispered. Only one person in the world would send her a package from Hebert's in Louisiana, a two-pound gift of frozen crawdads and boudin sausage that wouldn't pair well with the free-range turkey she was going to serve for a holiday feast.

"Cecil Surette. I'll be damned. He told you he'd never give up on you," Amy said.

"I thought he was kidding," Louisa said.

FOUR

The Christmas visit led to a new understanding between Louisa and Daryl, both sisters having fallen out of favor with their parents. It was Daryl who pushed back, to return to her former position and bring Louisa into the family fold. Her effort led to a phone call and the first steps toward reconciliation. Their mother, however, could not stop drinking or smoking. Early in February, she succumbed to a second stroke. Louisa left Billy in charge of the farm for two days while she flew back to Durham for the memorial service, her mind so occupied with the foaling season that she had no idea what accolades the minister heaped upon the late Mrs. Patch. As she left for the airport to return home, her brother mentioned something about looking after Dad, but Louisa had enough to look after as it was and there was no room in her brain for more information.

"He'll be fine, I guess, for now," Hal said. Of course the old man would be just fine, with his golf buddies and the card games at the country club, the seminars at the university and his Professor Emeritus duties. He was forgetful, but what man of his age wasn't? Even Louisa lost her keys every now and then.

Sitting on the plane, Louisa recalled the strained atmosphere at the burial, where Daryl and her child groom stood a little bit off to one side, as if they weren't part of the family. There had been some whispers among the aunts and cousins, snide little comments that suggested a rift between Daryl's supporters and detractors. Louisa ignored most of it, too absorbed with Chloe and her damned communicator. "Dog, Woof" every five minutes, the electronic voice expressing the girl's longing for her precious Miss K who was boarding with Evelyn. "Dog, Woof" echoed in Louisa's head and if half of her relatives stopped speaking to the other half because of Daryl's choices, let them argue. The therapeutic riding association had a meeting coming up and Louisa was scheduled to give a talk on cerebral palsy and the benefits of riding horses. She had better things to do than worry about matters beyond her control.

*****___

The farm hadn't fallen into ruin while she was gone. Billy had things well under control, the veterinarian had examined her equine patients as scheduled, and Judge was waiting for her call. Miss K missed her owner and a reunion couldn't be postponed for a minute longer than absolutely necessary.

Chloe made a lot more noise than she usually did, her version of a welcome home speech as the dog licked every square inch of her face. Once the initial excitement was over, she slapped at the leash that was hanging over the doorknob, which meant that she wanted to take Miss K for their evening stroll.

"I'm sure you never thought about this, but having a dog to walk has meant practice for Chloe," Louisa said. "She used to fight it, but now there's a purpose for her beyond keeping her muscles flexible. I think she's got better balance since Miss K came into her life."

"Always glad for the unintended benefits," Judge said.

The leash was looped over Chloe's wrist because she couldn't grasp it properly. Bundled up in her coat and hat, mittens in place, she nearly ran out the door when her mother turned her loose, to march up and down the path between the house and the small barn until she wore out her legs. Since December, the walks had gotten a little longer every night.

Louisa poured another cup of coffee, slid into the chair across from Judge, and picked up her cell phone, only to put it down again. Cecil had left a message an hour ago and she couldn't decide if she should call him back. She regretted not sending his gift back where it came from, and she regretted sending the thank you note that spawned a stream of phone calls, all unreturned. "Twice today, I was about to call my mother and then I remembered."

"Takes a long time to accept," he said. "Tell you the truth, there's days when I'm at work, puzzling out some question, and I'll think, I should call Dad, but then I remember that he's gone and it's been a few years."

"Did you get along well with your father?"

"Argued over the best spot for fishing if we argued. With my mother and my little sister, now, it was different. I figured she had a reason to move all the way to California. Needed some space between two queen bees. Couldn't exist in the same state."

"It feels like I'll miss my mother forever." Before they had a chance to mend fences, time ran out. Louisa missed what might have been, what had been taking shape.

Judge leaned over the table, put his warm hand on her arm and gave it a pat. "You got to remember, our mothers can't let us go and we don't much want them to cut those last few threads on the apron strings. Don't want to admit to it, either."

"She was happy for me when I moved here, to start up this business. And then, wham, she's gone." Louisa didn't want to admit that her mother had been right about Chloe's father, and the gloating had been unbearable.

"Okay, she's gone, but you're still here and you're a mother yourself. So you pick up the pieces and put them together in your own way." He sipped the coffee and smiled, as if it was the best brew he'd ever tasted. Good Lord, the man was charming. "That's all anyone can do, I guess. I decided to rent out Bedford Farm after my father passed, because I thought that was best. Not what my mother had in mind, my, my, no. But I didn't want to breed horses or move to a farm, so I put the pieces together the way I liked and I've managed to live with the results."

"I sure hope I can live off the results come next spring," Louisa said.

"Isn't that the greatest thing? For all the bloodlines and breeding, you really don't know what you've got until that two-year-old runs." He shrugged into his jacket, stood up, and chugged the last of the coffee in his cup. "Listen now, you have any questions or any problems with your mother's affairs, you call me. Time might come when your father needs a guardian, or there's estate issues that have you flummoxed."

"Thanks, Judge, but I'm sure he'll be fine on his own. More likely to starve to death without my mother to make his tea every afternoon."

"Those foals will be out in that paddock before long," he said, talking business.

"Forty-five foals. And how much would you bet that they all drop at the same time, in the middle of the coldest night?"

"Oh, no, you won't get me taking a bet I'm bound to lose," he said. He stood on the edge of the porch, to inhale the frosty air. "Getting late. I'll send Chloe on home. Remember, anything you need, or you want to talk to someone about something besides horses, you call me."

*****

He should have taken the bet, because the foals were thoughtful enough to spread their entries apart over several evenings. Louisa examined the horses daily, coming to know each one so well that she could judge if a foal had moved, indicating labor was approaching. As soon as the first mare grew restless, pacing her stall only to lie down and then get up again, Louisa moved her to the foaling stall. She set up an old card table in the aisle just outside the stall door, laid out the bottle of chlorhexidine, the bottle of bourbon, a six-pack of Ale 8-One for Billy and a packet of paper cups, and pulled up a folding chair. Knowing that horses had been pushing out foals since God invented horses, there was little to do but count the minutes from the first stage of delivery to the second. It was all about observation, making sure that the front hooves came out first, that the membranes covering the foal were white or clear and not red.

Her cell phone was placed at the center of the table, her finger ready to speed dial Dr. Turner in the event of an emergency, if the placenta wasn't expelled or the mare showed signs of post-partum hemorrhage. She'd been through that in Texas, part of the experience that she preferred not to repeat, when a valuable horse had suffered internal damage due to the violent nature of equine labor. Insurance covered the owner's loss, but there was no policy that could reimburse Louisa if a horse didn't make it and took her reputation and her business with it. After birth, there were milestones that a healthy foal had to reach within a certain period of time, from standing to nursing, and any step missed was reason to phone Dr. Turner. Her clients paid her to guarantee that it all went smoothly, and she liked getting paid.

No matter how late she was up at night with the mares, she still had to get Chloe ready for school and on the bus in time. Any chance for a nap during the day was lost when the mares entered their second post-foal estrus and she had to deliver them to the stud farms for insemination. On top of that, she owed some time to her neighbor, Junior Best, who had helped her out on the night that eight mares decided to foal at the same time, and that time arrived on the one night when she thought she could catch up on some sleep. By the middle of March, Louisa was ready to keel over.

From early morning, Louisa was in the barn to look in on the foals and examine the newly pregnant mares who would be staying on, the closest thing to steady business that she would find. The pampered thoroughbreds poked their heads through the open stall doors as she walked by, each one receiving a caress on the nose and a few words of encouragement.

"Maybe a filly next year," she said to Mr. Coots' mare, which had produced colts the past three years running. Big dark eyes gazed longingly at the half-eaten apple in Louisa's hand, and she held it out in her palm. She was a sucker for those pleading looks.

After she got Chloe on the school bus, Louisa was back to dip umbilical stumps in chlorhexidine and jot down notes for the vet's records. Only then could Billy and his crew make the rounds, mucking out the stalls and hauling feed or bedding out of the loft. Louisa supervised as discretely as possible, to be sure that stalls were disinfected thoroughly and to monitor the amount of feed that the nursing mothers were taking in. Vitamins, additives, worm treatments; she kept copious notes and it took hours to maintain the records.

When the singularly pink Mercedes pulled to a stop near the barn, Louisa cringed. For some reason, she thought she had imagined the phone call from Evelyn who wanted to come on Thursday to see the foals. It was possible that there had been some sort of conversation in which Louisa said she'd wait for the syndicate to turn up before putting the colt and the filly in the paddock for the first time, but there was no clear memory of an actual discussion. A stall door clattered shut and another one opened as Dr. Turner made her rounds, while Louisa tried to shift gears and keep one ear open for the vet and one tuned in to her very important clients. Fatigue was not a good partner.

"How long has Gabby's Girl been dripping milk?" Dr. Turner shouted down the barn.

"Day and a half," Louisa yelled back. "I expect she'll go into labor tonight."

Billy took one of the syndicate's mares by the halter and led her out, while Louisa wrapped her arms around its colt, to shuffle sideways and coax the little guy to follow his mother to the paddock. The gangly foal didn't need much coaxing, a sure sign of spirit in Evelyn's opinion. While the mare nibbled at the fresh grass and the colt clung to his mother's side, the syndicate partners applauded their success. It was a limited success, to be sure, since the newborn had yet to demonstrate the slightest talent for running, and trying to gauge leg muscle strength on a week-old horse was an exercise in wishful thinking. Louisa's only wish at the moment involved her bed, where she longed to be, storing energy for another foaling that was expected in twelve hours.

Next, she put the filly out with its mother, the syndicate's two products giving the ladies something to babble about for a good while. Finishing rounds with the vet, Louisa counted three more mares to give birth, including Lula May, three more nights, and then she could focus on the mundane aspects of her business. Next week she would be busy doing Junior a favor, delivering three of his yearlings to a buyer in Brentsville and then picking up two pregnant mares from a new client. Somewhere in between she had to squeeze in a visit to a farm manager who wanted to meet her before he would commit to a contract for services. She wouldn't have time to stop and think about anything besides the horse business, but that was just as well. When she did let her mind wander, Judge kept popping into her head.

"How's your daddy getting along?" Evelyn asked when Louisa returned to the paddock fence. The group must have been talking about her situation, since they all seemed to know that her father was a widower, living alone with his books for company.

The mares ambled around the paddock, seeking the sweetest clover, while their babies limited explorations to the immediate vicinity of mother's teat. In the adjoining paddock, three other mares were grazing while their foals, now two to three weeks old, socializing in a way that told Louisa they were developing normally. Soon they would do what they were bred to do, run, and anyone driving past the farm could expect to see a frisky young horse racing their car, hugging the fence as they would one day hug the rail. There was no sight so beautiful as a horse in full stride, a beauty that had drawn her away from art studios and a comfortable existence, just to be surrounded by horses.

"Couldn't I use a single man," Maribel Coots sighed. "I just hate it when my table's uneven."

Evelyn giggled, the comment obviously directed to her. Every proper hostess wanted pairs, not individuals, especially not individual ladies. Professor Patch would be most welcome in Bourbon County society, with his distinguished air and Northern Irish brogue. Louisa tried to picture Evelyn with her father, and she was startled to realize that they would make a pretty decent couple. Her father was high maintenance, and Evelyn was one of those women who treated their husbands like spoiled children. Come to think of it, she treated her children like spoiled children, if Judge's attitude was any indication. He was a man accustomed to getting things his way, showered with respect and adulation, just like an actual judge in a courtroom, all deference and all rising upon his entrance.

"If I can convince him to come visit me, I'll let you know," Louisa said.

"Derby Day is almost here," Evelyn said. "Now that would be the best time to visit, don't you think?"

For Louisa, the Kentucky Derby wasn't important just yet. She had no horses running, knew none of the owners, and she couldn't possibly afford a ticket to the track. Her plan was to turn all that around by next year, to make enough contacts to get an invitation so that she could prowl the back side and spread her name around to the upper echelon of the breeding world. Bringing her father to the upcoming Derby, where she would obviously be an outsider, would only result in an onslaught of criticism and his assurance that she was going to fail, just like her relationship with Josh had been a complete fiasco. At least Amy had sense enough to get back into the art business, he'd pontificate. Amy studied art and she ran a gallery in Chicago. There was a time when Louisa did everything that Amy did, from horseback riding to loving a cowboy, and why couldn't she follow suit one more time and find a suitable job in a respectable, and manure-free, industry? Louisa already knew the script, and she didn't need her father around to read his lines.

"Once I get settled, maybe," Louisa said. "Where would I put him, anyway?"

"You need an in-law suite," Norma said. As Evelyn's best friend, she could be counted on to preach from Evelyn's book. "I mean, it's not as if a college professor would want to live in a trailer like the Mexicans around here."

"An in-law suite would be awful nice," Evelyn said.

"An in-law suite would be awful expensive," Louisa countered. She had yet to finish her studio, too strapped for cash to fund the next phase of the project.

"Living with your father would be awkward, wouldn't it?" Evelyn asked. "Once you start seeing men again."

Louisa's brother Hal had been dropping hints lately, about someone to look after Dad. Given the man's love of unfiltered Camel cigarettes and scotch, there was good reason to be concerned. Anything could happen, from a sudden heart attack to a crippling fall, but the old man was too stubborn to move away from the home he loved. Harold had done so much traveling, from one university to another, chasing the bigger salary and the plusher office and the lighter course load. Now he had his good friends, his habits and his routines, and the three Patch children could offer nothing better to tempt him away. The very last place he'd want to go, if he had to go someplace, was a smelly horse farm in Kentucky.

"Won't this be one exciting summer," Maribel said. "We'll know if our little boy here is a winner by September."

"We should decide what we're going to do with the profit from the yearling sale," Evelyn said. "My vote is to invest in another mare."

"I don't think we'll see that kind of profit," Norma said. "Unless we expand our membership or up the dues."

Leaving the syndicate ladies to their dreams of racing glory, Louisa drifted back towards the barn, where she could talk on the phone in peace. With the madness that was foaling season, she had fallen behind in returning calls, and she was sure that Daryl was going to pitch a fit about such rudeness. Every foaling season was like this, and still Daryl didn't get how a person could be so completely wrapped up in her work. In the distance, Louisa heard the tractor, a steady hum that suggested Billy was making his way back home for lunch, meaning it was high noon. The phone rang four times, and then the voice mail kicked in. Not Daryl, but Grigor, speaking for them both, leave a message. Louisa stared at the screen on her phone, to verify that she had called the right number. What was Grigor doing on Daryl's personal phone?

Uncomfortable with such a drastic change in her sister, Louisa scrolled through her contact list and found Daryl's office, where she was relieved to find Daryl's voice at last, if not Daryl herself. If you wish to schedule a visit with Dr. Patch-Petkov, office hours are, Daryl droned on. Before Louisa could figure out what time she and Daryl could connect, she understood the purpose of the call. An RV rolled up the driveway and hit the paddock fence, leaving a new scar about ten inches from the first one. Grigor's parking skills hadn't improved.

"Done for the semester already?" Louisa asked as he hauled a duffle bag full of tools to the studio.

"Just the weekend, I can do a little work," he said. "Daryl is too busy so I need something to do."

"You drove six hours for that?"

As if he didn't want to be seen by the three well-to-do Kentucky matrons on the far side of the barn, Grigor hustled into the warming room. The disappearing act suited Louisa's needs as well. If the women ever found out that he was married to a woman almost twice his age, there'd be eyebrows shooting skyward all over the county, and she did not want to be the subject of local gossip.

After getting her visitors into Evelyn's car and inviting them to drop by anytime to see their horses, she dashed back to the studio and found Grigor perusing the ceiling, as if he expected to see the conduit and the junction boxes rise up and align themselves around the proposed skylights. "No, no, you go, do what you have to do," he said. "If I need help, I come find you."

"Could you work along the walls, like this sketch I did the last time you were here," Louisa said. "The ceiling is going to have to wait until I can scratch up enough cash to pay a roofer. If you need me, it's probably easier to call my cell phone. In case I'm out in the fields."

Not the most distant paddock, but the house was her destination. The bathroom had to be scrubbed down for company, the kitchen floor hadn't been mopped for over a week, and there were record books and old sale catalogues scattered all over the living room. With Miss K on her heels, Louisa raced up and down the stairs, vacuuming and dusting. She put out clean towels and then realized that she'd have to prepare a real dinner. The cupboards were on the bare side, requiring a drive into town, which led to the distraction that was the new art gallery that had opened on Main Street shortly before Christmas. A five minute stop that was meant to introduce herself to the owner and get some information about selling her work there turned into a ninety minute meeting that ended with a verbal agreement and a handshake. She raced home to beat the school bus, got Chloe and Miss K outdoors to play, and returned to the barn. Not much had changed.

"Measure twice, cut once," Grigor said, his Slavic blue eyes twinkling with merriment. More like measure one hundred times, when you're getting paid by the hour, and wasn't that a good reason to be so smiley.

A junction box was screwed to a two-by-four, and a couple of outlet boxes were attached where she wanted them in the wall, along with a single pipe that would hold the electrical wire. The last remnants of a roll of red wire was strung out on the floor, where Grigor's tape measure was demonstrating the inability of eight feet of coated copper to stretch itself to the ten feet that was required.

"No more wire?" Grigor asked. "Maybe I can use your truck to go get some?"

Wire wasn't on the budget for the month, but what was she supposed to do? He was here, ready to work, and a couple of coils of wire wouldn't set her back all that much. She had an account at the big box hardware store, so technically she wouldn't be paying for the supplies until next month, when she'd have a little extra income from three new clients. Once the electrical work was done, the project would move along a little faster, and she could get some use out of the space, even unfinished, if she had power.

"If they give you a hard time about charging to my account, have them call me," Louisa said. She handed him her truck keys. "Do you know how to get there?"

"I turn left out of your driveway and go straight," he said. "Very easy."

Pressed for time, Louisa threw some chunks of beef and a bag of frozen stew vegetables into a pot and headed back to the barn, to round up the horses and get them stabled for the night. She got Chloe up on Bonesapart and led them out to the paddock where Billy was slipping a halter onto a mare. Louisa took the rope lead and walked both the mare and Bonesapart to the stable, giving Chloe a chance to ride her horse while getting another chore done. The foal followed along behind its mother, no coaxing required.

Every animal fed, watered and curry-combed, mother and daughter returned to the house where Miss K was waiting, tied up to the porch railing to keep her safe. Louisa gave the pot of stew a stirring and a dash of salt, while Chloe used her communicator device to answer a string of questions about her day. Everything was yes or no: were there any birthdays celebrated, did Chloe learn what the word 'dog' looked like on a piece of paper, did the teacher read a new story. It filled the time until the table was set, everyone's hands washed and Chloe's pureed version of the meal was put on her divided plate.

As usual, they were running late, but even so, Louisa had to slip down to the barn to see if Grigor was ready to quit for the day. She assumed that he'd have dinner with them, like a guest and not the hired help, but when he wasn't in the studio she chided herself for not specifically telling him what time they would all eat. Thinking that he might have gone to Billy's, for whatever reason, she started down the path to the bunkhouse but then stopped. Her pickup was still missing, which meant that Grigor hadn't come back from a trip that should have taken an hour at the absolute longest.

Not yet ready to panic, she was confident that he would have called if he'd gotten lost. He might have pulled into a gas station or seen something in a store that he wanted to pick up for Daryl, and then gone the wrong way without realizing it. There were other places along the way that would attract a visitor, or if someone's horse trailer had jack-knifed then the road would be blocked. A horse running loose, that would stop traffic. Not for three hours, though.

Tired of waiting, probably starving, Chloe had attempted to feed herself in her mother's absence. Miss K was under her chair, feasting on the blobs of beef that fell to the floor. Louisa grabbed a dish towel and wiped down the girl's face, and then proceeded to spoon feed her while looking up at the stove clock every thirty seconds. She gave him five more minutes, then another three, and then she called Daryl.

Louisa picked at her dinner while she waited for Daryl to track down her husband and call back. She joined Chloe on her evening stroll with Miss K, getting to the bottom step of the back stoop before the phone rang. "Just tell me if he's lost or alive," Louisa said.

"He's really sorry, but he didn't have your number," Daryl said. "Some Mexican guy who works for you needed a ride to the auto parts store, and you know how Grigor is. Had to help the guy install some brake pads, and then the guy's wife insisted that he have something to eat, you know, to pay him back."

"That's something that's getting corrected right off," Louisa said, hiding her annoyance. What if she needed a ride somewhere, and there was Grigor, hauling Beto or Carmen around while she would have to go by horseback. "This is stupid, him not being able to call me. God, I was so worried about him."

Just as Daryl was telling her all about the seminar she was conducting on Saturday afternoon, Grigor knocked on the door and walked in before being invited. His look was more hang dog than Miss K could muster, filled with apologies and pleadings for forgiveness. Daryl signed off, all breezy and carefree, while Louisa fought off an urge to really let the fool have it for leaving her stranded.

He continued to apologize, even as he programmed her number in his contact list. He gave her his number in between avowals to never be so empty-headed again, to think about others and it was difficult when he'd only had himself to think about for so long. With ravenous hunger, he attacked the plate of stew that she served, words streaming out of his mouth between bites as he sang the praises of Colmar, Kentucky. How lucky he was, to have found a woman as beautiful as Daryl, with a sister just as attractive and so very kind. Thicker and thicker he piled it on, until he finished eating and brought his dishes to the sink where Louisa was scouring the pot. There was no mistaking the lingering odor of a woman's perfume on him, a familiar scent that she couldn't place.

"Chloe, what shall we watch on television today," he called out as he walked to the front of the house. "SpongeBob, yes, my favorite. And you?"

The communicator said yes, twice. Louisa bent to her task, scouring the inside of the pot with a fury. "Fucking little shit and his shit-eating grin." Yet how did anyone tell their one and only sister, when there wasn't any truly concrete proof beyond a deep suspicion? The messenger stood a good chance of getting killed when delivering that kind of news.

FIVE

Before Grigor left, Louisa wrestled with a difficult decision. She hadn't seen her brother-in-law with anyone else, so how could she make an accusation based on a smell? People sampled perfumes and soaps all the time, he might have stopped at the RV to change and doused himself with cheap cologne, it could be nothing. Nothing but her dislike of the man and her wish that he would get out of Daryl's life, and that kind of thing was sure to skew her vision.

Lula May bit at her flanks, lifted her neatly wrapped tail and took a few steps in the foaling stall. Before the night was over, there would be a new foal, the mare's third, and the future was filled with bright possibilities. Louisa sipped at her coffee, recalling how very smart her sister had always been, her training as a biochemist tuning a keen power of observation. Not like Louisa, with her artistic eye and sensitive nature, so who was the better judge of Grigor's character?

The barn on the hill was like a beacon, Judge said, when he explained why he was phoning at such a late hour. He was passing by, heading home after a party, was pulling up just outside the barn at that very minute, if she wouldn't mind a little company. Before she could say yes or no, he opened the barn door and flashed a roguish grin that suggested he might have had one glass of wine too many. Louisa told him where he could find a chair and offered him some stale coffee in a paper cup. It was all that she had and she couldn't leave Lula May to brew a fresh pot.

"First time I watched a mare foal, it was like witnessing a miracle," Judge said. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it on the back of the chair before he dropped onto the seat. "Now I've seen it too many times and I'm jaded."

"This one's personal for me," Louisa said. "All the others, it's my job, but Lula May is my horse and the profit off the foal is going into my bank account."

"Serious money or covering expenses?" Judge tipped a splash of bourbon into his coffee.

"Mr. Coots bought last year's foal and he's convinced it's a champion," Louisa said. "Her first baby placed at Belmont, so I'm thinking some serious money next year."

"A woman blessed with confidence. Midas Touch out of Lula May by Sky Bird?"

Louisa hadn't thought of a name at all, but to suggest that this foal making its way into the world would turn things to gold two years later didn't describe how she felt. "No, more like Blue Moon. Once in a blue moon, you get a champion."

"Blue moon of Kentucky, keep on shinin'," Judge sang, off-key. "Shine on the one who's gone and left me blue."

"Did you hear that?" she asked, ears cocked. Judge leaned closer, turned his head slowly, searching but not finding. "That was Patsy Cline, rolling over in her grave."

His laugh came from deep within, vibrating in his throat and then rumbling across his lips. The joke was appreciated, the gentle teasing that was friendly and comfortable. It was forgotten as soon as Lula May got to her feet, took a few steps, and sank back down onto her belly. From under her wrapped tail, a white sac protruded, healthy membranes that enclosed a healthy foal. In unison, Louisa and Judge stood up and moved closer to the open stall door, both checking the time on their watches to monitor the mare's progress.

Nothing more needed to be said and they watched in silence. The dark shape of a hoof and leg appeared, then a nose. Lula May rolled onto her side, got to her feet, and lay back down again, pushing her foal out inch by inch. Judge checked his watch and suggested that he give the mare a little help by pulling, but Louisa would have none of it. Pulling the foal out was too dangerous, something to be done in dire emergencies and then best done by a trained professional. She herself had been helped once, by a well-meaning family doctor who operated under a fixed notion of how long a woman could be in hard labor before he pulled the baby out with forceps, and she learned well from the experience. Give the mare more time, let her do it like she did it three times before, but don't do anything that might harm the foal before it had a chance to touch the ground.

Blue Moon arrived in his own sweet time, his tail following his front hoof by twenty-two minutes. The umbilical cord broke away, the placenta dropped, and Judge grabbed the scoop shovel to clean up the soiled bedding. While Louisa examined the placenta, he spread fresh wheat straw in the stall, careful to stay out of the way of mare bonding with colt.

"For goodness sake, Judge, you're wearing a suit," Louisa said. "What are you doing?"

He looked down at the bits of straw and horse hair that clung to his pants, the damp spots that splattered his shirt and tie. "Can you beat that," he said. "I forget I was dressed up. Made this a formal occasion, didn't I?"

The newborn colt was splayed on the floor of the stall, wobbly and not sure what to do with his four spindly limbs. Before she forgot the numbers, Louisa went to the table where her record book was opened to Lula May's page. She checked off the milestones that were passed normally, then went back to the stall to see how long it took the colt to find his feet. Before she was back to her post, the little guy had gotten his forelimbs bent at the right angle to push up, but his hindquarters weren't ready to make the move. Judge put his arm around her shoulder, chuckling at the uncoordinated but determined animal. Within twenty minutes, the colt figured it all out and stood on four less than stable legs, his nose rooting around under his mother's belly in a search for food.

"Thanks, for letting me stay," Judge said, his eyes sparkling with the wonder of birth. He kissed Louisa's cheek, beard stubble rubbing on her skin like thousands of electric sparks and stealing her breath away.

"I enjoyed the company," she said, but her voice was a whisper.

He smelled of horses and laundry starch and expensive cologne; his mouth tasted of bad coffee and good bourbon. There was nothing tentative about his kiss, no sense of hesitation. He kissed her like he meant it, no accident, and she felt it down to the tips of her toes. Her hands slid along his back, discovering well-toned muscles under his shirt, a hint of a love handle on his right side where her hand rested near his hip. Where are you going, Louisa, she caught herself, the wandering fingers heading towards danger. No male contact since who could remember when, too long without sex, and she willed him to keep going while telling herself to stop.

With a face that reflected shock, he pulled away, studying Louisa's face as if he had been sleepwalking and couldn't believe that he had woken up with a stranger. Just as dreamily, he pulled her into a warm embrace and mumbled something about not making that mistake again. A sigh escaped from his lips, filled with regret and sorrow. "Got a little carried away. You won't, I mean, well, this won't change things between us?"

There it was, the wine and the bourbon taking over his actions while his brain went into overdrive, finally regaining control. "No harm done," she said, returning the warm hug.

"I'd better get along home," he said, his hand lingering on her arm like a drowning man grasping a buoy.

"Are you sure you're all right to drive?"

"Don't you worry about me." He gave her hand a farewell squeeze and shuffled to the door. "Sober as a judge, Ms. Patch."

*****

To prove that there were no hard feelings, no misunderstandings and no insult taken at a kiss being labeled a mistake, Louisa arranged a meeting with Judge on Tuesday. She'd received the letter on Monday, and he'd told her to call if she had any legal questions. What better excuse could have fallen into her lap? She had legitimate questions, needed a legally binding yet scathing reply to the list of demands that had been sent from Texas, and Junior Best assured her that Judge Cawthon was just the man for the task.

Because his schedule wasn't rigid and he couldn't promise to be prompt, Judge asked her to meet him at work, where she could wait until he was able to get away. Having never asked him what he did for a living, Louisa managed to figure things out when she arrived at the court house. She could picture him as a criminal defense attorney, arguing in his laconic, honey-sweet voice, presenting evidence and proving that the prosecution had no case, all while remaining cool and calm under his dome of snow-white hair. Maybe there would be a seat left in the visitor's gallery and she could watch him in action. It would give her something to talk about, to get past the awkwardness of Saturday night.

"Can you tell me where to find Mr. Cawthon?" she asked the man running the metal detector. "We have an appointment."

"That case let out yet?" he called over to his partner. After a moment of deep contemplation, the other guard decided that the court was still in session, based on his observation that a crowd of people hadn't left for lunch and no one moved in the court house without him seeing them.

Directed to Courtroom Four, Louisa found the doors shut while voices droned inside, a suggestion of stodgy legal proceedings and not lofty rhetoric. Unsure if she was allowed to enter while things were in process, she tugged on the brass knob lightly, to open up a crack. From the inside of the room, someone pushed the door open the rest of the way and Louisa found herself the focus of attention. A bailiff walked past her without a second look, barking out a name. Louisa watched as he ushered in a Hispanic woman, her head bowed in what appeared to be embarrassment. When she looked up at the bench, to see if she had been hallucinating a second ago, she discovered that her eyes weren't playing tricks at all. The judge was Judge.

His black robe made him look like a man sitting in a sack, only his head exposed as he leaned forward and whispered to the two lawyers who stood before him, gesticulating to better make a point. Like a great idiot, Louisa stood in front of the door, not sure where she might sit if she was even allowed to sit. Judge glanced up from the conference he was not paying much attention to, and flashed her the most knee-buckling smile she'd ever received.

The attorneys made their points, Judge replied, and then he picked up his gavel. "Ninety minute recess. Ms. Patch, if you'd meet me in my chambers."

"All rise," a man's voice intoned, and Judge disappeared in a puff of black polyester. A wave of hungry people came towards her and Louisa had to duck to one side to avoid getting run over.

The door was labeled 'Judge's Chambers', as well as 'Private', causing Louisa to hesitate for a second before turning the knob and strolling in like she knew what she was doing. Judge invited her to have a seat, but the oil paintings on the walls were too intriguing to be missed. Her steps were slow as she moved from one ancient visage to the next, stopping when she arrived at a modern oil of racing horses that hung over a leather sofa.

"Cawthon family genealogy," Judge said. He pointed at the portraits, from left to right, naming each one of his illustrious ancestors who had all been judges in Bourbon County since Reconstruction.

"Where's you?" Louisa asked.

"Don't you think I'm too young to join that pantheon of old age?" he said.

He pulled up an armchair that matched the sofa, the nameplate on his desk visible over his left shoulder. "Your name isn't Judge?" she noted, a stupid question if ever there was one. It was right there, in brass, Boyce Cawthon, and any idiot could figure out that Judge was not only what he was but who he was to the people of Colmar.

"Growing up, more likely than not I'd be called Boy, and even though it was well past Jim Crow's day, there were plenty around here who used that term in a less than polite way towards the black folks and in a very rude way to some of us white folks." He patted her knee in a friendly gesture, while Louisa fantasized about the same hand running up her thigh. "Boys are supposed to be scrappers, anyway. I sure did my share of scrapping."

"You mean you were always called Judge?"

"Everyone figured I'd follow the family tradition. And I did, as you can see." His arm moved through a wide arc, the great actor accepting the accolades of his adoring public with a smile on his face that proved he knew it was all a stage set. "We've got a little time before our table's ready. Tell me about this letter that has you so upset."

The letter had arrived by certified mail, forcing the mail carrier to track her down for a signature. Once she saw who it was from, she flew into a rage that still prickled. She wanted to pay Josh's parents back in kind, even if it meant revealing some things that she thought she had left behind in Texas. From her purse, she extracted the envelope and handed over the entire package.

"Law firm mean anything in particular to you?" he asked.

"They were Josh's, my, they were his lawyers for the divorce. The divorce he was supposed to be getting, so we could get married."

"Then you weren't married to Chloe's daddy?"

"We were supposed to. Promises made and broken. I wanted a baby before I was too old. I was an idiot, okay, go on and say it."

"Don't go getting upset with my questions. I have to ask some things that might be uncomfortable for you." He canted his head towards her, sort of like a man going in for a kiss, or maybe she was wishing it to be so. "Anything you say to me stays in this room."

"In the end, he went back to his almost ex-wife and their kids, and that was exactly what his parents wanted so I left the ranch. I mean, who would stay under those conditions?"

"Better off in the long run. And the father is listed as such on the birth certificate?"

"There was never a problem about acknowledging paternity. No complaints about me taking Chloe to Kentucky, no contesting the custody agreement." Louisa crossed her legs, wrapped her arms around her body and leaned forward, pained by recollections. "What was left from the medical malpractice settlement, he made sure it all went to me. Every penny."

"So you think this is his parents' doing, and not him?"

"I'm sure of it. Josh, he, I guess, you see, he understands that Chloe isn't a normal child and she has all kinds of problems that he simply can't handle. He hasn't called but once since I left. He's given up on her or something."

"Intends to stay away, in my opinion, which is all for the best. That leaves his parents. What was your relationship with them?"

Too nervous to sit, Louisa got to her feet and walked around the room, to stare out the window at the lawn below. "Strained, I'd call it. Especially at the end. I always had the feeling that Josh's mom resented me because I was able to run the ranch and all Josh wanted to do was be the world's greatest cowboy, chase after every rodeo in the country. That, and she preferred Josh's first wife over me."

She returned to her spot on the sofa, the chill of the leather penetrating her chino pants. "What I'm about to tell you, I've never told anyone. Not even my family."

He took her hand in a gesture of comfort, telling her to go on at her own speed, and then he touched his lips to her fingers. Louisa closed her eyes, imagined the two of them twined on the sofa, making love as the imaginary thoroughbreds charged out of the starting gate above them. A picture came to her, the portrait that she would paint, in shades of chestnut brown and black and grey, Judge Boyce Cawthon exuding the strength of a stallion in full gallop.

"One of the reasons I left and came here," she paused, her voice caught up in a rush of desire, "one reason was that Mr. Coots encouraged me, told me about Bedford Farm. What pushed me more was Josh's parents, so insistent that I put Chloe in a group home. They went behind my back, filled out paperwork and got her a spot and then they bombarded me with this guilt that I was a bad mother. Tried to make me give up my daughter, throw her away like a broken doll."

"You parted on less than good terms," Judge said.

"Now there's an understatement," she said. An attempt at a snort of derision floundered, drowned out by the tears that filled up her eyes. She would give up all she had for her daughter, go beg in the streets if necessary. Chloe was everything to Louisa, the center of her world, and anyone who tried to come between them was deserving of a slow and painful death.

In an instant, Judge had his handkerchief out and was sitting at her side, holding her close, soothing the pain of bad memories. "You aren't trying to keep the grandparents from seeing Chloe, isn't that right?" Louisa nodded in agreement. "Then your attorney will say that they're welcome to visit the girl right here, in keeping with a legally binding custody agreement, and if they'd like to contest it, I'll be sure to put it on my docket." Judge Cawthon chuckled a menacing little laugh. "That ought to have their fancy-pants lawyer pissing his drawers."

Nothing was more pathetic than a woman in tears, as far as Louisa was concerned, and she forcibly turned off the water works before making an even bigger fool of herself. It was the reminder of Chloe as damaged goods, the arguments and the fighting that triggered the flood. The night before she left Wilmer, she told off the Ryersons in a voice that was caustic and vicious, so loud that her throat ached with the screaming. They were getting their revenge with this letter from an attorney, threatening to sue for visitation or possibly to have the custody agreement torn up and replaced by one to their liking. Discovering that she had a champion on her side was almost too much to bear with calm reserve.

"Before this, I was going to invite them to come out in July, for Chloe's birthday," Louisa said. "I'm wasting my time, trying to mend fences. There's nothing to be gained by being nice with some people."

"You go right on ahead and invite them," he said. "I'll call their lawyer's bluff and you call theirs, and you'll never hear another word from them."

He went to his desk and clicked a few keys on the computer keyboard. With a lascivious gaze fixed on Louisa, he dictated a letter to Mr. Fancy Dallas Attorney that dripped with venom, mean-spirited threats matched with promises and legal precedent that applied in the great Commonwealth of Kentucky, where Ms. Patch and her daughter legally resided.

"Is that it? That's all there is to it?" Louisa asked.

"Let's finish our talk over lunch," Judge said. He grabbed his suit jacket from its hook on the coat rack, only to return to the sofa. "It isn't right, that you confessed to me and here I am, with something all bottled up. This will stay in here, with your secrets?"

"Of course."

"It wasn't liquor that made me forget myself the other night. I want to apologize.

Her smile threatened to spread across her face, circle her head, climb the wall and twine along the ceiling, from one corner of his office to the next. "Then what was it that made you do something so rash?" she asked.

"There's never been a woman like you in my life, so it's all your fault, isn't it." He brushed a stray hair from her forehead. "Here's my confession, Louisa. Twice before I rented the farm, and twice before I let my heart take over when it should have been all business. Things ended badly, contracts broken, Bedford's reputation lost."

"I think I see where this is going."

"Don't let me drive you away. Whatever might or might not happen between us."

Didn't she know about men and their promises that were forgotten as soon as they were made. First and foremost in her mind was Chloe, and what was best for her. After that, it was the farm and boarding brood mares and selling yearlings and promoting horse riding as therapy. If there was a piece of her heart still unclaimed, it could be shared with the Judge, but she would not make the same mistake with him that she had made with Josh.

"And you won't cancel my lease if things go badly on a personal front?" she countered.

"Even if you break my heart," he said. "That's one of the reasons why I have my mother managing the property. Separates the business from the pleasure."

With ground rules in place, an understanding reached, Louisa settled into something that felt like a date. At the restaurant, Judge held her chair for her, asked about her coursework at art school, and made the sort of casual conversation that was suitable for a budding romance. It had been ages since she'd talked to a man about books or the Impressionists, and giving orders to Billy or his helpers didn't compare to a discussion about local politics and history. Before she knew it, lunch was over, her doggie bag was tucked into the refrigerator at home, and she was standing at the end of her driveway with Miss K, waiting for Chloe to get off the school bus. The vehicle that pulled up was not yellow, but candy apple pink.

The passenger window rolled down electronically and Evelyn leaned across the front seat. "Everything all right?" she asked, all smiles.

"Judge solved my little legal problem," Louisa said.

"Well, that's nice. Any plans for Derby Day?"

"Just walking across the road to watch the race with Junior and Cora," Louisa said.

Not that Evelyn exhaled with relief, but the woman's shoulders dropped slightly, as if she had been wound up like a coiled spring and then popped. Her cheerful grin grew a little bit warmer. "This being your first year in business, I think it's best if I exercise that one clause in the lease about the rent. No need to raise it, with the property taxes holding steady."

"Are you sure? I mean, thank you, of course, but if you want to change your mind before next September," Louisa said.

"You just keep up the hard work, Louisa," Evelyn said. She waved a farewell as she veered back into the road, not bothering to see if anyone was coming.

Nice to know that one expense wasn't going up next year, but it seemed a little strange that Evelyn came by when she did to talk about the annual rent. One thing for sure, gossip traveled with the speed of light around Colmar, and there could be no doubt that everyone knew that the Judge had been spotted with Louisa Patch, having lunch in a setting too intimate for business. In which case, it looked like Evelyn wanted her to stick around, not get lost.

"You're on a longer leash than the Judge, Miss K," Louisa told the dog. Miss K wagged her tail.

SIX

With the fees that she earned as an agent at the two-year-old sales, Louisa made some progress on the construction of her art studio, which Grigor swore he would finish during his summer break. Taking advantage of the longer days, she pulled wires at night after Chloe was in bed, telling herself that she was too busy to call Cecil Surette back after he'd left countless voice mails. A roofer was hired to install the skylights and re-shingle the roof of the warming room while he was at it, one of Billy's numerous cousins who replaced a couple of broken shingles on the house for free.

Once the skylight flooded the space with bright sunshine, Louisa was driven to take the studio on a test run, but the bare studs and exposed conduit were hardly inspiring. She had one possible source of money, and the painting she had done of Josh at the rodeo went to the gallery in Colmar; the last little bit of her old life that she had hung on to for no particular reason was sold for drywall. With the little that was left, she splurged on stretched canvases and fresh tubes of oils. She could work in her free time, fill the lonely nights with creativity, and earn some needed cash to build up her wardrobe. Dating Judge Cawthon was an expensive proposition.

Not that they went out all that much. Most weekends, Louisa was traveling to the race tracks to drum up business, sleeping in the covered bed of the pickup with Chloe to save on the expense of a hotel room. Returning on Sunday night, she never failed to stop in the studio to see what had gotten accomplished, and wondered how it was possible for one man to move so slowly that he couldn't have finished the drywall over two or three weekends. The room wasn't that big.

She couldn't complain much about Grigor's lack of efficiency, not when he hadn't asked for a dime for the time he had put in. By the same token, it wasn't possible to ask him to move things along, but with a big party planned for July, Louisa was getting antsy. Her family was coming, to celebrate Chloe's eight birthday and toast to a milestone that the pediatrician in Wilmer didn't think the girl would live to meet. Not that she planned to turn the studio into a temporary dormitory, but Louisa wanted something finished that she could show to her father, to prove that she could have everything she set her mind to. Horses and painting, united, but there was little evidence of any art being made and the horse farm hadn't turned its first profit yet.

After dropping Chloe at the Best house, where she would be stuffed with chocolate bourbon pie and soda pop, Louisa drove to Modigliani's. She had splurged on a summery cocktail dress from the early 1960's in a flower pattern that suited a high-end Colmar restaurant. Not wishing to go too far with the blending-in business, she carried a vintage Lucite handbag, circa 1955. She had her own sense of style, after all, and little eccentricities would surely add to her reputation as an oil colorist of some talent.

"Mr. and Mrs. Ryerson are singing a different tune, are they?" Judge laughed over the most recent correspondence from their attorney. "Thanks for the invite but July isn't a good month."

"Can't say I didn't try to meet them half way," Louisa said.

"A lot of smoke and no fire," Judge said. "I wish I could be there for the party, but if it wasn't official business, I'd reschedule."

"Don't worry about it. Maybe next year," Louisa said. How many more next years was impossible to predict, and different experts had given her different prognoses. The best advice had been to live each day as if it were Chloe's last, and so she planned a big bash in the event that there was nothing to celebrate the following July.

Judge filled her in on the latest news from his court, where the domestic battery case that she had walked in on was dragging along through one continuation after another. He recalled a funny scene he had witnessed between a jockey and a groupie on the back side at Churchill Downs, and he reviewed the scant winnings of a four-year-old gelding he had an interest in. "I'm ready to give up on that pile of dog food on legs," he said. "Any chance you could talk my mother's syndicate into keeping the foal and hiring a good trainer?"

"Do they want to own a race horse?" Louisa asked. "That's a very expensive proposition. Unless they think they could sell it after it put up some respectable numbers."

"If that colt collected a purse or two, they'd keep him." Judge leaned back in his chair, waved to a friend who was leaving, and then eased forward. "I'm still looking for my own Derby winner. You're a better judge of horses than I'll ever be. You tell me."

They talked about powerful haunches and weak ankles and above-average lung capacity, none of which could be predicted with any accuracy. A sire's powerful chest didn't guarantee that his offspring would inherit the same body part, and it was just as likely that the weakest attribute could be handed down to every single foal while the strongest was lost to the vagaries of genetics.

The wine was good but Louisa had to drive home and she declined another glass. She chose coffee over a chocolate martini, in spite of Judge's insistence that she should indulge herself once in a while, and picked at the tiramisu that they shared. By the time the bill arrived, she had learned a little more about the man whose future had been set for him at birth, guided into position by parents who believed in rank and position in the manner of blue grass royalty. Louisa couldn't help but wonder if Judge had a core of regret, buried deep within, a disappointment at missing out on the greater world or some other career. There was no room in his life for re-invention or switching gears; it was all living up to expectations. When she painted his portrait, and she knew at that moment that she would, she would capture that faint glimmer of repressed rebellion.

Arm in arm, they walked towards the court house where Judge had left his car. Louisa suspected that her date was less than fully sober, and she insisted that she follow him home to be sure he didn't veer off into a ditch or plow into a fence. Not that she was all that concerned with him hurting himself; she was worried that he might hurt someone else and she knew that his position pretty much protected him from getting pulled over or arrested for DUI.

He didn't veer or wobble, but drove at the speed limit in the center of his lane, as if he wanted to prove to her that he was fine. Along Main Street, past the feed store, he must have been using cruise control because his speed never wavered. His turn signal flashed and Louisa followed suit, entering a newish subdivision with an ornamental stone wall that suggested "gated community" without the gate. The road wound around the base of a hill, then climbed, and she knew that she'd never find her way out, when the only light came from a full moon.

As she suspected, his home was a modernized version of the plantation mansion, complete with white pillars and portico illuminated by a large hanging lamp that resembled the one at the White House. A green lawn rolled down to the road, while manicured shrubs clung to the edges of a front porch decorated with pots of flowers and wicker chairs. All that was missing were men in seersucker suits sipping on mint juleps while the faithful Negro servant passed around the humidor. Following the driveway to the attached garage behind the house, Louisa wanted to laugh, but Judge was clearly very proud of his estate-in-miniature. He climbed out of his car and walked back towards her, all smiles, full of deprecating humor about his little shack and it wasn't much but it was home.

"Very Southern," Louisa said.

He invited her in, to assess the Southern-ness of the decor. Like all the new houses she had ever seen, the garage opened to a laundry room, which then opened to the kitchen and great room. Not a box of soap to be seen, which meant Judge sent his laundry out for cleaning. Likewise, the kitchen was gleaming like brand new, as if only the catering staff had ever used the high-end cooktop. The great room was not as masculine as she had expected, lacking wood paneling or stuffed animal heads hanging on the walls. An enormous flat screen television and sports memorabilia displayed on shelves were the only indication that a man lived there.

"Slightly less Southern," Louisa said.

He guided her to a stool at the kitchen island, where she could sit and watch him brew a pot of coffee in a pricey machine that ground the beans and filtered the water. After a couple of gurgles and a slight hiss of steam, Judge turned his slightly buzzed attention to Louisa. "Kentucky's not all that far south," he said.

"How long have you lived here?" Louisa asked. Judge took a seat right next to her, swiveling until he had trapped her legs between his knees.

"All my life in Colmar," he said. Both hands came to rest on her thighs as he leaned forward. "Ten years in this pile. My ex picked it out, dressed it up, and then found someone richer. That's why I got to keep the house."

In all the time she'd been in town, no one had ever thought to mention that Judge had been married before. Better a divorced man than a perennial bachelor, in Louisa's mind. And at least he wasn't living with his mother. "I hope it wasn't too nasty of a split," she said.

"Bad enough," he said. His lips brushed her neck, just below her left ear. "You know how it goes. Like to see the rest of the house?"

Taking her hand, he led her down a hallway that opened onto a two-story foyer. The staircase floated up from the inlaid marble floor, curling in a wide spiral towards the upper level that held too many rooms for one man living alone. He flipped on lights as the tour proceeded along the gallery, displaying a bathroom that was larger than her studio, and giving her a glimpse into a guest bedroom that could have come out of the pages of Architectural Digest. At the door to his bedroom, he stood to one side so that she could enter, or so that he could wrap himself around her and tickle the back of her neck with his lips.

Cool breezes set the sheer draperies to billowing, while the scent of lilac and jasmine washed in with each gentle gust. Her dress was unzipped but she never felt his hand run down her back. She sensed the warmth of his bare chest against her but couldn't recall seeing him take off his shirt. A trail of discarded clothing ran from the door to the bed, his silk boxers landing on her cotton lingerie after Judge tossed them over his shoulder. From giddy to serious, the look on his face shifted to one of intensity, of a longing to perform well, or perhaps to prove himself a better lover than her previous paramours. Dear sweet Judge, determined to win a competition that didn't exist. Sex with Josh had been about as pleasurable as pulling off an adhesive bandage, and the sooner it was over, the better.

*****

As much as she wanted to make love a second time, the first time having been amazing, Louisa had a child to care for and it was getting late. "Don't get up," she said when he rolled across the bed, his arm reaching around the floor in search of his underwear. "I'll find my way out."

"Oh, no, you will not," he said. He sat next to her on the bed, putting on his pants while she pulled her sandals onto her bare feet. "I am a gentleman."

At the door of her car, she stumbled through a speech that she hadn't made for years. It was remarkably easy to fall out of synch when she hadn't been on a date for so long, not sure if protocol had changed. Lovely evening, thanks, but should she say anything about doing it again? No, that was the Judge's line, about having a wonderful time and if she was busy with work next weekend, they might go to lunch instead. A lust-filled image popped into her head, Judge Cawthon naked under his robe, and she smiled at her overly vivid imagination.

"I know what I'd like for lunch," she whispered, a secret thought given life, her mouth betraying her of its own accord.

Too late to take it back. Judge grinned, his shit-eating, good-ole-boy grin, and assured her that she would have exactly what she wished to order. His good-bye kiss would not have been good-bye if it wasn't for Chloe, waiting for her mother to carry her home.

Guilt erased the tingle between her legs when she drove up to the Best house later than she'd said she'd be there. Chloe was nestled on the sofa between Cora and her daughters, sound asleep as televised gunshots careened through the surround-sound system. Not that Cora seemed to mind. She insisted that Louisa have a cup of herbal tea in the kitchen, sweetened with a little clover honey to bring on sweet dreams.

"He can be a real charmer," Cora said. "Known him since he was a boy. Always knew what his future held, too."

The kitchen door opened and Junior leaned backwards against the frame, to pull off a pair of mucky boots. "You talking about the Judge?"

"Course, he was born a Cawthon and there wasn't any other road to follow. Law, horses or banking," Cora said. She adjusted the nasal tube over her ears and re-arranged the oxygen hose across her wide lap. "His sister married a banker, and he wasn't interested in horses."

With a thud, Junior landed in a chair that creaked in protest at the abuse. "He sure is making up for lost time since his wife left him."

"If you knew you were aiming to be a judge, wouldn't you behave yourself?" Cora said.

"That man is sowing enough wild oats these days to bring in a bumper crop," Junior said. "Not worried about shining his halo, now that he's set. Chief District Judge since two years ago, and I wouldn't be surprised if he made the State Supreme Court before he's done."

"He's a very nice man," Louisa said.

"He's got good taste in women," Junior said with a snort. "And you're a sign that it's improving."

"Nothing wrong with having a little company now and then," Cora said. "I don't think the Judge is looking to settle down."

"Don't you think his momma is after him to sire a new generation of Cawthons?" Junior asked.

"Afraid they'll have to shut down the courthouse without a Cawthon sitting on the bench?" Louisa suggested.

"You better believe that Evelyn and her lady friends have said just exactly that," Cora said. "And they believe it to be true, too."

After a few minutes of gossip about the manager at another farm who was caught with the owner's wife, Louisa walked across the road with Chloe still asleep in her arms. The house looked warm and inviting, with soft light spilling out of the kitchen window onto the side yard. Balancing Chloe on one hip, Louisa dug out her key and unlocked the front door, careful to keep Miss K from running out into the night. Without disturbing her daughter too much, she changed the diaper, overjoyed to find that it was still dry.

Chloe stirred. Louisa stretched out next to her and took her in her arms, to smell the delicious aroma of little girl. Chloe burrowed under the covers and draped her arm across her mother's neck, twining her fingers into Louisa's hair.

"We like the Judge, don't we?" Louisa whispered. Too bad he couldn't attend the birthday party, to meet the Patch family and prove to her father that it wasn't all cowboys and horses in his daughter's life. "Wonder if he likes us enough to fit himself in?"

Too wound up to go to bed herself, Louisa pulled on her boots and walked to the barn, to check that all the doors were closed and lights off. Moonlight lit the path between the house and the barn, so bright that she didn't need the flashlight. She slipped into the barn and listened to the sounds of Bonesapart sleeping. The barn cat that Billy had adopted lifted up onto its feet and arched its back in a lazy stretch before settling back down on the broken hay bale. Continuing her inspection, Louisa noticed that the studio door was ajar, and the last thing she wanted was the cat wandering in, to climb up the easel and send the unfinished painting to the floor.

She flipped on the light and went straight to the easel, to be sure that Mr. Lunch hadn't already explored the forbidden space. All in one piece, all as she left it, and this was as good a time as any to fix the shading on the subject's arm. Louisa slipped her smock over her head and had oils on a palette in no time. Brushes seemed to leap into her hand as she rustled in the cup, seeking the right size. Colors mixed, blended, catapulted onto the canvas as she worked under the influence of a flash of inspiration. At last, the scene came to life as it existed in her mind's eye, the play of light and shadow. The cabbage roses of the rug on which Amy sat, the antique jardinière in the background, even the sheerness of the window curtain took on the colors and reflections that she had wanted but couldn't seem to capture until that very moment. Every problem that she'd had with the painting just disappeared under the strokes of color that she applied with a sure touch.

Slowly, the buzz in her brain wound down to a mild enthusiasm that was fringed with fatigue. The day caught up to her at last, a tiredness settled into her legs and Louisa's eyes began to droop. She knew when to stop, when it wasn't wise to push her muse beyond its limits. Surrendering, she cleaned her brushes and palette, tightened up the cap on every tube of oil; only then did she take a step back and squint at what she'd done. Almost there, she decided, finished with one or two touch-ups and then a signature. The painting would be ready to give to Amy when she came down for the big July birthday bash. She could start on Judge's portrait, without a doubt her next project.

There would have to be coffee in his picture somewhere, to memorialize the pot of coffee that he had put on when she arrived at his house. They never did get around to drinking it, far too busy in bed to worry about refreshments. She would capture the devilish gleam in his eye, the way that he glanced at her after he took off her dress and admired her less than perfect figure. Yet there was a serious side to be captured, a set of his jaw or the lift of a shoulder that reflected his desire to please her as he trusted her to please him in return. A certain intensity existed in his features and she would have to put all of that into her next painting, a complete portrait of all the man and not just the surface.

In a fever of inspiration, Louisa fell asleep but her brain never rested, the images jostling around in her dreams before drifting back into her unconscious mind. She woke up well before the alarm went off, before the sun had arrived at the horizon. With a little time to spare before she had to get to work, she hurried back to the studio to sketch out the ideas that threatened to spill out of her head and dissolve like the morning fog that was snagged on the cupola of the big barn on the hill.

Bonesapart pawed the straw, thinking that he was getting breakfast earlier than usual, but Louisa went right past him on her way to the studio. She leaned Amy's painting against a large box and propped her sketch pad up on the easel in its place. Rummaging around in the box of charcoals, she selected the proper weight and started to draw. The makings of a pose were roughed out, a detail of a facial expression, the crease at the corner of Judge's mouth as she recalled it from the night before. On to the next page, the charcoal skated across the paper as she visualized the form of his hands, the line of his jaw. A photograph or a live model would be needed, to get his image down, but she would know what pose she wanted before she asked him to sit for her.

The soft murmurs of the stable hands acted like a clock, alerting her to the hour. Chloe would be up, trapped on the second floor by the gate at the top of the stairs that kept her from tumbling down. Stupid, to even consider a house with two floors when the girl couldn't manage stairs on her own, but who could afford to be choosy when looking for enough acreage and ready-built facilities. Louisa rubbed her fingers on a paint rag and headed back to the house, to start another day.

"How about eggs this morning?" Louisa asked as she wrapped an elastic band around the end of Chloe's freshly braided pigtail.

"Yes," said the computer chip voice.

"How about alfalfa?" Louisa teased.

"No," the communicator said. "No. No."

"Okay, eggs it is."

Walking backwards, ready to catch her daughter if she stumbled on a step, Louisa heard someone pounding on her kitchen door. She cringed, fearing bad news like a foal turning up dead or a prize mare stolen, but there was nothing she could do until Chloe worked her way down, tread by tread. Louisa shouted out that she was coming, not sure if she could be heard. Her cell phone buzzed and she threw it on the table after checking the caller I.D., Cecil again, would he never get the hint. She put down the communicator before pulling the door open. It wasn't Billy or any of the other hands. It was Grigor, arriving for work.

"I was just about to make breakfast," Louisa said, inviting him in.

"Thank you, but I stopped on the way," he said.

"What time did you leave home? Midnight?"

Grigor laughed, and asked if he might have some coffee. He made himself at home, taking a seat next to Chloe and her magic talking tablet. Unfazed by the limitations of two possible answers to his questions, he rattled on about Saturday morning cartoons, enveloping the little girl in a charming spell of attention. Mashing eggs with milk, Louisa watched the pair engage in a deep discussion, but she dropped her smile when she realized that Grigor did not look at all like someone who had just finished a five-hour drive. His eyes were clear and bright, the image of a person who had gotten a good night's sleep.

"Think you might get the drywall done?" Louisa asked. She lifted a spoon to Chloe's mouth. "I've got a line on some guys who do taping on the side. The studio has to be completed before the party, mid-July."

"Of course, I finish it by Sunday night," Grigor said. "Thank you for the coffee. I better get to work or I won't meet the deadline."

His response was coupled with a grin, but there was something in his tone that rankled, a touch of the smartass in his inflection that set Louisa's teeth on edge. She told him how much she appreciated his work, patting him on the back as she came in for a good strong whiff. He smelled like regular soap, like freshly showered human skin. As soon as he was in the studio and Chloe was engrossed in arranging her dolls in front of the television, Louisa called up her brother. Too bad for him that he was asleep. This was no time to be sleeping.

SEVEN

Hal told her she was imagining things, planting a seed of doubt that kept her from phoning Daryl to discuss potential infidelity. Who could she confide in and get some advice? Not her neighbors. That left Amy, but it was not Amy's place to have a talk with Daryl over the course of the July birthday weekend celebration. The dirty work was all Louisa's to handle.

She was up before dawn on the day of the party, to verify that all was in readiness. She dressed Chloe in the new outfit that the Judge had dropped off before he left for the conference in Lexington, a replica of the dress that Chloe's new doll was wearing, also a gift from the Judge. The animals were put out for exercise, Beto tied a piñata to the oak tree in the front yard, and Billy moved the rented tables and chairs to a spot that would catch the shade by the afternoon.

Cora and Junior arrived early, to lend a hand, but the best that Cora could do was to order her daughters around while she took a seat and sucked on oxygen. Right on time, a string of cars wound up the driveway, pulling off to one side in an orderly manner that suggested Hal had organized the caravan with his engineer's eye for detail. Doors opened in a graceful wave that spread from Hal's Lexus SUV down to Amy's rust bucket, occupants exited, and all gasped in unison at the muggy heat of a Kentucky summer.

The normally staid Miss K took to barking at the strangers who overwhelmed her space. In the middle of calming the dog down, Louisa managed to introduce the Bests to her family and keep an eye on Chloe. The middle Best daughter made eyes at Hal's teenaged son, Grigor got all solicitous of Cora, and somehow everyone sorted themselves out among the chairs in the side yard.

Louisa hugged her father, glad to see him again after a long absence and excited to show him around. "How was the trip?" she asked. "Long flight?"

For a brief moment, her father stood quietly, as if she had spoken in a foreign tongue and he was struggling to translate. He mumbled a reply, that the flight had been fine, while Louisa guided him to a seat next to Daryl. Sparking a conversation, Hal asked Junior about his farm, the acreage and type of clients he served, and the thread of the discussion trailed off towards a listing of the tourist attractions in and around Lexington. The Patch clan was planning on seeing the Kentucky Horse Park and visiting the back side at Keeneland, a couple of activities that did not elicit the least bit of enthusiasm from Hal's two kids. Not until the Best girl asked Alison and Skip if they wanted to go riding did their languid spines snap up straight. Anything that took them away from a group of boring adults was a gift from heaven, a respite that was more than welcome, even if they didn't know much about horses or saddles.

"Are we in Chicago?" Dad asked Daryl.

"No, we're in Kentucky. We've been here since last night," Daryl said. To Cora, she added, "Since Mom died, he's out of whack."

Louisa served mint juleps, playing to the stereotype, while Grigor drifted away from the party and ended up leaning against the oak tree, dozing off in the afternoon heat. Daryl offered to give everyone a guided tour of the place, which kept the Patches busy so that Louisa could fire up the charcoal grill and set up the picnic.

"That brother-in-law of yours," Cora said, shaking her head and laughing. "Likes to pour it on a little thick."

"Louisa thinks he's cheating on Daryl," Amy blurted out.

"Now, it's none of my business, but isn't he younger than your sister?" Cora asked.

"Younger?" Amy scoffed. "She's got twenty years on him, easy."

"I hope the kids are getting along," Louis said. It was a stupid comment, but she couldn't think of anything else on the spur of the moment to get Amy to switch gears. Discussing private, personal family matters was not a wise choice in front of the neighbors. There were only about nine thousand people in the town, and it wouldn't take long before every one of them knew all about Miss Patch's crazy sister.

"That's a mighty fancy doll Chloe got for a present," Cora said. "I never would have expected something like that from the Judge."

"I'd bet he's given fancier things than that, and to the ladies he was seeing and not their daughters," Louisa said.

Cora paused for a moment to think, hamburger bun in hand, knife hovering in mid-slice. "You know, you just might be the first lady with a baby that he's taken a liking to."

"Maybe he wants someone of proven fertility," Amy suggested with a leer.

"My age is against me," Louisa said. She spread sliced dill pickles in an array worthy of a food stylist, surrounding a pile of thin onion rings. "Besides, we talk about the brood mares most of the time, about the farm. Not particularly romantic."

"A woman has physical needs, in my opinion, and there's nothing wrong with taking advantage, same as any man," Cora said. "You've got enough to do with running this place without having to worry about taking care of a husband. They're as much work as the horses. And just about as intelligent."

Burgers and hot dogs camped under pop-up tents that Cora had brought along, a staple of every Kentucky barbecue that kept the bugs out of the food. It was something else that Grigor could slather with his oily charm, as a mesh dome became an example of American ingenuity, a product of a great country. He must have studied up on history in honor of the Fourth of July and figured out that Junior was a rock-solid Republican with a patriotic streak that ran deep. Louisa seethed inside, certain that it was all an act. She almost wished that the Judge was there, a man who had dealt with grifters and con men in his court room, but that would involve explaining a sordid tale that she'd rather he didn't hear.

Bellies full, mint juleps pickling brains, the adults sat in the shade while the children ran off to explore four hundred acres of horse country. They were operating under Billy's watchful eye, participating in the evening ritual of stabling the horses in two secure barns, an activity that would keep them busy for a good long time.

"This isn't Chicago?" Dad said to Daryl, but hadn't he asked that before?

Junior shifted his bulk until his head was canted towards Louisa. "Your daddy getting that Old Timer's Disease?"

"Alzheimer's, I think you mean," said Amy. "Yeah, Weezie, I think Junior's on to something. Not to worry you or anything, but the Professor asked me who I was while we were getting our food."

It was truly a cause for worry. Louisa and Amy had been the best of friends since high school, inseparable through art school and steadfast friends while relationships came and went, and hearts were broken. Dad couldn't forget who Amy was, any more than he could forget his own children. Yet as Louisa observed him closely, chatting with Hal about the time they went to Cape Cod for a vacation, the old man was as normal as ever. No memory lapses, nothing but a clear recollection of the cottage with the leaking roof, yet how could he not know where he was?

"Dad, what do you think of the farm?" Louisa asked.

"Rather resembles the west of Ireland, wouldn't you say, Hal?" Harold smiled at some pleasant memory. "My parents dragged us to the back of beyond when we were children, to be imbued with history."

"Must have worked, Professor," Amy said. "You're a historian."

"Yet I hated those holidays," he said. "Possibly my career aspirations arose from a desire to spare others from the horrors of forced appreciation."

"If you hadn't studied history you never would have come to the States to study and you'd never have met Mom," Daryl said. "What's that make it? Karma? Fate?"

"So much like us," Grigor said. "If I had stayed in Bulgaria, we never would have met. It was fate that I came to Chicago and took your biochemistry class."

"If only he had stayed in Bulgaria," Amy mumbled through gritted teeth.

A light breeze helped to keep the bugs away as the sun sank lower on the horizon. Louisa brewed another pot of coffee, re-filled the buffet table with desserts, and shouted out to the paddock for the kids to come back and break the piñata. As promised, the clay pot inside the papier machè covering was sturdy enough to withstand several hard whacks, which kept the younger generation occupied while the adults enjoyed a few more moments of peaceful chatter. Once the group tired of the game, Skip got serious and shattered the brightly colored paper horse to release a bounty of glow sticks, penny candy and bottles of bubbles.

"Everyone ready to sing Happy Birthday?" Louis asked. She lit the eight sparkler candles on the cake that she had made the day before, then lit a few extras on Cora's bourbon fudge pie. Everyone blew out the candles together since they all knew that Chloe couldn't do it herself.

By mixing the cake with some melted ice cream, Louisa made a paste that her daughter could handle, and the filling of the pie was easy to soften with a little milk. With Chloe perched on her lap, she was able to feed the girl and blow bubbles at the same time, distracting her daughter so that she didn't make a grab for the goodies. True, the special dress had been removed once everyone had seen and admired it, but Chloe's movements were such that the table and Louisa would have come within range of flying food, and chocolate was hard to get out of a white shirt.

After the sugar buzz kicked in, the kids took off again, with Hal's pair electing to try riding Bonesapart around the paddock, under the guidance of Cora's plump teenagers. Amy cleared up the discarded paper plates and plastic forks, while Louisa concentrated on the left-overs that were scattered on the kitchen countertops. When Hal wandered into the kitchen, she assumed he was on his way to the bathroom, but then he dropped into a seat at the table.

"Something's not right," Hal said. "He's called me three or four times in the last month, asking where Mom is."

"He always was closer to you," Louisa said. "I get a call about once a month. To see if I'm still alive, I think."

"Suffer the consequences," Hal said. A bad affair, even one that was ended, would never be forgotten by a man who made his living dredging up the old and ancient. That summed it, Louisa realized, her father lived with the past and in the past so her present situation wouldn't register until it, too, was history. "Anyway, back to my point. The signs point to Alzheimer's."

"Naturally he'd be a little confused," Louisa said. "His routines, his life, everything is changed since Mom passed away. It'll take a while before he settles into a new normal."

"That's what I told him the third time he asked where Mom was. You heard him tonight. It's not just adjusting. He's in and out, and it's like a switch it goes off and on so fast."

"And I'm sure he's tired out, from the traveling. I mean, as soon as he got off the plane from North Carolina he was getting into a car headed to Lexington." Louisa watched beams of light bounce around outside her kitchen window, where the kids were playing flashlight tag. There couldn't be anything wrong with her father, not a man whose mind had always been sharp.

"You paint the table?" Hal asked, changing the subject. Even he didn't really want to discuss their father's mental health.

"Everyone needs a touch of whimsy in their lives," Louisa said. Years of study at the Rhode Island School of Design, and with nothing to show for it; she picked up on her brother's subtle rebuke. There was more to life than safe teaching positions and safe pensions.

With the work of hosting a party finally done, Louisa dropped into a chair outside, cradling a cold beer with a deep appreciation for ice and modern refrigeration. Hal's kids were done with horse riding and were slouching in their seats, doing a great job of appearing beyond bored. Chloe wore the eye-locked glaze of the over-tired, and Harold's head did a little bob every now and then. The Bests headed for home, explaining that morning came early on a horse farm, and their departure acted like a catalyst to start the farewells.

There were watches to synchronize and meeting points established for the next day, when the grand tour of Bourbon County hit the road. Everyone clustered around the cars, looking to Louisa for times of departure and arrival, for a schedule, until Harold asked where they were going. Daryl packed him into the back of her car, at the same time explaining to him about the hotel and the plans for Sunday, under control, he had nothing to worry about, it was all taken care of. When she came back to re-join the group, her lips were compressed into a line that implied fear touched with sorrow over something lost forever.

"Maybe it's not my place to say anything, but your father needs help," Wendy said.

"Now I get what Mom was complaining about for the past year," Daryl said. "It isn't just forgetting, or being absent-minded."

Recalling how she had been punished for her lifestyle choices, Louisa gritted her teeth. Her mother had never once confided in her after Josh came into her life with all his assurances that his divorce was in process and why not get a head start on marriage. Cut off, Louisa was denied the concern, the news out of Durham, the suggestions that Harold's mind was losing its sharp edge and what should the Patches do as a family. The mistake, the child who was born long after pregnancy was thought to be a distant memory, was treated like a mistake and ignored. Fine. Let the favored offspring deal with the problem, if that was how their parents wanted it. Louisa had more than enough on her plate at life's shit feast. Hal and Daryl were both doing well financially, they had spacious homes, and Harold would rather be with one of them anyway.

"How can we put him on a plane, alone, to go back to North Carolina where he lives alone?" Wendy asked.

"Where's he supposed to go?" Hal countered.

"We can take him into our home, Daryl, yes?" Grigor made the offer in a way that implied it was the best and only option. "Our schedules are the most flexible. Not alone so much all day, your father. We can arrange this."

Faster than the speed of light, Hal was all in favor. Daryl, on the other hand, was worried about Grigor's plans for dental school, the time he would need for study, and her own hectic schedule of teaching, testing and experimenting. Conferences out of town, seminars that ran for hours; Dad would have to be able to fend for himself for long stretches of time.

"What if he tries to cook and he sets the house on fire?" Amy asked.

"Hang a new door, keep it locked, no kitchen," Grigor said. He shrugged his shoulders, to dislodge the negatives, the solution so easy in his mind.

"Say, what about adult day care?" Wendy suggested. "He'd be occupied, he'd have opportunities to socialize, and that's better than confinement. Things are going downhill mentally, and he really should get as much stimulation as possible."

"Good idea, honey," Hal said. "Solves the whole burning down the house problem and it's to his benefit on top of it."

A whine from Alison disrupted the flow of the conversation, a reminder that it had been a long, hot day and tomorrow was as good a time as any to iron out the details. As her guests dispersed to their cars, Louisa caught a glimpse of her father, suddenly gone old and frail and maybe even a little bit frightened.

"Tough luck, Weezie," Amy said as she pulled her car door closed. "Pretty much sucks all the way around."

"Let those two work it out," Louisa said. "I can't handle any more problems."

"This Chicago re-locate isn't a bad plan," Amy said. "You could see him more often if he was there, and you know I'd look in on him when I could. Plus, there's no little kids making a lot of noise, a little more privacy."

How was it that no one brought up assisted living as an option? The financial resources were there, a lifetime of careful savings that would pay for a live-in caretaker so that he could continue to live in his own house, in an area where he had friends and familiar scenery. Put Hal and Daryl on the job and they latched onto the first solution that popped up, even if it was Grigor who came up with the idea. Maybe it was how they did things in Bulgaria, and that was fine if there was an entire household to share the added burden, but that was not the Patch situation.

Then again, it was more pleasant to think of Harold in a place where he would be loved. A caregiver would do just that, give care, clinical and distant, and what would they all do if this hired help just up and walked out? Would they find out after a call from the Durham police department, reporting that Professor Patch was found dead in his bed? The distance was impossible, and whether or not Grigor was aware of it when he opened his mouth, it didn't much matter. The house in Durham had to be sold. The Professor would have to relocate, and if it hadn't been for Grigor, things might have taken a bad turn. One decent suggestion, however, wasn't enough for Louisa to change her opinion of him.

*****

During the tour of Keeneland's stables, the Patch siblings surrounded their father and bombarded him with the sad facts. Most of the heavy work fell on Hal, but he had Harold's ear and could find the right turn of phrase that would swing the old man's opinion. The opening salvo was a sneak attack, a debate over the logic of paying NCAA athletes as compared to amateur status. Very clever, to then veer off on a tangent that led to the real issue, a simple statement of fact. Never in a million years could Louisa have looked her father in the eye and told him flat out that he was a danger to himself, not when stating the fact brought such pain to him. Hal was the only one of them who was capable of holding his ground in the face of any counter-attack.

"I'm too old to start again," Harold said. Tears welled up in his eyes and Louisa had to turn away.

"You've got plenty of colleagues at the U. of C.," Daryl said. "Reconnect. Nothing much changes."

"The weather," Harold said.

"What about a home health care worker?" Louisa suggested, but no one heard her in the middle of a polite pitched battle.

"You forget where you are, and no one is there to bring you home," Grigor said. "What matters how hot or cold it is outside?"

Making eye contact with each child in turn, Harold searched for an ally but found no one who would take his side. Louisa's stomach churned with emotion, with sympathy and with brutal reality. The old fool was stubborn, he wanted to stay put and he must have expected his children to come running to him when he needed them, rather than meet them half-way. As much as she wanted her father to be happy, to have peace at the end of his days, life could not play out according to his script. For his sake, for his well-being and survival, Louisa had to join a side she wasn't completely in agreement with, to avoid an argument that would slow down the process. Go along to get along, Louisa saw the wisdom in the philosophy, and it wasn't as if she had many other options to offer anyway.

Defeat tugged at the corners of Harold's mouth, tripped up his feet and weighed down his body. The denials sputtered out, unable to prove the hypothesis false. There were memory lapses; there were times when he didn't know where he was. Her father was anxious, a glint in his eye that gave away the emotions he tried to hide. They sat down to lunch in the track's clubhouse and pretended, for the sake of the grandchildren, that all was well, but Louisa couldn't fake an untroubled appetite. She wondered if her false enthusiasm showed through as she talked to Alison about the horse racing industry. There had to be another way, a way that would make everyone partially happy, but who would listen to the baby sister, anyway?

The horse show held no charm for her, and the heat of the day sapped everyone. Listless, wrung out, they walked towards the parking lot with Harold sandwiched between Hal and Grigor, like a dead man walking to his execution. Daryl and Wendy followed close behind, pondering the logistics of closing up a house that had been occupied for thirty years, stuffed full of treasures and junk in equal measure. Attorneys would have to be contacted, realtors and land values assessed, and so many details to handle that Louisa was glad not to be involved. It had been scary enough, filing incorporation papers for Bedford Farm LLC, worrying about missing some key point or clause. Let someone else deal with the stress this time around, and she'd nod her head in agreement to whatever her brother or sister wanted to do.

"If there's anything that you want to keep," Daryl said over her shoulder.

"Keep? You mean, from the house?" Louisa asked.

"I've always loved that old mirror in the foyer," Wendy said. "But if you want it, don't hesitate on my account."

The Patch family had moved into the house in Durham shortly before Louisa was born, and it was the only home she'd known until she moved in with Josh. Once she walked out the door, on her way to Texas, Mom had essentially erased her existence, as if Louisa Patch was some other woman's daughter. The paintings on the walls, the holiday cards created in grade school, every piece of furniture and stitch of clothing had been boxed up and shipped to Wilmer. There was nothing left within the four walls of the house in North Carolina that held some special charm, no object to be revered or cherished. Her parents had cast her to the four winds and their home became nothing more than another building in another state, one of millions.

"Can't think of a thing," Louisa said. Can't think of a single scrap to be picked off of dead bones.

"And who gets the Queen's portrait?" Amy asked.

Professor Patch left Belfast, but the United Kingdom never left him. The official portrait of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, had hung in all its splendor in Harold's library on the third floor, given a place of honor in a photo gallery that grew after every vacation to the homeland. Louisa couldn't begin to count the number of times that she had told her father to take it down, that it was ridiculous to think he was sticking it to the Irish Republicans who had run his parents out of their home in Donegal in a form of ethnic cleansing. The old man was proud of his roots, and now that he was fading, it would be cruel to separate the Professor and his precious photograph.

"Doesn't he need some familiar things around to keep him grounded?" Louisa asked. "Daryl, don't you think you should let Dad choose a few things? Pictures especially."

"I guess," Daryl said. Her hesitation arose from her lack of desire to re-decorate her already perfectly outfitted home. Her Majesty wouldn't fit in, although a portrait of Queen Victoria would add to the overall decor of Daryl's living room.

A last set of driving directions had to be issued, in case anyone got separated from the caravan. Louisa leaned into Hal's car, the air conditioner blowing in icy gusts, and ran down the few turns that would be made between Lexington and Colmar. Over Hal's shoulder she could see her father, his eyes pleading for rescue, but she had no salvation to offer. Last year, she had been the one begging for help, in need of emotional support when she agreed to rent Bedford Farm and leave Josh for good, and where had her parents been? She didn't owe her father any more than he'd given her, which was nothing.

Echoing in her brain was one of her mother's favorite adages, about two wrongs not making a right. She returned her father's sad gaze with an expression of pure guilt, asking forgiveness that she knew she wasn't entitled to.

EIGHT

In August, Louisa's reputation got a boost when a three-year-old she'd bred in Texas won the Gardenia Stakes, a victory that brought her to the attention of the top echelon of the breeding business. Not long after, three pregnant mares arrived, shipped by Mr. Cuffe of the highly regarded Fair Trade Stable. He hired her to act as his agent at the yearling sale, and gave her his blessing to promote her services to the buyers. She planned to take full advantage of the rare opportunity to gain new clients, a chance to fill the stalls and ease up just enough to shift some precious time to the Judge. He was less than happy with her overbooked schedule that did not leave enough room for him, and Louisa intended to fix the problem before it grew any bigger.

With the long trailer hitched to her truck, Louisa eased out of her driveway and turned left, to end up as part of a procession of horses on their way to Keeneland. On the seat next to her was her part of the Patch legacy, a treasured heirloom that her father claimed she had always loved. If that didn't prove that the old man had lost his mind, nothing did. The formal grace of the newly crowned Queen Elizabeth looked back at Louisa, the glass enclosed photograph dumped into the truck because it didn't fit anywhere on the farm. "Your Majesty, I am not going to spend another day getting what I don't want," she said. "Today, I am going to grab what I've been reaching for and not let go."

Mr. Cuffe was waiting for her at the stable where the yearlings were housed, all washed and combed and looking their best. He leaned into the cab of the truck as the hands led the animals out and walked them into the trailer, glancing up occasionally to be sure that things were done according to his precise wishes. The workers at Fair Trade Stables always seemed to be cowering in fear, while Louisa thought Mr. Cuffe was a sweetheart who was all bluster with a cream puff center.

"Is it a touch of Anglophilia or have you heard rumors that Her Majesty's agent might be buying?" Mr. Cuffe asked, canting his head towards the photo.

"Someone from the royal stables is at Keeneland?" Louisa asked.

"More often than most people realize. The Arabs will be there. Did you bring your headscarf, Miss, so as to not offend?"

In response, Louisa ran her hand along the back of her head. She wore her hair in a bob that was just long enough to hold together with an elastic band, although most of the time she tucked the strands up under a wide-brimmed straw hat. She had noticed the first few grey glints last month and gotten a set of highlights to cover it up, but she wasn't sure if Mr. Cuffe noticed the increased amount of dark blonde in her hair or if he was making a real suggestion. He laughed at her tentative gesture, or at his joke, but at least he was laughing so he wasn't serious.

"Ran into an old friend of yours at the airport in Dallas," Mr. Cuffe said. "Asked me to say hello, so hello."

"Hello from someone with a name?" Louisa asked. She had made several friends in the Texas horse business, and had even interviewed one of the ranchers for an article she sold to a horse magazine.

"Ah now, a name I cannot utter. My most bitter rival," he said with a sly wink. "He's no friend to me, darling, not when he's beaten my horses five out of eight races this season alone."

Louisa's mind traveled back, the long ago replayed as if it were yesterday. Ages ago, when she was an art student; ages ago, before she was possessed of wisdom and the knowledge to differentiate between sweet talk and bullshit. Could it have been ten years gone by already, when she stood near the stables at the Saratoga Race Track with her sketch book and focused on ignoring the assistant trainer who claimed he had fallen head over in heels in love with her? There she was, drawing pictures of horses, her favorite subject, and the pesky Cajun kept hanging around, attempting to strike up conversations while she worked. What a nightmare it became, as Cecil called over jockeys and trainers and handlers to come see the pictures, the unbelievable sketches that the little lady was making. A lot of help Amy was, answering his questions and encouraging his pursuit, insisting that he was cute in a homely sort of way when Louisa begged her to shut up. Cecil Surette never forgot her.

Six years ago, he cut a deal with one of his horse-owning friends who had purchased a couple of yearlings from Louisa's operation in Texas. She just about fainted when she arrived at her destination to make the delivery and there was Cecil, a broad grin on his face as he welcomed her to Carencro in Bayou Country and showed her around his farm. She'd been back twice since then, always on business, and every time he had vowed that he would wait for her to cut loose from the shiftless cowboy who had pulled the wool over her pretty eyes. No Josh was completely out of the picture, and Cecil was ready to paint himself in.

"I haven't really followed his horses," Louisa lied.

"That's been my problem. My horses have been following his," Mr. Cuffe said. "It's all luck, isn't it, Louisa? Tell me he's on a lucky streak and I'll be back on top again."

"That's what this business is all about. Dumb luck. How many horses have you trained that didn't pan out?"

"This lot you're selling for us would fall into that category. I can't take the risk, not with costs as high as they are. There's one or two I'd keep if I could but we have to watch the bottom line more than ever these days."

"Speaking of bottom lines, what kind of prices do you expect to get at auction?"

"Still a market for good bloodlines, impressive running times. Oil money. New money. And glad I am to be here and not in Ireland. Sales are dismal back home."

The layout of Keeneland was as familiar as home to Louisa, the people who worked there knew her and there would be hours of conversation and gentle teasing before she had to go back to her real life. Louisa brought the yearlings to their assigned stalls, brushed them so that their coats were shiny, and called Cora to confirm that one of the Best girls would be waiting for Chloe when the school bus arrived. While the buyers prowled the stables, Louisa chatted with the other sellers who stood around in tight groups, complaining about business and the economy and the high cost of that farrier everyone thought was the god of horse shoeing.

A man with a posh British accent asked to see a yearling and Louisa dutifully brought the colt out and walked him around, sensing the animal's energy and an urge to flat-out run. She would label this one the best of the lot, its body parts well proportioned, although the man inspecting the colt didn't need her advice. He clearly knew what he was looking for. Three other buyers came closer, drawn by this man's reputation no doubt, and made notes in their catalogs. There would be some lively bidding, which was all to the good for Fair Trade Stables, but it would delay her departure and Louisa hated to get home late when Chloe was waiting.

"Would you buy this horse?" the man asked, a gentle smile creasing his cheek.

"If I could afford to buy this horse, I wouldn't be standing here holding the bridle," Louisa said.

He bowed his head, as if he respected her cheeky reply. "Every man here would fight for the honor to hold the bridle for you."

Damn the charm and the twinkle in his dark eye. Louisa was fine around men if she was busy. Very, very busy. Very, very pre-occupied with business matters that froze her heart and deadened her pelvis. Showing a horse involved empty minutes, periods of reverie that left her vulnerable. If only she had worn a headscarf, a big floppy flowery hideous babushka of a head covering. This upper-class Brit wouldn't be so forward, all seduction and moon-lit strolls through Trafalgar Square.

"However, if I had the financial means to take on a certain element of risk, I wouldn't hesitate to purchase this colt. A lot of potential that will be proven with superior training," Louisa said. Back to business, as cold as the Arctic ice cap.

A few more stragglers pricked up their ears, jotting down reminders in the sales catalog. The gentleman asked that she walk the horse again, but when Louisa made the turn she noticed that he was watching her hips and not the colt's haunches. He looked in her eyes and smiled with mischief. "Perhaps this evening we could meet to discuss some of the other yearlings to be sold later this week?" he offered.

"Impossible," she said. "My daughter will be home at half-past three and I have to go back to being a mommy."

With a quick glance, he read the pass that was hanging around her neck. "Then she is more fortunate than I, Ms. Patch. Thank you for your patience. You are quite right, this animal has great potential. We must hope that he can tolerate a long flight to Balmoral."

"I board brood mares," she said. "If you have stock that you'd rather keep in Kentucky."

His eyes lit up, as if her business was exactly what he was looking for. They exchanged business cards, with Louisa planning to examine his later so that he wouldn't know she was curious, and briefly discussed her experience. The gentleman left for the sales arena and Louisa went back to work, promoting her facilities to people who came up to her, drawn by her association with Fair Trade Stables and the interest of a horse industry big shot acting like a man with connections to Her Royal Highness.

When it was time for Mr. Cuffe's yearlings to be auctioned, she entered the sales arena, so very English gentlemen's club in its paneled decor. Halfway up and to the left of the auctioneer she found a spot where she could easily observe the buyers. In the general shifting that followed each sale, as interested parties came and went, Louisa didn't notice that Mr. Balmoral had taken up a position right behind her until the auction began and she turned to see who had come in with such a high opening bid. He winked at her as he lowered his paddle.

Numbers flew around the arena, paddles wagged in a frenzy that was fueled by the thoughtful bids of Mr. Richard Pakenham, no stable indicated on his I.D. so he was buying anonymously or for himself. Four yearlings come up for sale, and he bid on each one, the process slowing as the prices rose and he finally had to back down. In the end, he didn't buy a single horse from Fair Trade Stables.

"You earn a percentage of the sale as your commission, I hope," he said as Louisa rose to leave. "Today has been a profitable day for you."

"It was, thank you," she said. "But I thought that you were interested in one of the colts."

Richard smiled a wily smile. "Others were interested in my apparent interests. The filly I am determined to purchase won't come up for auction until tomorrow. Then you will allow me to buy you lunch so that we can discuss your boarding stable."

He escorted her to the parking lot, having earned the privilege by acting as a shill and driving up the price of Mr. Cuffe's yearlings, which translated into a bigger check for Louisa. Cambridge educated, finished off at the Wharton School, Richard was a child of privilege who had the means to pursue his love of horses and indulge his fascination with racing. Like so many others, their---he meant to say, his---dream was to breed a champion in the mold of Barbaro and Secretariat, to reach the pantheon of the elites that lived forever in horse racing legend. For that reason, he came to the part of the world that had given rise to such acclaimed animals, to purchase horses that had been nourished on Kentucky bluegrass. Louisa's operation in Colmar fit in perfectly with their---that is, his---plans. So he was part of a syndicate or someone's agent, and he didn't want anyone to know. This was clearly a man of some importance, and a man to be treated very, very well.

As promised, Richard was waiting for her at the stables when she arrived with Mr. Cuffe's last consignment the following day. Louisa was impressed by his cleverness, at the way he examined the yearlings as she led them into their stalls rather than ask her to walk them around like everyone else did. That way the other buyers had no idea how interested he was in two of the fillies, not when he appeared to be far more intrigued with Louisa. Under the ruse of helping her groom the horses, he got a close-up inspection of flanks and ankles, running his hands along the neck and chest to assess musculature. Maybe it wasn't the sort of thing that was taught at Cambridge, but it proved that Richard was one smooth operator.

Over an early lunch, they spoke of their childhoods, with Louisa encouraging Richard to do most of the talking. His background was far more fascinating than her dull existence in a North Carolina college town. It wasn't difficult to keep him jabbering about himself, but that had been Louisa's experience with most men of means. As long as she kept him focused on his favorite topic, the conversation could run on for years.

On the drive home after the auction, all that Louisa could think about was the bonus she was going to be receiving from Mr. Cuffe, who wouldn't believe what his yearlings had gone for. Richard had been amazing at the auction; his presence was enough to goad people into raising their offer in an effort to purchase something that a serious horseman wanted. In the end, he probably paid more than the fillies were worth, but then again, it was always a gamble to buy breeding stock at a yearling sale.

Louisa spent all day Friday cleaning the house and the yard, to prepare for a visit that could bring in enough mares to fill all the empty stalls. By Saturday, she was exhausted and Billy was ready to fly off the handle due to the pressure that Louisa exerted on her employees. It didn't help that she set down the rules with some force, her voice raised to demonstrate how very serious she was. Politics and religion were never to be discussed with business clients, no matter how much Billy's pastor encouraged the flock to win souls for Jesus. One word to Mr. Pakenham about the glories of our Lord and Savior, and Billy was out of a job.

With Billy skulking along behind, grumbling under his breath, Louisa showed Richard the facilities. The man knew horses, knew that the pregnant mares would spook easily when approached by strangers and his movements were slow and calm as he walked along the paddock fence to check on the standard of care that Louisa promised. Plenty of water, plenty of grass and plenty of space; a foal leapt into the air as if on command as Richard paid a compliment to the entire staff of Bedford Farm.

Not sure if Richard cared for little lap dogs, Louisa consigned Miss K to her crate on the front porch. The kitchen table served as the office and Louisa set out hot tea and little cakes that came from the organic grocery store, bite-sized dainties that Billy inhaled without having to bite. Fees were established while tea was sipped from the china cups that Louisa had inherited from her grandmother. Chloe warmed to Richard and showed him her iPad, the app upgraded to a more advanced version that included icons for toilet, hungry, water and outside.

"Computers have opened up many worlds," Richard said.

Billy nodded, hands clasped in prayer. Louisa drummed her fingers on the table, to give him a warning, but Chloe hit the 'hungry' button and Louisa had to use both hands to mash a tea cake and spoon it into her daughter's mouth. "Amen to that," Billy said.

"Dog, woof," the communicator intoned. Twice. Three times. Louisa grabbed Chloe's fist.

"Miss K is outside," she said. Chloe indicated that she wanted out as well. If Miss K wasn't welcome, the dog's owner wasn't going to sit there either.

A familiar car churned up the dust in the driveway as the Judge's Suburban sped over the gravel. Word traveled fast in the Cawthon family. Only that morning, Louisa told Evelyn about her potential new client from England and here was the Judge, one hour later, come to see for himself what royal money, or buckets of pounds sterling at the least, looked like. All smiles and happy times, Judge opened the kitchen door and deposited Miss K on the floor. Like he belonged there, he swept up Chloe in his arms and gave her a possessive hug.

"Haven't had but one mare not conceive this year," Billy said to Richard. "Overall, I'd say we're more successful here than most other farms, thanks to God's good grace shining down on us."

"The power of prayer is not to be denied," Richard said. Clever one, that Billy, managing to slip in God's name when Louisa was distracted.

"Now, asking God to give you a winner don't seem fair," Billy said.

"It's selfish, and all we ask is that we do the right thing by others and if the good Lord wants to bless us, we'll be happy to accept," Judge said. He set Chloe down, scratched Miss K behind her ears, and then extended his hand to Richard. With the bravura of a politician, Judge introduced himself and managed to wrap a free arm around Louisa's waist.

Judge helped himself to some tea, demonstrating that he knew Louisa's kitchen well enough to find a cup, and took a seat across from Richard. Sharing an enthusiasm for fast horses and expressing an interest in breeding that Louisa had never noticed before, the Judge heaped tons of praise on her passion for excellence. While playing up her strong points, he also managed to point out that the farm was owned by the Cawthons, Kentucky bluebloods who would be honored to include Richard and his colleagues in their party at the next Derby. Preoccupied with minding Chloe, it took Louisa a few minutes to realize that Judge was stroking her back in a gesture that implied intimacy.

With her phone muted, she felt the buzz that warned of an incoming call, but in the middle of a meeting she had to ignore it. A minute later, the phone vibrated again, and after a third call, Louisa excused herself to answer. Richard was comfortably ensconced at the table with two other men who could talk horses for the rest of their days and not run out of words. She had his signature on a contract, with ten mares promised for winter delivery, and she would have the pleasure of the mares' company for as long as things were satisfactory. Bedford Farm was going to be Richard's outpost, an American base of breeding operations with Louisa trusted to manage the stud service, pregnancy, birth and sales. Nice to be working with a good-looking man who appreciated not only the female form but Louisa's capabilities.

"Hi Dad, what's up?" she said after a brief silence. What more did he need to say after he was informed that Louisa and Chloe were both doing just fine?

"Odd thing, and I hate to trouble you," Harold said. "You see, my dear, I don't seem to know what's happened to my money."

"Nothing's happened," she said. "It's in the bank, and your pension check is direct-deposited so you can just go ahead and pay your bills."

"That's what the banker told me. The pension checks are indeed being lodged in my account. But I can't understand why some of my checks have bounced. Insufficient funds, they say."

"You have to budget your money. Don't pay all your bills at once. Schedule your payments."

An exasperated sigh came down the line. "The figures don't add up. I tabulate my payments and subtract my income but there is no deficit. Yet there does not seem to be enough money to cover my checks."

"Did you talk to Daryl?" There was little that Louisa could do, miles away, when Daryl was within easy reach.

"She wants to take over my personal banking," Harold said. "Claims I can't handle things any more. I won't have it, Louisa. I may be forgetful but I'm not a blithering idiot."

One problem after another, that was how her father's last years would play out. His mind would get weaker and his stubbornness would grow in proportion. Seeing to his needs would be more difficult as the old man dug in his heels, leaving his children to suffer the pain of forcing their father to do what he didn't want to do. Not one of them liked to argue, but there would be nothing but arguing from now on.

"May I contact the banker and tell her that I want her to share my particulars with you?" Harold asked. A microscopic drop of pleading watered his words. "You're so very good with business matters, my dear. Review my account and see where the discrepancy lies."

Stunned at the unexpected compliment, Louisa mumbled an acceptance. Her stomach twisted as she realized that she would soon have to tell him that he had made mistakes. Would they end up in a shouting match as she tried to explain how the once astute man had paid the same bill three times, or put a decimal in the wrong place and miscalculated the balance? It had to be just that simple, but it would be a nightmare to correct.

There was no turning back, not after Harold reached out, a proud man who never once asked for directions because he would not admit he was lost. Was he trying to say something more? He was living a solitary existence in Daryl's historically significant home, the antithesis of his normal existence in a vast social circle of intellectuals filled with intelligent conversation. As if a light switched on in her brain, Louisa thought of the therapeutic riding association. Plenty of Alzheimer's patients found comfort in the company of docile horses, a few minutes of relief from the knowledge that their minds were slowly being erased. Harold was a perfect candidate for therapy. Would the Judge mind, however, if someone else entered the picture, demanding a little of Louisa's attention?

When she ended the call, she found that the chatter around the table was still going strong. Richard and the Judge were equally passionate about creating a champion, preferably a stallion that would be worth a small fortune in stud fees after its racing days were done. She refreshed cups of tea, found some cookies that weren't stale to replace the tea cakes that were gone, and caught a glimpse of Chloe. The little girl had found a comfortable spot to sit, in the middle of the adult conversation.

"Dog, woof," the communicator intoned. Chloe dropped her head back, so that she was looking up at the Judge who was holding her on his lap.

"She's telling you that I gave her the dog," Judge said. Billy reached across the table for a chocolate chip cookie and dunked it into his tea.

"A working dog, performing a unique job," Richard said. Judge planted a kiss on Chloe's forehead. "Louisa told me how much this dog has helped the child with her walking exercises."

Business was concluded and more than enough time given over to social interaction. Richard's phone sounded an alarm, a reminder of another appointment at a stud farm near Lexington, and he made his elegant farewells to one and all. He rested a friendly arm on the Judge's back as he suggested that they speak again of syndicates and breeding programs that would fit both of their needs, while Billy slipped away to the familiar comfort of the barns and his small army of underlings. At the edge of the porch, with Chloe perched on his hip, the Judge slipped his arm around Louisa and called out a good-bye as Richard drove up the dusty driveway. His Honor might not have been much of an artist, but he had managed to compose a picture just the same. Of course he wouldn't mind if Louisa took over her father's care. She had been foolish to ever think the Judge was so selfish as that.

NINE

Louisa didn't download the file from her father's bank until he had called her twice to ask about his finances. She had forgotten about the whole thing after Maribel Coots phoned, to say that her daughter had died of complications from cerebral palsy and would Louisa be able to do the girl's portrait from a photograph. Then Maribel broke down, explaining how she once planned to commission an oil, with live sittings so that Louisa could create the best pose, but somehow other things got in the way and now it was too late. The light of the Coots household had been snuffed out, leaving a gaping hole that the other three children could never fill, although their presence went a long way towards easing the pain.

Three other children to fill the void, while Louisa had no one and she knew that one day her own precious Chloe would shrivel into a weak pile of bones and atrophied muscle and then die. The inevitable fate was brought forward, drawn out of its secret compartment in the deepest reaches of Louisa's mind, and if she kept on the current track, she would be facing such misery alone. She wanted a family of her own, an old-fashioned nuclear family, wanted it so badly that her heart ached with the longing.

The Patch family wasn't particularly close, certainly not physically. Hal had his life in Connecticut with his fellow engineers, and Daryl was so wrapped up in Grigor that it seemed as if no one else existed in her small world. If anything happened to Chloe, it would be Louisa by herself, without a shoulder to lean on or a special someone to offer solace. Sometimes the Judge acted like he wanted to be that special someone, except when he was hitting the cocktail party circuit and reported by town gossips to be enthralled with Chelsea Jackson's throaty laugh. Maybe Louisa misread his signals, failed to correctly interpret his gestures, and was wasting her valuable time. Louisa poured herself another cup of coffee, stared at the laptop screen, and accepted the fact that she was in her present situation because she had wasted all those years chasing after a man who had no real intention of being her husband. She caused it, and she was the only one who could fix it.

She turned to her laptop, where the screen detailed lists of cancelled checks linked to check images that revealed Harold's changed handwriting, grown cramped, as if he was unsure of his ability to move a pen along a line. Evidence of Daryl's assistance appeared here and there, the writing strong and confident, pay to the order of a physician or a hospital lab. Medical care was eating up the pension check, and no wonder Harold thought that his money was disappearing. A payment made to a liquor store, yes, the high cost of fine single-malt scotch would come as a surprise to a man whose wife had handled all the purchases.

"Looks like your grandfather needs a financial adviser," Louisa said to Chloe.

"Thirsty," the communicator intoned.

"You think that's his problem? Drinking too much?" Louisa said. "Maybe he doesn't remember if he had his evening cocktail. Wouldn't be surprised if he was getting loaded every night and not knowing why."

While Chloe walked Miss K, Louisa took another look at the sea of numbers that swam before her eyes. She scrolled through the bank statement again, examining each image of every check written, and discovered that there was a third person involved. It was a man's hand, but European in its swirls and loops, only two checks out of the entire month but there could be no doubt that Grigor has written the checks and Daryl had signed them.

Not much of a smoking gun, however, not a payment to an ophthalmologist. Granted, Medicare would have covered most of the costs, but Professor Patch enjoyed the perks of his social standing and he would have paid extra for special treatment. Her eyes beginning to throb, Louisa left the file so that she could get Chloe put to bed with Miss K and a story to accompany the child's dreams. Hugs and kisses, the communicator plugged in to re-charge, and Louisa returned to a mind-numbing exercise that was designed to pacify her senile father.

Pairing an undesirable chore with a cup of herbal tea to improve the atmosphere, Louisa's fresh eyes noticed that some checks were made out to Grigor. In one month, there were three checks drawn one week apart, each one for one thousand dollars, but there was no memo to explain why he was being paid or reimbursed. Like a detective working a hunch, she would have to determine why he commanded such amounts, and why Daryl was going along with it. Until Louisa had it all figured out, she was at an impasse. Easy to see why her father couldn't understand why he was always overdrawn, since he wasn't making even half of the transactions. Louisa checked her watch, but it was too late to call Daryl and say, what, exactly? Your husband's a thief? He's got you brainwashed and you're in at as deep as he is? She'd have to call Hal, to get some advice. This wasn't something that Louisa could do on her own.

With her mind fully engaged in formulating the right approach with her brother, Louisa jumped when her phone vibrated in her jeans pocket. "How y'all are?" a familiar voice intoned when she answered without checking the caller ID.

The man she had avoided since last spring, the sender of voice mails she didn't return; one lapse in avoidance behavior and she could avoid him no more. She should have known that Cecil would be the persistent type, someone who could wait out a stubborn horse forever, the best trainer in the business. In the same way he had waited her out, through her college days and then her stubborn phase when she wouldn't admit that Josh was a total loser. Just like he vowed to every horse he was breaking, he had promised her that he wouldn't give up, and true to form he hadn't. The worst part of it was the fact that there was no escaping him now that she was so deeply entrenched in the breeding business.

"Ingersoll Stables, huh?" Louisa replied with disinterest when he told her who had hired him to train a yearling that had been born at Bedford Farm the previous spring. No getting around him, that was obvious, which meant it was better to design a new strategy to keep him at arm's length. He wasn't such bad company, if a little overbearing, with a wicked sense of humor. Plus, he pretty much worshipped the ground she walked on. All Louisa had to do was find a way to capitalize on it, to help her business, while keeping the upper hand.

"Your yearling, there's talk that he'll be sold in January," Cecil said. "For old time's sake, you let me have a look first?"

Could there be some rational explanation for the activity in Harold's account? Louisa tuned out Cecil and went back to her computer screen, her eyes straining to study the tiny image of Daryl's signature on a check. She couldn't accuse Grigor of anything unless she could confirm that the transactions were unrelated to her father's needs. For all she knew, the old man was operating from a pool of generosity, the now addled professor giving away money at the slightest mention of hardship or sudden need. Louisa shuddered at the idea that Grigor might be gaming her father, but what if she was all wrong? What if her brother-in-law was a conduit from Harold, who knew that she was struggling and didn't really have the money to outfit the studio? The transactions for cash were clustered around weekends when Grigor had been working on the studio. In that case, she had to speak up because she didn't want her father going behind her back. She'd manage on her own, without his sly little machinations, and he wouldn't have to give her a dime towards his upkeep if he came to stay.

"Be happy to show you Blue Moon," Louisa said to Cecil, throwing him a verbal bone so that she could concentrate on her father's problems. One solution to the issue was to itemize the expenses, present the list to her father and then tell him that he had to budget, couldn't throw his money around, and certainly shouldn't be trying to bankroll a studio that Louisa looked on as her refuge from life's stress. Cecil's voice cut into her thoughts and she had to pay attention. Had he just said something about one of Lula May's foals being bought by Ingersoll Stables, the biggest name in the racing industry?

"Not much time to get him ready, he says," Cecil continued with a story that Louisa hadn't been listening to. "But I been training that colt since he was a yearling, only lost a little time when he was sold away and damned if I don't undo what that other fool trainer done. Practically ruined that horse, but I got him back and he's winning the Triple Crown next year if I have any say in the matter."

Every trainer Louisa had ever encountered had a Triple Crown winner under his tutelage. Every owner had a champion in his stable, every breeder had produced a horse whose name would go down in history. They chased dreams, every one of them, like lottery players. Someone always won, every year, and you couldn't win if you didn't play. The odds were against it, and Louisa knew it, but she never failed to fall under the spell, to get wrapped up in the rush of excitement over possibilities and pipe dreams. What if Cecil was right, and the two-year-old was the best horse around? She could command bigger fees, just because a winner had come out of her stable, as if victory were a communicable disease. That meant she could expand, put up another barn, hire more people, turn a profit, and buy her own land. Put an addition on the house so her father had his own space.

"If you're running a horse in the Derby, will you send me a ticket?" Louisa asked.

"Ain't sending you no ticket, Weezie," Cecil said. "I'm taking you myself and don't you forget that we have a date, you."

"I couldn't," she said. "I don't have the right kind of hat."

Cecil's laugh was deep, almost booming, and it felt good to hear another human being who was on top of the world. The funeral for the Coots girl haunted her still, like a nagging pain that wouldn't ease. A dose of humor was the perfect antidote, the presence of someone who could lift her spirits by the slightest degree and get her up out of the depths. If there was one thing Cecil was good at, it was lightening a dark mood.

By bringing the topic around to women's fashions, the conversation took a turn towards Cecil's brother, a jockey who had all the looks in the family, which wasn't saying much. Cecil scoffed at the women the young man attracted, the groupies who hovered around the stables and made cow eyes at the short men. "They share recipes, you think?" Cecil said. "We wonder what they have in common, my brother dumb as a box of rocks and this tall blonde, and we figure they talk about not eating. Him dealing with bulimia two years ago, and God help her if she gets him puking his guts out again."

"Having a girlfriend could be good for him, keep him on the straight and narrow." Louisa clicked on another file, ran her eyes over the bank-produced images without seeing. "They probably get lots of exercise and live on cigarettes and vodka."

Again, his braying brought a smile to her face, something that Louisa realized she hadn't done for a very long time. "He's good at riding, you know?" Cecil said, his voice low and suggestive. "Hey, is that why the pretty ladies like the jockeys, Weezie, eh? Good rides?"

"You are one sick puppy, Cecil," she said.

"Love sick, the worst kind," he said.

Weren't all the broken-down old cowboys love sick, Louisa wanted to say, but Cecil would have taken offense at being considered a cowboy. He was a horseman through and through, born and bred, and his hard work had paid off. Back when he first put the moves on Louisa Patch, he was a nobody, dirt poor and bedding down in empty stalls, but the hard times were far behind him and everyone in bluegrass country knew of Cecil Surette. Louisa was happy for him, for his success, even if he was as pesky as a bluebottle fly.

"You know I'd give you the best price I could for Blue Moon, but I've got to make a living and my plan is to build up my own breeding stock," Louisa said. Her attention was snagged by a sprinkling of cash station withdrawals, something she hadn't taken into account when she added up the checks. Her father wasn't the type to embrace new technology, and the whole concept of cash rifling out of a machine could have confused the poor man. Not that he was dumb, not by a long shot, but even the most intelligent might disconnect the reality of the money in their hand with the removal of that same sum from their bank balance. Another laborious task presented itself. Every withdrawal would have to be documented and presented to Harold, who would then have to probe his faulty memory and no good would come of it. She was back to where she had started, with a conviction that her father couldn't take care of himself anymore.

"I'm asking you not to sell him," Cecil said. It took Louisa a minute to remember that Cecil was talking about the horse and not her father. "We're making us a syndicate."

"When did you rob a bank?" Louisa asked. "Are you that rich from training fees that you can afford to raise a yearling up to a three-year-old, train it, feed it, keep it healthy?"

"I ain't poor no more, darlin'," Cecil said. "Ain't as rich as all that. I know a rich man who'd go in with us. Or with me, anyway. Trusts my reputation. Don't know how he'd feel about a lady involved, but I don't have to tell him I don't think."

"Making me the silent partner?"

"You always been real quiet around me." A pause suggested that Cecil was doing a little thinking, plotting out this next sentence. "So if you don't want to see me, then you speak up. Make it plain for me who don't know fancy."

How many years had she been avoiding him, and only now was he catching on that she wasn't interested? No, it wasn't that, as far as Louisa could judge from the tone of his voice. Cecil was offering her a business proposition, one that was highly favorable to her, but who could say if this wasn't part of some plan that he had hatched years ago, when he talked her into buying Lula May at a breeding stock sale. The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. Not only had Cecil convinced her that Lula May was a mare with potential, but he had advised her on sires and pored over bloodlines with her, all with an eye to producing a winning combination of speed and strength, a project that could only come together if they worked in partnership.

"Do I have it straight? I keep Blue Moon, you train him, and you find someone else to pay for it," she said. "Sounds lopsided, Cecil."

"Can't make it come out equal," he said. "Can make it come out right, though. We start right away, yes?"

"Whenever you want. You're the expert."

A masculine chuckle reverberated in her ear. "Why, yes, ma'am, I am the expert. All the horses say so."

His was an occupation that Louisa knew little of, since she was at the beginning of the long process that resulted in racehorses running on a track. Cecil, on the other hand, had been all over the country, never staying in one place long enough to settle down as he chased after a dream. A couple of winners led to more work, more travel, which in turn brought him more clients until he could afford to be choosy and only accept commissions from those who would make it worth his while. In all that time, he never forgot about Louisa and watched her progress from a distance, waiting for her brood mare to live up to his expectations. Working together, they could take it to the next level, when Bedford Farm would be so much in demand that Louisa could command fees that reflected her expertise and quality care.

She turned back to the computer, but the screen was energy-saving black. How was it possible that two hours, or more, had gone by without Louisa noticing that it was getting so late? The barns had to be checked, even though Billy had probably done it already. She had to get some sleep, with morning coming early on the farm. No attempt at good-bye worked until she swore on Chloe's head that she wouldn't even consider selling Blue Moon until Cecil had a chance to assess the colt's potential.

The concept of owning a piece of a racehorse, one that was trained by Cecil, kept Louisa from sleep. Adrenalin pumped in her veins, while her mind turned over numbers and worked up budgets. She would have to be a very minor partner in the venture, considering how broke she was, but what if Cecil was overestimating her contribution? The whole thing could fall apart and they'd have to unload the colt, bringing in less profit than if she sold it outright in January. Where would she get the money for Chloe's therapist if the syndicate ended up in the red and she was left with vet bills? Tossing and turning, Louisa gave up and started her day.

Routines were welcome when her brain was too tired to think clearly. Measure feed, shovel out stalls, pile manure and turn the windrows, step by step she went through the usual roster of chores. Chloe was put on the school bus, Louisa went in to make coffee, and she flipped open her laptop to count the new crop of e-mails. She was far too weary to actually read them and formulate a response.

"What's a trailer from Ingersoll Stables doing in your yard?" Cora asked as she dropped into a chair. The neighbors had developed a habit of having coffee together after the kids had been sent off to school. "My, my, my but you're moving up in the world."

Puzzled, Louisa shut her laptop and stared at Cora for a minute. If there was indeed a strange trailer in her yard, she hadn't heard it come in and she hadn't heard Billy hollering at the driver to back straight in, not sideways, like he usually did. Before she could ask how Cora knew where this vehicle had come from, Miss K was at the door, begging to be let out.

The long chain that was permanently attached to a post near the kitchen door rattled across the gravel as the dog hurried to her favorite spot. Miss K finished her business in record time, but instead of coming back she dashed back and forth between the driveway and the door, tail up and ears lifted with the excitement she exhibited every time someone showed up at the house. A watchdog she most definitely was not, and she wasn't so great as an early warning system for visitors either.

Taking a few steps away from the house, Louisa could determine that there was indeed a horse trailer parked near the barn, and she wasn't expecting a delivery. Gravel crunched under her boots, ringing loud in the crisp autumn air, as she made her way to the open barn. There on the side of the trailer was the logo of the Ingersoll Stables, bold and proud, and attached to the trailer was a sleek and shiny pick-up that sported Louisiana plates. Louisa picked up the pace until she broke into a jog.

Inside the barn, Billy and all the staff were hovering around a bay whose black tail twitched lazily at its flanks. Like a teenager in the throes of puppy love, Billy was nuzzling the horse's nose, planting kisses on the snout while he stroked the thick muscles of the animal's neck. Standing off to one side, as proud as a father showing off his firstborn son, was Cecil.

"Quarter million already," Billy cooed. It was probably the first time in his life that he had laid hands on a horse that had won that much in its first season.

Cecil caught sight of Louisa and immediately came around from behind the horse, removing his cap as if he were about to sing the National Anthem. He extended his hand to Louisa, to give her a bouquet of red roses that were tied with a dark red ribbon. "Louisa," he said with such gravity that she wanted to laugh.

"I didn't know you were coming," she said. What if he had told her last night and she wasn't paying attention? "So soon. Not this morning, I mean."

After she accepted the bouquet he proceeded to worry the bill of his cap, which was already frayed from wear. Some effort had been made to tame his curly hair, which was coiling evenly around his head, without the usual ridge that developed from wearing a hat all day long. Stealing a glance from under her lowered eyelids, Louisa noticed that he was wearing a clean pair of jeans, fresh from the laundry, along with a barn coat that didn't look like it had ever been worn in a dirty barn. If he was trying to impress, with his newfound success, he was doing a good job. This version of Cecil was far removed from the man she had met as a college student, mucking stalls at Saratoga for a pittance.

"You recognize that little colt you sold off the ranch in Texas?" Cecil asked. He gave up fingering his cap and rested a hand on the colt's flanks.

"This is Lula May's?" Louisa asked. She'd last seen the colt as a yearling, undeveloped and much smaller than the animal standing in the barn. The two-year-old was sleek, a running machine, rippling with muscle.

"Won the Travers Stakes," Billy said with reverence.

"I'm on my way to Ingersoll to train his brother with him," Cecil said. He puffed up a little, not one to boast but not missing a chance to show off. Out of habit, he put his hat on, but then quickly pulled it off and went back to rubbing his fingertips along the brim. "They're fine horses, both of them. Mr. Ingersoll wouldn't have bought them otherwise."

"It's not just the horse, Cecil, it's the quality of the training that makes champions," Louisa said.

"Blue Moon's just over there," Billy said, pointing towards the door that led to the paddock. "He's halter-broke but we don't saddle-break them."

"After you've seen the colt, Cecil, come up to the house and have some coffee. We can talk over things," Louisa said. "Thanks for the flowers. They're beautiful."

She turned to go, to get the roses into a vase, when Junior huffed and puffed his way down the barn's aisle. His beady eyes were fixed on Cecil, as if the man would vanish like a mirage if he looked away. Louisa was about to make the introduction when Junior grabbed Cecil's hand and started pumping. "Cecil Surette, I just saw you on the television not two months ago, talking to that fool reporter in the high heels, walking the track. That ain't King's Knight, is it? Junior Best, pleased to meet you, live across the road there, good friend of Louisa, she never mentioned nothing about you before, she keeping you under wraps?"

"I'll just put these in water. You two come on in whenever you're ready," she said, but it was doubtful that anyone was listening. The men were engrossed in their conversation, carrying on about horse flesh as if Louisa didn't exist.

Back in the kitchen, Cora was waiting for the news from the barn, especially after her husband raced past the kitchen door and didn't stop when she called to ask him what the emergency was. Once she found out that a star in the racing world had descended on Bedford Farm, Cora practically hyperventilated. How could Louisa have failed to mention that she was a close friend of Mr. Surette, and what did it mean that he was giving Louisa such an expensive collection of long-stemmed roses? It meant nothing, beyond the fact that Cecil had some plans for Blue Moon and was buttering up the colt's owner so he could get the best price. Yes, he had once been sweet on her, when she was a naive art student who didn't know how to shake off a persistent hayseed, but their limited contacts over the years had all dealt with business.

Louisa poured coffee and Cora sliced up the banana bread she had baked that morning. "You made much progress with your Daddy's money troubles?" Cora asked.

"Something's not right," Louisa said. She sipped the hot coffee, savoring the slow trickle of caffeine into her blood, enjoying the slight buzz that shook out the cobwebs. It was the way that the numbers didn't add up that suggested Grigor was stealing, but that was not the sort of thing to blurt out to Daryl. With a little hard evidence, Louisa would present her case to Hal and see what he thought they should do. Only then would she even think about saying a word to her neighbors. If only she could confide in Judge, but she didn't want him to know how dysfunctional her family was.

"Well, here they are," Cora chirped as the door opened.

Junior dropped his boots at the door and strolled in, making for the sink and the bar of Lava soap. Right behind him, Cecil stepped into the kitchen and paused to look around, to explore every square inch of space that Louisa called home. He looked at her and she saw it in his eyes, all warm and brown and soft and dewy. Something stirred in Louisa's stomach, fluttered into her heart and rattled her coffee cup, sending a splash of dark liquid onto the yellow-white dogwood blossoms painted on the table top. The Judge had never had that effect on her.

TEN

Words bounced off the kitchen walls; words sizzled on the stove and settled on top of the refrigerator, a residue that Louisa would sweep up later. She couldn't focus on Cecil's banter, couldn't comprehend Cora's breathless responses or Junior's intense additions. In her head, all she could see were the cash station transactions that popped back into her brain, uninvited. Location of ATM was Colmar, Kentucky, not Chicago, Illinois. The amount was excessive for gas money. Grigor ate with Louisa, free of charge. The cash on top of the checks made out to cash. That had to be it. He was under orders from Harold to pay for the supplies used in the studio remodeling.

God help her if Hal or Daryl got wind of it. Everything was supposed to be equal between them, parental possessions divided into thirds and no one getting more than the others. Before a rift developed, Louisa would have to work out a payment plan, a signed contract that guaranteed repayment in full. Never let it be said that she brought Harold into her home because she wanted his money. All Louisa wanted was his company and maybe a few moments of her childhood recaptured before they were lost, as she had lost her mother by waiting too long.

Cecil got to his feet, the legs of the chair shouting out an alert that stirred Louisa from her reveries. "Got to be running," he said. The announcement brought everyone to their feet, to check the clock on the microwave and mumble about the time in unison.

Knowing every nook and cubby in the kitchen, Cora fished out a plastic storage bag and deposited the remnants of the banana bread, insisting that Cecil take it since he had liked it so much. She fussed just a little over the man's lack of home cooking, as if she had to underline his bachelor status. As much as Junior had wanted to share the same air as Cecil, he had a job and he was an hour behind on the day's chores, with no telling what his underlings were up to since it sure wouldn't be work without the boss around. They all walked through the door, Cecil hanging back so that the Bests went out first, and then he strolled slowly towards the barn and the horse that was worth big money.

"Got some manners on me since I saw you last," Cecil said. "Eat in nice places now, two, three, four forks, me."

"Lexington has more fine dining than Colmar, but Modigliani's isn't bad," Louisa said. "Last time I was there I saw Barbaro's owners."

"Then that's where I'll take you. We have a date and I won't embarrass you."

"Cecil, you never embarrassed me." Louisa noticed that Billy was sitting on the fence of the paddock, feeding carrots to King's Knight as a doting father would feed his beloved son. Which meant he hadn't done a lick of work and the new boards for the front porch weren't any closer to being nailed down than they had been last year.

"Tonight what time?" Cecil clicked his tongue and King's Knight lifted his head, as if listening for the clatter of the starting gate.

"How's the porch repair project coming?" Louisa said to Billy. In reply, he slid off the fence, tipped his hat to Cecil, and shuffled away to What A Friend We Have In Jesus. Damn the man's reticence. She needed a conversation, a new topic to steer her well away from Cecil's runaway train. "Tonight's not good. Not a school night. Chloe has to get to bed."

"Early then, like the old people."

"And I'd never get a sitter at the last minute."

"Don't need someone to watch the beb. Why can't she come? You don't think I'd be embarrassed to be seen with her, you?"

Cecil was well aware of Chloe's limitations, since he had been with her in Texas a few years back. He knew that she could be difficult to handle when her senses were overloaded with noise or lights or strong aromas, but he also had seen her at her best, sitting in his lap with her head flopped back against his chest, blue eyes like saucers as she watched his jaw work a piece of gum and then turn the pink glob into a huge bubble. that disappeared back into his mouth. Josh hated him for it, for the ability to charm Chloe, but maybe he saw what Louisa didn't want to admit. Things weren't the same between them after Cecil visited Wilmer.

"Some other time," Louisa said. "I've got a ton of phone calls to make."

In reply, Cecil tugged at the brim of his cap and grunted, in a way that suggested he understood what Louisa really meant. He took the horse by the bridle and guided him to the trailer ramp, all the while talking about Ingersoll Stables and the top-notch facilities. After he latched the door, he took a look back at the barn and then scanned the paddock where the foals were running in a cluster, just as they would soon be running in a pack at some racetrack, searching for an opening to break free and take the lead down the stretch. "You haven't asked me what I thought about Blue Moon," he said. He climbed into the truck cab, a wry smile painted on his face, and started up the engine.

"If it was anything good, you'd have told me by now," she said.

"Or maybe I don't talk in front of the neighbors with our private business," he said.

"So you think I've got something?"

"Go make your phone calls and then we'll talk."

Easier said than done, considering the subject matter to be discussed. Louisa found other things to do, her mind concocting scenarios and creating a script that would deliver her news in a concise and clear fashion. Hal would understand, he would be outraged, he would call Daryl and straighten things out. If anyone was concerned with getting short-changed on the Patch family legacy, it was Hal. Besides, Louisa didn't want anything extra from Harold and if her brother thought she did, she'd set him straight.

*****

Of all the days for Hal to leave work early, why did it have to be the very day that Louisa needed to speak to him on business matters? She brewed a cup of tea before trying his home number, wasting a few more minutes rather than face the unpleasant task before her. To be fully prepared, she rounded up her records of material purchased, the paltry sums that she had forced on Grigor when he tried to decline payment, and the days that he had worked on the studio. In a way, it was a relief that Wendy answered, to ease into the discussion and sound out a woman who knew best how to approach Hal on a touchy subject. No one wanted to talk about Harold's mental deterioration, and discussing family finances wasn't something the Patches did.

What Louisa had composed in her head failed to play out as written. The way that she phrased things were taken wrong; a sentiment expressed was interpreted as an accusation made. She tried to backtrack, to start over again, but that only made the argument grow hotter. "It's not one big lump sum, but a lot of little withdrawals, and he wrote checks for cash," Louisa said. Her eyes landed on a transaction date that didn't match up with her record of work days. Whatever Wendy said went unheard as Louisa scanned more dates, all weekends, all times when she was away on business and came home to no sign of Grigor having been there or done anything. "He took money out from here when he wasn't here."

"What do you mean he wasn't there?" Wendy said. "Of course he was there. Did it ever occur to you that there might be a reason for him to be somewhere that didn't involve you? You're the one who put the bug in your father's head, didn't you? Now we know why Harold thinks Grigor is stealing his money."

"Not stealing, no," Louisa said. Where had such an accusation come from? How had she failed to express her concerns in an understandable way?

"It's not about you all the time. Maybe it's about someone else who has it rough and needs a hand. Ever consider that?"

"Who else? Grigor?" Louisa searched for the route that would lead away from this tangent that brought her far away from her original intentions. She didn't have the whole story, not the part that took place in Chicago at any rate, and Wendy was clearly missing the Colmar component. It was like discussing two different books with radically different plots but the same cast of characters.

To add to the confusion, Hal picked up an extension phone and things deteriorated at an accelerated pace in a two-against-one verbal battle. Maybe Grigor was young, but he had a good heart and he never failed to shower Daryl with compliments. Grigor figured Louisa for an equally good heart, but Louisa was too self-absorbed or too jealous. She realized then that no one thought that the money was being used for her benefit, to pay for her studio or her farm. If her first inclination was wrong, she was left with a very ugly alternative.

"Our sister finds a guy and you have to stick your nose in," Hal continued his lecture. "You messed up your life when you moved in with Josh and now that Daryl's got something positive, you try to destroy it? Can't you just let her be happy without ruining things? How about giving someone else some consideration? Look, we all know you have your troubles, but the world doesn't revolve around you."

"The least you could do is call Daryl and apologize," Wendy said.

"But it doesn't add up," Louisa spluttered. Why was it all right for their father to give money away to a person who was essentially a stranger? Harold was a charitable man, but there were limits to how much he would contribute to an able-bodied person capable of earning their own keep. Unless he had been conned, Louisa realized, and the idea that anyone would take advantage of someone of frail mind was too infuriating to be tolerated.

"If this is how you're going to support Daryl, then don't count on us to support you," Hal said. The click down the line meant that he had hung up.

"Listen, Louisa, it's simple. Obviously, you're resentful of Daryl's marriage, but that's something you can get over." Wendy took on a maternal tone, as if Louisa needed a substitute mother to give advice. "You've been unlucky in relationships, and Daryl's found a great guy."

Dozens of people trusted Louisa with ridiculously valuable animals, while her own family didn't believe that she was thinking of Daryl's happiness. Hal was super-smart and he was too dumb to see what was going on. The bank transactions were suspect, but no one suspected Grigor despite the evidence Louisa had uncovered. Harold, and maybe Daryl, had no idea just how much had been lifted. Fine. Louisa would deal with her clients who believed in her and listened to what she said, while her family could learn things the hard way.

"Don't come crying to me when Dad's bank accounts are emptied and Grigor's living large with his girlfriend," Louisa said.

"Why must you be so stubborn?" Wendy asked. "Can you give the guy a chance? Didn't he prove himself when he drove all the way down to your place to work on your studio?"

"It's still not done, Wendy," Louisa said. "And he won't be finishing it up, either. You like him so much, that's your business. He's not welcome on my farm, not ever again."

"If that's how you want it," Wendy said. "You go your way. Any time you want to come back to the family, feel free."

"Any time the family wants to admit that I was right, feel free," Louisa countered.

"Call if you need something," Wendy said. The chill in her voice could have frozen the fires of hell. "Or when you realize what a mistake you've made."

With a finger tap that could have penetrated the screen, Louisa closed her phone and ended a call that hadn't gone right. She hadn't accused Grigor of stealing, but apparently her father had. How then did Wendy and Hal get the notion that it was Louisa pointing a finger of blame when she had never done any such thing? She thought that her father was channeling money to her, yet that wasn't even considered as a possibility. Easy enough to trace her expenses and compare them to purchases, but if her brother wanted to cop an attitude, then she wouldn't waste her valuable time doing the research.

The ditches weren't going to mow themselves. Louisa fired up the tractor and drove it in straight rows, her mind fixed on the party last July when the Patch offspring accepted their duty as children of an aged parent. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that Grigor had been pushing for a specific solution and they had all gone along because no one wanted to deal with Harold's regression. Grigor took command while Hal and Daryl stood still, not sure what to do and glad to have someone else take the matter off their hands.

Could it be true, that she was jealous of Daryl's happiness? When Josh came into the picture, Daryl stood with the rest of the Patch clan, lined up against the cowboy, and when the affair came to its end, she gloated. Louisa steered through a tight turn, to cut the other side, and saw the school bus off in the distance. After Chloe was born, the outline of the forceps indented into her soft skull, Daryl had little to say beyond sorry for the bad luck. No advice to sue the doctor, no support against the Ryersons who believed it was God's punishment for a mother's sins. If Louisa felt anything, it wasn't jealousy. Wendy had it all wrong.

While Chloe busied herself with her dolls and Miss K on the front porch, Louisa answered e-mails from her clients and caught up on the stack of invoices that had to be logged and tabulated. Sparked by a sudden idea, she scrolled back through the summer months, to the bills that had come from the hardware store and the lumber yard. She knew how much drywall and window casement she had needed, and she knew how much it cost by the linear foot. A series of calculations, a glance at her father's bank records, and the picture came into focus. Every stick of wood that Grigor had installed had been paid for by Louisa. Every screw, every nail, every drop of paint; there was nothing that Harold had paid for.

Even though she wasn't much of a computer geek, Louisa managed to put together a simple spreadsheet that detailed the days she knew that Grigor had been working in the studio and the dates of cash station withdrawals from an ATM in Colmar. She went back through her calendar, to note the weekends when she had unquestionably been at home and her brother-in-law absent. Four dates stood out from the rest, four different Saturdays when Grigor was in Colmar but never made it as far as Bedford Farm.

Her heart told her she was wrong to write off Daryl just because Daryl had not been there for her. She had been hurt by her sister's lack of involvement, so she in turn would make a point not to be so cold, so heartless or so lazy. Before the man did any more damage, she would paint him out of the picture. To do otherwise would be to let him win, and Louisa was not about to surrender what little family she had to a bastard who wasn't likely to stick around once the bank accounts were empty. She'd call Daryl, all right, but not to apologize. She'd open her sister's eyes, wide open, eyelids propped up with irrefutable facts.

The facts as viewed by Louisa did not have the same impact on doubting Daryl. "But I have proof," Louisa said, spreadsheet under her nose, columns and rows of proof.

"It just kills you that I could be happily married and you can't," Daryl said. "Really, Louisa. I never thought you'd stoop so low, poisoning Dad against my husband. He thinks Grigor's worse than Josh. Are you happy now? Got what you wanted?"

As the baby of the family, Louisa was trapped in one spot forever. Hal was the wisest because he was the oldest, then came Daryl, and little Louisa knew jack shit. On top of that was a history of minor squabbles, none of which Daryl had forgotten and all of which she brought forward, blown up out of all proportion. No matter that Louisa had seen much of the real world and recognized deception when she saw it. To her sister, she was still the starry-eyed artist who harbored fantasies about cowboys and horses, a world that existed only in the imagination. Louisa was not bitter over her failed relationship, nor was she mad at the world because Chloe wasn't perfect. Telling that to Daryl was like talking to a solid, impervious block of stone.

"Can't you see he's conning you?" Louisa asked. "An excuse for every chink in his shining armor."

"What I can see is a woman who can't get a man to commit," Daryl said. "Grigor called me every day when we were dating. How often does your Judge friend call you? Once a week? Less?"

In truth, Louisa had no idea how often she talked to the Judge, since she was overwhelmed with the farm and her responsibilities. They talked, but not on a regular basis, and they got together for dinner once a week. Maybe every other week, depending on their schedules, but they had the sort of relationship that was built on respect. He understood the horse business and he didn't complain too much if she turned down an invitation to dinner on a Saturday night when she had to travel. If the Judge had conferences or political meetings to attend, Louisa didn't pout or make a scene. They were comfortable together, that was the right way to put it. She and the Judge had reached a level of comfort and didn't need constant contact. They were there for each other, and if Boyce Cawthon asked, she'd say yes and Louisa rubbed the thought right out of her head. Focus on Daryl's problem, which was also their father's problem, she told herself, get a grip. Pondering the Judge's slow pace and wondering if he was ever going to make the jump wouldn't extract Daryl from Grigor's scamming clutches.

"You won't spoil this for me," Daryl said. "Do me a favor, okay? Leave me and Grigor alone. Don't bother calling, don't bother coming to visit, and we'll do the same for you."

"None so blind," Louisa mumbled.

"What did you say? Forget it. You were always a spoiled brat who had to have everything that Hal or I had. Well, you could have, Louisa, but you screwed up, so live with it. You're out of my life."

The living room had grown dark, as if all light abruptly up and left. With one hand, Louisa fumbled along the wall, feeling for the switch, while wiping her wet cheeks with her sleeve. Cold autumn air seeped in through the front door that she kept ajar so that Chloe could get back in, a chill that sent a shiver through her body. Trust your instincts. Good advice she followed when the mares were foaling, and she should have trusted her instincts this time as well. In the back of her mind, she held a notion to do what her siblings had done, which was to ignore a problem rather than meet it head on. If only she had followed her own wise counsel, she wouldn't be in this spot, cast adrift with no life line. Photographs stared back at her as she looked around the room, pictures of the Patch family that had just ceased to exist.

Louisa went out onto the porch, where her daughter had left the dolls sitting on the chairs. "Chloe, come on in, it's getting dark," she called out to the shadows in the yard.

The kitchen was illuminated by the green glow of the microwave clock, a sad little light that spoke of mornings alone, evenings alone, cold winter nights alone. Crushed by the weight, Louisa crumpled into a chair and put her head down on the table, unable to face the task of cooking when she had no appetite but still had to fix something for Chloe to eat. There would come a time when she wouldn't have to do it anymore, just like Meribel Coots didn't have to do anything more for her handicapped child besides put flowers on her grave.

Like a disease, like a tumor, her siblings had cut her away. How different things would have been if she had kept her mouth shut and concentrated on her horses instead of stepping in where she wasn't needed. Wasn't her sister an adult, and capable of making rational decisions? What difference did it really make, in the greater scheme of life? Over the course of a year, or several years, Daryl would have figured it out and done the right thing. After Harold was flat broke, most likely, and then they'd all be called in to help cover his bills. Wiping her eyes, Louisa almost laughed at the unforeseen benefit she had gained. Now that she was a pariah in the Patch clan, Hal wouldn't dare call her and ask that she cover one third of the shortfall that she had tried to prevent. Such an "I told you so" moment would spare her the expense of Grigor's graft.

Hot tears filled her eyes again. She would gladly give up any chance to gloat over her wisdom if it meant she'd have her family back. Christmas would be lonely without Daryl, and this year Amy had other plans so there went another option for holiday company. For the first time, it would be just Louisa and Chloe, with pureed turkey and mashed potatoes and an early night after a couple of solitary bourbons. The image was too stark to contemplate in the darkened kitchen, too depressing to consider until it came.

The split had been coming, if she were to be honest. The tensions had always been there, ever since Louisa came along and put a crimp in grown-up plans. How many times had Daryl been forced to baby-sit when she wanted to be with her friends? How many times had Hal been ordered to drag his kid sister along because their parents were otherwise occupied? Resentment built up, only to butt up against Louisa's determination to be independent from her interfering and domineering family. The outcome had been pre-ordained, back when she wouldn't listen when they told her that Josh was never going to get a divorce. Advice fell on deaf ears, and this was payback, the triumph of the older siblings who were proved correct. No matter what Louisa said or did after she left Texas in defeat, she had forfeited any right to insert her opinions. Her place was to go along, to bend into the required shape and not complain of a tight fit. Her punishment for bucking the system was exile.

She blew her nose on a napkin, too depressed to fetch a tissue. Life would go on, Chloe would be hungry, and there was no else to do the cooking. Louisa's legs felt heavy, as if she were sitting in a vat of tar and couldn't find the strength to rise off the chair. The door opened behind her, sending a rush of cold air into the room. Louisa sat up, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her burden. Cecil stood in the doorway, with Chloe in his arms and Miss K seeking an opening between the frame and the man's feet. The little girl's head was flopped back against Cecil's chest, her eyes like saucers as she fixed her gaze on his grinding jaws.

"You're like to wear out my mouth, pischouette," he said as he closed the door with a kick of his stocking-clad foot. He two-stepped across the kitchen floor, singing Back in Baby's Arms. After a spin and a dip, he put Chloe on her feet. One look at Louisa and the smile fell from his face. "You got that flu bug going round?"

She rubbed at her cheeks and eyes with the dirty napkin before breaking into sobs. "I've made the biggest mistake of my life," Louisa blubbered.

"The biggest mistake was four years ago, chere, when you didn't come with me," he said. Cecil dropped into the chair at the head of the table and took her hands in his. "Whatever you done after is small mistakes but they can all be fixed, you know. Where you taking me for dinner tonight? Nothing fancy. I didn't have time to change."

She didn't find him funny at all, and she didn't need his self-centered ego intruding into her problems. Louisa shook off the gloom and shoved her sorrow to the back of her mind. Business to talk about, they would talk about Blue Moon and for a time she would not think about Daryl or Grigor or her poor old father, watching his money float away to parts unknown.

"Good timing," she said, a hard smile forced onto her face. "I didn't know what to make for dinner tonight. Let's get you into something clean, Chloe, and we'll go see Mr. Chet at the diner, how's that?"

A wad of mashed potatoes slathered with thick gravy, topping stratified slices of processed turkey parts, all coated with cheese sauce and guaranteed to induce a serious case of the runs. How about that, Cecil, and thanks for the reminder about Texas. Thanks for bringing up the past, dusting it off and putting a polish on it. Thanks for pointing out that Louisa Patch had a habit of ignoring good advice and making a bad situation even worse.

While she strapped Chloe in to her car seat, Louisa noticed that her daughter was gazing longingly at Cecil's mouth, expecting a pink bubble to appear. He was the magic man, maybe on the verge of creating a few balloon animals for a child's amusement. Sitting in her truck, the long-winded Cajun did nothing more than issue streams of verbs and nouns that formed a run-down of his day's activities at Keeneland. Staring straight ahead, Louisa drove to the end of the driveway, looked right and left and right again, and turned onto the road. This was the way forward for her, not looking back. She had no extended family anymore, just a daughter she loved with all her heart. She had friends. Lots of people survived such a situation, didn't they?

ELEVEN

Dinner table chatter centered on Louisa's new situation, what Cecil decreed was a feud that erupted all the time where he came from. He brought up his brother the jockey, who had put some distance between himself and the Surette clan, and all because of a girl. Louisa almost laughed when he brought up terms like 'family dynamic' and 'dysfunctional', as if the horse trainer had done coursework in psychology in his spare time. Some truth existed in his observations, however. Three siblings had a relationship as children, and their interactions were changed with the introduction of spouses. Not that Cecil thought she should accommodate Grigor, as she had accepted Wendy. On the contrary, he felt that she had done the right thing and it was only a matter of time until the rest of the Patches caught up with her wisdom.

As a regular customer of the diner, Louisa made sure to stop talking when the waitress arrived with their food. Everyone in town was in the horse business, and everyone knew who Cecil was. It was probably all over Colmar already that he was having dinner with Miss Patch, a buzz that would reverberate in every stable for miles as the locals wondered what special foals had been dropped at Bedford Farm that would attract the likes of Surette. Louisa held the milk glass to Chloe's waiting mouth, a smile breaking out as a glimmer of light dawned. Gossip and rumor would be enough to convince a few owners to sign a contract for services, no questions asked about fees.

"You let her do it herself now," Cecil said.

"She can't," Louisa replied.

"Why? She make a mess?"

"Exactly. She'd wear more food than she'd get in her stomach."

"Then she practices at home? We go out and she can do it fine."

"You want to clean up the floor? And the table? And wash her hair, wipe her face, her hands, the clothes?"

"Sure I'd do all that," Cecil said. He drank down his beer as if he were parched. "Better than shoveling horse poop, yes, Chloe? I hose you down any day if your maman mucks the stalls."

Everyone was ready to volunteer until the time came to actually do the work. She ignored Cecil's empty words and concentrated on getting some food into her daughter's belly. Cecil grunted, a signal that she couldn't interpret, and then switched gears. He brought up Blue Moon, a colt with potential that he meant to cultivate into a winner. The lopsided syndicate Cecil had put together meant that Louisa didn't have to put a lot in, and in return, she wouldn't get a lot back. What she would gain was goodwill, a business commodity that didn't have a price and had to be earned. The profits would flow from others who would buy into a dream based on past success that probably wouldn't ever be replicated.

Their fellow diners waited until coffee was served before a few shy stragglers drifted over to speak to Cecil. He was open and outgoing, willing to answer questions or offer advice, his deep voice booming over the clatter of cutlery on cheap plates. Where would he be taking the Travers Stakes winner to race next, would the horse run well at Keeneland and was it worth a shot to bet on King's Knight to win? What horse was up and coming, an animal to watch for? Cecil could be coy, he might be frank, but Louisa got the definite impression that he meant to spend a great deal more time at Ingersoll Stables than she had expected. The wandering trainer implied that he was tiring of his gypsy lifestyle and looking to settle down, hire someone else to drive from one side of America to the other while hauling horses. Louisa wiped down Chloe's face. Anyone listening to Cecil would think that he had no home, when he had a training facility in Louisiana and could park his butt there any time he liked. Two of his brothers worked for him, and they were perfectly capable of delivering a horse to a track and monitoring its work-outs. If there was a man who was skilled at blowing smoke up someone's ass, it was Cecil Surette.

"What you think, huh?" he said to a member of his audience. "Louisa breeds the horses, I train them, and before long Fair Trade Stables is a memory. I change the name after I buy it up with my winnings. Briar Patch, you think, Louisa? Patch for you, and Briar because you were a prickly girl when I met you first."

Bullshit Creek was more like it, but Louisa only smiled and shared her chess pie with Chloe. She hadn't realized the extent of the rivalry between Cecil and Mr. Cuffe, but maybe Cecil was exaggerating to entertain. If he hadn't become a trainer, he'd probably be a comedian, and finding success.

Chloe was getting tired, and she demonstrated her fatigue by dropping her head back and groaning. Even though he was engrossed in a conversation with a breeder, Cecil stopped jabbering and turned his attention to paying the bill. He bid farewell to his audience as he lifted Chloe out of her seat, and then he very lightly put his hand on Louisa's back as he guided her towards the door.

"How many drinks did you have, exactly?" Louisa asked as she strapped Chloe into the seat.

"A man buys a round, I have to reciprocate," Cecil said. "How many I had must be an even number."

"How many you had must be too many to drive under the influence of." She checked the rear-view mirror and smiled at Chloe in the back seat. "Where are you staying, by the way?"

"Lexington."

"Not tonight."

"I'm not so refined that I can't bed down in a stall." He looked out the window, where the trees were hinting at the approach of winter. "Saturday you come for the race, okay?"

"Sure, we can go," Louisa said. She was going anyway, to meet a potential client and make happy faces. It was part of doing business, in any business, to have some interaction and maybe buy lunch. Before she knew it, the mares would be foaling and she'd have to rely on the goodwill she generated during the rest of the year to keep those same mares in the barn for the coming year. Saturday was the last day of racing at Keeneland, the last day to make personal connections close to home. Maybe having Cecil nearby would help things along, to impress her customers with her links to the upper echelons. Having Cecil nearby would guarantee that she'd have a good time, at any rate.

A considerate hostess would never let a guest sleep on straw, and Cecil didn't put up much of a fight when she insisted that he take the couch at least. He was more than willing to go along with Chloe while the girl walked the dog, which gave Louisa a chance to clean up the house. She ran the vacuum to pick up the mat of hair behind the bathroom door, put out an extra towel that wasn't shredded at the edges, and made a dash through the living room to pick up toys and magazines that had been discarded and forgotten. In the kitchen, she grabbed the cleaning spray and turned to blast some soap onto the table when she noticed her laptop sitting there, still open as she had left it. She had forgotten, for the last couple of hours, completely forgotten her troubles. It was like Cecil had blown in with some fresh air and carried her away on a mini-vacation, distracted her completely. And just like that, the vacation was over and she was back, but the troubles had never gone anywhere.

Not quite ready to settle in with the cause of her exile from the Patch family, Louisa shrugged into her coat and headed for the barn. She didn't get far before she realized that no one was marching up and down the packed clay near the open barn door, just as she noticed that the lights were blazing in the barn. A few more steps, and she heard Cecil's distinctive baritone, yelping like a cowboy riding a Brahma bull.

Tied to the fence rail was Miss K, who ran back and forth in a frenzy of lap dog enthusiasm. In the paddock, Bonesapart was being put through paces he had long since forgotten, made to run when he was accustomed to a slow canter. Cecil dug a knee into the horse's side and gave the reins a tug, turning the old gelding to the right, only to do the same with his left knee and force the dumb old horse to go left. With each sudden change in direction, Cecil gave a holler and a laugh, while Chloe's arms flailed in what might have been excitement or great pleasure. The little girl was in danger of flying off the saddle, having only one of Cecil's arms to hold her in place on his lap, while the drunken Cajun hooted like an idiot. Louisa broke into a run, only to have Cecil urge the horse to cross the paddock at a full gallop to meet up with her at the fence.

"What in God's name are you doing?" Louisa said. "Trying to break her neck?"

"I got hold of her," he said. With a flick of the reins, he took Bonesapart around the paddock and then pulled up to where Louisa stood, fuming, with Miss K in a frenzy at her feet. "I won't never let go, no I won't, beb. Again?"

Chloe indicated her desire with a grunt and a squirm that almost looked like she was spurring the horse herself with her spindly legs. Three more loops of the paddock, and Cecil let the horse slow down to a walk. It was the most running it had ever done in its entire lifetime and Bonesapart was seriously winded. They came to a stop and Cecil slipped Chloe off the saddle, across the fence, and into Louisa's arms. Immediately, the child tensed up every muscle in a full-blown temper tantrum, her body rigid and her mouth open, to fill the night air with her rage.

She was still carrying on when Cecil came out of the barn, leading Bonesapart. He flipped the reins around the fence rail and took Chloe from her mother, with a touch of brute force, and got into the girl's face. He was kind, and then he was angry, threatening to never again take her riding if this was how it would end. Cecil told her, with a dark frown compressing his face, that she was a very bad girl for behaving worse than a wild animal. Shameful, to have no manners, he said in a paternal voice that dripped with disappointment. Slowly, Chloe's contortions ceased and she resorted to begging, her outstretched arms reaching towards the horse as her fists opened and closed.

"There's a time and a place, pischouette," Cecil said. "Time now for sleep, then time for school. We ride again, but not if you make such a fuss when it's time to stop."

"You need a bath," Louisa said to Chloe, her voice cracking under the strain of holding in a heavy load of anger.

"You stink like a smelly old horse," Cecil said. "And the smelly old horse, he stinks like a smelly old horse too. Everyone gets a bath and gets put in bed."

With Miss K in tow, Louisa carried Chloe with the same care she would ferry precious porcelain. A long soak in a warm bubble bath helped to calm the girl down a little, but it would take more than one bedtime story to get those eyes to close. Cecil had managed to crank Chloe up so high that it was worse than feeding her an entire bourbon fudge pie washed down with a gallon of cola. The ride had been far too much stimulation, especially right before bed. Coming from a large family, he really should have known better. Louisa switched on the nightlight and gave Chloe a good night kiss, only to crawl into the bed and take her daughter in her arms to hold her close a little longer. Miss K turned in circles at the foot of the bed before curling up in her favorite spot on the quilt. By morning, Cecil would be gone and they'd be back to their usual routines, all calm and serene and peaceful. The evening's excitement was akin to a tornado blowing through, a brief yet intense storm.

Before Cecil came back from grooming Bonesapart, Louisa called Amy to talk about the day's grim turn of events. A best friend was all that was left of childhood, the final connection to shared events that stretched over years. Only Amy would understand, as if there was a shared kinship that wasn't blood related but forged in common experience. Understand she did. The yelling, the outrage that screamed across the wireless network was an expression of Louisa's identical sentiments. Yes indeed, Grigor was at fault, he was a con man and a manipulator and pure evil. Absolutely Daryl and Hal and Wendy were so beyond wrong, had done Louisa an unforgivable injustice.

All of Amy's support did nothing to relieve the hollowness in Louisa's gut. No matter that her dearest friend agreed with her completely. She still felt completely alone. There could be no substitute for people who had once held her as a baby, encouraged her to give up the training wheels on her bicycle or drove her to the riding stable every Sunday, rain or shine. Shared recollections of the early years were left behind, like the Queen's official portrait that once hung in her father's library. Her Majesty graced the walls of the studio, as if the image could keep Harold nearby when he was far away. The distance had grown to monumental proportions in just one day.

Wishing would make it so, and Louisa wished to feel better after a long talk with Amy. Wishes, and a warm cup of chamomile tea with clover honey drove away a little of the chill that enveloped her. November was coming, horse blankets to be cleaned and stall heaters to be checked. The farm chores and the therapeutic riding sessions would keep Louisa so busy that she wouldn't notice that she was made an orphan, at least until Christmas dawned. After that, Amy would share the arrival of the New Year and the regular routines would beckon yet again.

A petal had fallen off one of the roses in the vase on the table and she picked it up, startled by the softness. She rubbed it between her fingers, but the hybrid had little scent. In the spring, she would look into planting a few rose bushes near the front porch, but she would choose the old varieties, the ones with the strongest perfume. Her grandmother had cultivated roses, if Louisa's memory of a visit made as a five-year-old was reliable. A family occupation she would call it, if anyone asked why she was putting so much effort into a flowering plant. The Patch women are known for their roses, she would say, if only to remind herself that she was still a Patch, even if there were two others who would deny it.

"Would you like some tea?" Louisa asked while Cecil scrubbed his hands at the kitchen sink. He had left his shoes at the door, but his socks were dotted with bits of straw and hay which would end up embedded in the living room carpet. Splatters of dirty soap spotted the backsplash before he was finished, and she'd have to scrub the sink again after she'd just finished cleaning up. He couldn't get back to Lexington fast enough. "It's very calming."

"Too much calm around here," Cecil said. He dropped into a chair at the head of the table, his glass of water creating a ring that she'd have to mop up. "Too many women. Not enough men."

"You think I need to hire more stable hands?" she asked.

In one continuous guzzle he drank the full tumbler and managed to set the empty down in a new spot, making another ring. "Too many mommies and no daddies. You hire a daddy for that child?"

"Don't go there."

"Someone better go there soon. You want to do it yourself, I know all that." He turned his dark eyes to her, perfectly sober. "Not the farm, no, you never think you do all that yourself. Maybe the farm makes you see it wrong. Five minutes, wham bam, that's as much daddy as the brood mares see."

"That's enough."

"Okay, no more talk. I let you think it over first." He wiped the table with his shirt sleeve. "You see I'm right."

"Thank you, Captain Ego. You think you're right? Do you know how close you came to breaking my baby's head?"

Cecil smiled and waved his hand across his face, as if he was waving off her protests like so much hot air. "Come on, you can do better than that. You see I'm right, yes?"

"That poor child was ready to explode," Louisa said, but Cecil cut her off.

"Explode with what, Weez? Explode with joy? I make her very happy and there's no playing dress-up and girly things. Girls got to play rough sometimes. Can't always be making pretty hair and painting nails."

"She came damn close to having a seizure."

He shook his head, as a man would shake his head at a stubborn horse. "She don't have no seizures. She ain't so bad. Don't tell me different, when you told me she wasn't the worst case they seen out there in Philadelphia. Ha, I remember. Come on again, Weezie."

"Do you know how exhausting it can be to get her to calm down? Did you ever think of that? I had a shitty day, Cecil, and I'm tired and I really didn't need Chloe pitching a fit thanks to you."

His grin was wickedly charming, the twinkle in his eyes as bright as stars. "You prove me right." He leaned over the table, until his boozy breath was right under her nose. "I know these things. I am a very smart man."

Louisa's head and shoulders pitched back, in retreat. "You're a very drunk man. Go to bed. I'm tired."

"You let me kiss you good night?" Cecil got to his feet, more steady than she was expecting. "Better not, eh?"

Before she had finished cleaning up the kitchen, Cecil was snoring on the couch with all the lights blazing. She walked through the living room, pausing to examine the photographs that decorated the side tables and the fireplace mantle. Her mother was dead, leaving only images on paper behind. In a way, Hal and Daryl were just as dead, just as ephemeral as the chemical grains that would never resemble human features if viewed under a high-powered microscope. With her father losing his memory, he was by and large gone from this earth as well. In time, he would forget his children and if Louisa was barred from seeing him, it would make no difference. She would become a stranger, someone passing by on the street who might look a little familiar, while her siblings would treat her like an alien if she were to appear at their doors.

Hal's wedding picture was the first to go. Louisa lifted it from the mantle and then stacked others on top. The family on a picnic, the Patches at Cape Cod with baby Louisa, Daryl in her graduation robes with her hard-earned diploma. A composition of Louisa, Chloe, Dad and/or Mom was deemed suitable to keep in place, that place changing as she rearranged the gallery so that the room didn't look quite so bare. No matter how she shifted things around, there simply were not enough pictures to fill the blank spaces. It would be a matter of emptying the frames and inserting other pictures, to make the mantle a tribute to Chloe and Louisa, a family that would never be torn apart by con men or petty bickering. A side table could be used to display Chloe through the years, the ever-increasing number of photographs spilling over to occupy territory on bookshelves. In the meantime, Louisa would simply have to become accustomed to the relative shortage.

She didn't realize how jarring the new look would be until Cecil stumbled into the kitchen before dawn, rubbing his eyes and frowning. Louisa brewed coffee and put a frying pan on the stove while his eyes rotated from the living room to kitchen door, mentally retracing steps. He burned his tongue on the coffee, in a great hurry to get some sugar and caffeine into his system to make it go.

"I wasn't that drunk," he mumbled. Louisa preferred to keep him in the dark, rather than have to explain her actions. It was none of his business anyway. "You free to watch King's Knight work out today?"

"All the way in Lexington? I'll never get back in time for the school bus."

He nodded as if pondering some profound declaration. "Saturday, for the race, we're okay?"

"Well, yes, there's no school on Saturday so there's no need to meet the bus."

His puzzled frown went dark, and Louisa ignored him, her focus directed to the bacon she dropped in his plate and the scrambled eggs that she scraped out of the pan. He earned a shot, considering the headaches he'd caused the night before with Chloe and the wild ride. As if he meant to pay her back, he broke off a piece of bacon and encouraged Miss K to beg at the table, something that Louisa had trained the dog not to do. Not satisfied by the lack of a reaction, Cecil upped the stakes by picking up the bichon and holding it on his lap, where its little pink tongue came within easy reach of his plate.

"I come back and I take Chloe riding again," he said. "Because I care about her."

"How dare you imply that I don't care for my daughter." Louisa shot out of her chair, a fork clattering to the floor.

Victory achieved, Cecil smiled at her and put Miss K back on the floor. "I never say such a thing about you. Only about me, that I care. You? You suit yourself." He re-filled his mug and stirred in a heaping spoon of sugar. "A mother can care too much, Weezie. Not everything breaks when you touch it."

"For Christ's sake, I know you meant well but," she said.

"But I proved she's a normal girl, not a piece of glass. She has damage to her brain, not her heart or her soul." A slice of bacon disappeared into his mouth as if he had vacuumed it up. "Don't be angry at me for making a show of your fears. Now you're not so afraid any more, okay?"

"If you had children you'd understand what it is to be afraid," Louisa said. She could understand his success with skittish horses, how he turned them into fearless racers. He had managed to calm her down in short order.

"All you have to do is fall in love and you know what fear is," he said. "If you didn't love Chloe, you wouldn't fear for nothing. It's love, you see? You find it and then you don't want to lose it."

"I know what's it like to lose love, after yesterday," Louisa said with a sigh.

"Just in storage, waiting for a better day." He cleared all the plates from the table and then proceeded to wash the dishes. "What is it they say, about fooling some of the people but not all of the people? Anyway, your sister's husband, he can't fool everyone forever. They always make some little mistake, think they're so smart. Maybe he gets too greedy and overplays his hand. When he does that, eh, this feud ends. And you, chère, you eat a little more than your share of the poop sandwich to spare your sister and brother from choking on their rightful portion. You bring your daddy here, you give them an excuse to come see him and that breaks the ice. Then you serve up the caca."

"Did you have to mention eating manure right after I made you breakfast?" she asked.

"Put you in the mood to muck the stalls?" Cecil dried his wet hands on his jeans, leaving a dark trail across the worn fabric. "Say good-bye to Chloe for me. I have to get going or I miss the work-out and trainers don't get paid to sit around like the owners."

The headlights of his pick-up cut through the early morning gloom, sweeping a wide arc across the barn and then the house before disappearing at the end of the driveway. Louisa slipped into her work boots and jogged up the hill, to get started on another day. Damn him anyway, but Cecil was right about so many things. She wanted to take care of her father and if he was living at Bedford Farms, her siblings would have to come to her whether they were mad at her or not. Cecil had been right, too, about love. No one was going to steal something so valuable from Louisa, not without a fight. She would explain it to the Judge in those terms and he'd have to understand why she took on another responsibility. He couldn't resent her father's demands on her time, not if he saw things the way Cecil saw them.

TWELVE

Early on Saturday morning, with her chores finished and Billy's to-do list long enough to keep him well occupied for the weekend, Louisa put a little effort into her looks. She went to racetracks all the time, in a decent pair of khakis and a blouse so that she appeared more dressed up than a stable hand, but for the final race at Keeneland she slipped into a black wool skirt and a white shirt, set off with a chunky stone and bead necklace that carried enough red accents to reflect a rosy glow on her face. In a nod to practicality, she decided to wear riding boots rather than pumps, since she would be walking around the backstretch and nothing looked more ridiculous than a woman in heels trying to pick her way over divots and around piles of manure.

Even Chloe was in on the festivities, with bowed barrettes clipped into her blonde hair, the colors coordinating with her dress. She wore her boots as well, the ones that had been sent out to Philadelphia to be re-soled to provide an extra wide base of support that made it possible for the girl to walk on her own. Together, mother and daughter presented an image of success, not horse-owning wealthy but horse-industry prosperous. The clients they would encounter at the track would find it reassuring, or at least Louisa hoped they would think that their prized mares were as well-tended as the Patch ladies.

"You have to leave the communicator in the truck when we get to the track," she said. "You can't pet the horses if your hands are full, right?"

"Yes." Thank God for a touch of eight-year-old maturity. There'd be no arguments when they arrived, no temper tantrums to deal with in the parking lot in front of a crowd.

"Mr. Surette is going to let you sit on the race horse if you're a good girl."

That was the ultimate bribe, planted like a seed that would sprout into best behavior. No flopping to the ground if Chloe didn't want to go where Louisa was going. No screeching if too many people pressed too close to her, if the music was too loud, if something new popped up that overloaded the senses. The self-discipline required to overcome her physical limitations was blossoming and Chloe was showing signs of growing beyond her frustrations, as if she had come to notice that she could do things that seemed impossible, as long as she tried very hard. While Louisa had often told her so, Chloe was like her mother and had to learn from experience.

"He shouldn't have been riding like a maniac with you on his lap," Louisa said. "Fool. What if you'd fallen and broken your neck?"

"Hungry," the box said. Hungry for excitement, that's what Cecil had implied. Chloe was in need of the occasional thrill.

"Pretty soon. Wait until we get to the track. Think it's too cold for ice cream?"

"No."

"But you have to promise that you'll eat your lunch."

"Yes."

Louisa turned into the drive that would take them to the parking lot closest to the stables. She wouldn't ask any more questions. The one word answers were driving her insane.

Taking Chloe's hand, she made straight for the stables where King's Knight was housed, only to run into Mr. Cuffe on the way. He gave her some grief about consorting with his enemy, which she took to mean Cecil, and then showed off his collection of prized pupils who were running that day. Of course, it meant that Chloe had to be picked up so that she could see the horses too, and Louisa's skirt took the brunt of the little girl's feet. Two streaks of dirt crossed her thighs, yellow-brown clay on a black wool background. The groom tossed her a piece of clean burlap, which helped remove the dirt but left brown lint behind. Perfect.

Wherever he went, Cecil attracted a crowd. No problem finding the right stall, not when a gaggle of owners was lingering as if hanging on the man's every word. They were probably the very people who hired him to train their horses, and it was only natural that they took his utterances as gospel. Their dreams were dependent on Cecil's ability to take their expensive investments and make them pay at the finish line. She'd look like something the cat dragged in next to that bunch in their tailored suits and sportswear. For a second, Louisa considered turning around and walking away, to hide until Cecil's disciples had moved on to the stands, but Chloe took care of such a devious plan. The little girl dropped her mother's hand and made for Cecil, arms outstretched as she tried to go as fast as she could without tumbling over, a string of guttural noises preceding her.

"Voila, ma pischouette," he said. The sea of designer garments parted to give Chloe a wide berth. Cecil scooped her up and gave her a hug, while she came dangerously close to getting bit by a startled horse.

A handler grabbed the bridle just in time, to hold the horse's snout immobile while Chloe worked like a determined little devil to pet gently and not whack with an uncoordinated fist. Cecil helped her along, taking her hand and guiding her through the motions.

"Sweet little angel," a silver-haired lady murmured. Louisa wanted to pop her one, right upside the head.

With some corner of his mind fixed on business at all times, Cecil held a carrot in Chloe's hand so she could feed the horse while he introduced Louisa to the assembly. As the breeder of King's Knight, she was the center of attraction once Cecil finished preaching about the colt's bloodlines. Her operation was of limited interest, however, since she was minding other people's stock and not running a stud farm, but there was always a possibility that one of the group would hear of someone in need of a quality boarding stable. It would have been a different matter if she was putting Blue Moon up for sale in January. Louisa considered the idea, imagining the opportunity she had at that instant to promote the brother of King's Knight and how such salesmanship would pay off at the auction. A promise was a promise, however, and having committed to Cecil's less than concrete plan, she couldn't say a word.

Holding Chloe so she wouldn't topple off the rail, Louisa watched King's Knight run through a brief workout, designed to take a little of the edge off so that the colt would be more under control out of the starting gate. Two other horses under Cecil's tutelage ran through the same procedure, and Louisa was proud to note that neither one of them had the spirit of the horse she had bred. Once the exercise session was over, she took Chloe's hand and walked back towards the stables, to see if she could shake up any new clients. They didn't get far before Cecil was calling them over to come and ride the horse. Either he was insane or he was making a promise he couldn't keep.

"You hold on real tight," Cecil told the young lady who was mounted on a very valuable horse. All at once, Chloe was out of her hands and into the saddle, held in place by a rather skinny arm. "Take her for a walk around, like you do for the exercise."

With her jaw dropping, heart pounding with fear, Louisa watched a spectacle that she wouldn't have been upset about if Chloe had the ability to hold on for herself, and even at that she probably wouldn't have said it was all right. Anything, even a piece of paper blowing across the track, could spook a racehorse and send the child flying off into the rail or head first onto the track to her death. "Get her down," Louisa gasped.

"They don't go far," Cecil said. "That horse, he's too tired to run right now. See, huh, real slow."

"For Christ's sake, you mean to get her killed," Louisa said.

"I mean to get her a chance to live," he replied.

The journey ended, a round trip that went up a few yards and then back. Louisa made a move towards the horse, to retrieve Chloe, but Cecil got there first and gathered the girl up in his arms, laughing like it was all a charming little game. Unhappy to be taken down when she was enjoying herself, Chloe arched her back and fought against a man's strength, a grip that refused to let go. Cecil grabbed the end of one of her braids and gave it a tug, gaining her complete attention. "What I tell you about no more rides, eh, pischouette? I give my word and I keep it. You want to test me?"

With his short legs making long strides, Louisa had to hustle to keep up with Cecil. She was about to tell him to put Chloe down, to mind his own business, but she forgot all the words when she realized that Chloe wasn't fighting anymore, she wasn't howling and she wasn't making a scene. The look on the girl's face, shock and awe, amazement, possibly love, brought a giggle to Louisa's throat. "Bribery always works," she said.

"She's smart, Weezie. She knows better." Looking at Chloe, her eyes still fixed on his face, he said, "Now you know how far is too far. Don't go there no more, you."

The clubhouse was quiet before the track opened to the public. Cecil ordered coffee and a scoop of ice cream, vanilla without chocolate syrup, cherries or whipped cream, for Chloe. As if he were also on hand to act as the nursemaid, he settled the little girl on his lap and spooned the ice cream into her waiting mouth, jabbering in the patois of bayou country.

"You think your maman, she could smile at me sometimes?" he asked Chloe. "Eh, elle est ma gainne, or don't she know it yet?"

Emitting a sigh of intense aggravation, Louisa ignored him and stirred cream into her coffee. To move ahead in her business, she had to put up with this lunatic. She used her napkin to rub off some of the burlap fragments that clung stubbornly to her skirt before rearranging the fabric across her lap. Fine, if he wanted to play the big-shot with Chloe and keep her amused. Louisa would enjoy the brief respite from childcare, sit back and relax with a cup of coffee that she could savor without worrying about Chloe making a sudden move and getting scalded. Her skirt would remain free of ice cream stains; her blouse would remain crisp.

"What's that you say?" Cecil tilted his ear next to Chloe's mouth, only to pull back with a shocked expression on his face. "That bon rien, he's not worth a second thought? You like me better, no?"

The party ended much too soon. Without the communicator, Chloe used a sign to let her mother know that she needed a potty break, and the squirming was a pretty clear indication that she didn't have much time to lose. The ladies room was mercifully quiet, with no one to hear Louisa make such a fuss over a dry diaper on an eight-year-old. While Chloe was unable to smile, there was no mistaking the gleam in her pretty eyes or the happy tones in her grunt. They were washing their hands when a familiar face appeared in the mirror behind them.

"Another working weekend," Evelyn noted with a sorrowful shake of her head. "You're just one of those type-A people, Louisa. Nose to the grindstone."

"Not all work," she said. "One of my brood mare's produce is running today and I came for the racing."

"And all dressed up so pretty," Evelyn said to Chloe. "Say, if you don't have other plans, why don't you join us for lunch? You know everybody; the Cootses and the Cairns and the Judge, of course."

It had been so long since she'd seen the Judge that Louisa could imagine not recognizing him. Their last date was three weeks earlier, a quiet dinner at home because Chloe had a cold and Louisa wouldn't leave her with Cora when she was sick. They spoke on the phone, but not every day, so infrequently that Louisa had yet to tell him about her family troubles. Some things were better not shared, especially when the other party was a man who acted like he was thinking of making those home-cooked meals a permanent feature in his hectic life. He didn't have time for such petty hassles, not with his work load and her work load keeping them apart more often than they liked. Why waste time on Daryl's stupidity or Hal's intransigence, when they could make better use of their moments together?

"Thanks, but I'm kind of stuck with someone else," Louisa said. "I've known him for years, a real pest, but he's gotten me into a syndicate so I don't have to sell Blue Moon, and, well, I have to play nice I guess."

"Isn't that a funny coincidence? We're all here for the last racing card of the season, of course, but we decided to meet for lunch and talk about our little colt." Her hands washed and toweled dry, Evelyn applied a fresh slick of lipstick. "Well, every one of them has their own idea about who to hire for a trainer. I'd trust your recommendation before I'd take Tucker's word."

"Sometimes I think the horse's abilities have to mesh with the trainer's philosophy," Louisa said. Chloe gave her a hard pat on the leg, eager to return to her melting dessert that was going to ruin her appetite for lunch. "Anyway, I'm kind of stuck with my pest. If King's Knight doesn't run well today, I don't know what I'll do. I mean, I can't back out and sell Blue Moon, not when I agreed to the deal."

The dining room was filling up with early arrivals who wanted to eat and digest well before the first horse was off. People she knew waved to her and Louisa waved back, not pausing to chat with Chloe tugging at her arm in a desperate bid to get back to the ice cream without delay. All those who had stopped to talk to Cecil were abruptly ignored as he replaced Chloe in her lofty position and wiped the drool from her jaw. Like an old hand, a man of vast experience with handicapped children, he kept the spoon moving and his gums flapping, all the while promoting Louisa's keen eye for blood stock that was embodied in King's Knight. She could play games as well as he could. Without flinching, Louisa opened her purse and extracted a couple of business cards, handing them out to the interested parties. She'd be sure to quote them some outrageous costs if they were dumb enough to call Bedford Farm. Next time, they'd think twice before falling for Cecil's snake oil.

Once again, Louisa had to study the menu so that she could find something for Chloe that wouldn't require a lot of additional preparation. A glance at the children's menu struck her the wrong way, hitting her where she would forever be vulnerable. The lump in her throat refused to go quietly, and the tears that welled up in her eyes got even with her for not being allowed to fall down her cheeks. Louisa snatched a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her nose, clearing her throat at the same time to dislodge the heart ache. The development, the skills, the milestones would never be achieved and the endless grind of caring for Chloe would go on until one of them dropped dead. Sometimes those thoughts broke loose from their locked box, tucked in the darkest recesses of Louisa's mind. Sometimes she felt overwhelmed by the responsibility, by the loneliness. She didn't want this to be one of those times.

Her appetite gone, Louisa stared at the words on the card before her. All of Cecil's excited suggestions made her stomach churn, as if the very idea of swallowing a piece of chicken or beef was enough to induce nausea. She didn't want lunch, she wanted to go home and lie down, take a nap and wake up to find that what she thought was her life was nothing more than a nightmare that ended when she opened her eyes. Overwhelmed, Louisa let the menu fall to the table, her eyes scanning the room as if she might come upon a magic door that would whisk her away. The only thing she saw was a large party seated at the far end of the dining room, blazers and sport coats in colors not found in nature. The Judge wore a dark suit with a bright pink tie, to better coordinate with Malibu Barbie sitting next to him.

"Why do ladies think they have to eat salad all the time?" Cecil asked after Louisa made her selection. Because it was the easiest way out of ordering, an automatic response that would yield a dish that could be picked over and left uneaten without causing much fuss, she thought.

"Can you cook the spaghetti very, very soft, and do you think the chef could chop it up as fine as possible?" Louisa made the special request in a soft voice, sorry to have to cause trouble in a busy kitchen.

"You looking for something like a toddler consistency, or infant?" the waitress asked, clearly a mother herself who was familiar with baby food grades.

Toddler food, small lumps to introduce chewing to those with few teeth. Chloe was forever a toddler, never taking the leap forward to adult fare, forever learning how to walk and keep her balance. The waitress didn't flinch at the request, understood perfectly what was needed, and put extra napkins on the table before Louisa had to ask for them. To keep Chloe occupied while they waited, Louisa dug out some thick crayons that she carried in her tote bag, along with a sketch pad without pre-drawn lines that the child could never hope to stay in when she colored.

"The syndicate is a go," Cecil said. "We two, we're the smallest investors but the biggest contributors."

By shifting her chair a little to the left, Louisa could put a few other diners between her and the Judge's line of sight. A few days ago, he had left her a message asking her to accompany him and Evelyn, but she figured on being too busy talking to clients to be much of a guest so she turned him down. The last thing that she wanted was for this lunch meeting to look like a date, and she didn't want the Judge to get the wrong impression, with her dressed up more than was normal for work. Of course, who could miss Chloe, sitting in a booster chair with her head wobbling from side to side as she took in her surroundings.

"Make Mr. Surette a nice picture to take home, Chloe," she said. Less movement would draw less attention to the trio seated at the table.

"This agreement, now, it's on our word and not on paper," Cecil continued. "It's only right that you come down to Carencro and look around. You got to be confident about our plan."

"I've been to the farm and I've seen your place," Louisa said. "And I'm fine with a verbal agreement. You're the most honest, trustworthy guy I know."

"You'd be good at training. Light weight for the riding but too smart to let a horse get the better of you." He tossed a piece of dinner roll into his mouth. "We put out a nice spread for Thanksgiving. Turkey stuffed with duck stuffed with chicken. A little fais-do-do to dance off all the food."

"Some other time," Louisa said. Without taking her attention from her art project, Chloe took a spoonful of minced spaghetti and swallowed it down, immediately opening her mouth for more. There would be no struggle to get a meal into the child; she was truly on her best behavior. "It's a long way there and I don't know about Billy. I have this fear that he'll fall off the wagon while I'm gone and I'll come back to a barn filled with emaciated horses or the Humane Society at the door with a court order to confiscate my neglected animals."

"You make worries out of thin air," Cecil said. In a hurry to complete his thought yet not talk with his mouth full, he swallowed a chunk of steak without bothering to chew. "Here's my worry, that you get cold feet and bring Blue Moon to the January sale. Better for me that the colt's in my barn, far away from Keeneland and temptation."

Stupid to think that she could hide from the Judge, especially when Evelyn knew she was there. The look in his eye when he saw Cecil was one of suspicion; the tone of his voice suggested jealousy or betrayal. Judge's face relaxed into his usual easy smile after Louisa introduced Cecil as an old friend, a trainer who was interested in Blue Moon. See, I'm really working, she wanted to shout at him. This is business, have a seat, pull up a chair. Which he did on his own, as if he read her thoughts.

The day's racing program made an appearance at the table, as the Judge offered his insight on the way in which horses were listed. The owner's stable was identified, the trainer named, but what of the breeder? The Judge nudged Louisa's foot with affection and she responded by shifting her leg so that their toes were snuggling. The sire and the dam were labeled, she pointed out, and blood stock was bought and sold so often that it would be difficult to keep track of who had started things. Cecil moved a quarter-turn, to better direct his attention to the man sitting at his side, only to accidentally kick her foot under the table. She pulled it back, as if she were taking up too much room playing footsies with the Judge.

Talk of stables segued into a discussion of ownership and the remarkable coincidence of events. Here was Louisa, keeping her foal, and the Judge's mother had come around to his suggestion that she hang on to hers as well. They too had formed a syndicate with a group of their like-minded friends, and like Louisa they wanted to put the colt into the best possible hands, to find a trainer who knew how to produce a champion. One day, the Judge intoned, there'd be a program that listed Blue Moon and his stable mate, products of Bedford Farm. It would be the making of Louisa Patch's future in the horse industry. Those with any sense understood that the stud was of lesser importance in the overall scheme of things, that a healthy mare and carefully tended foal were critical to producing champions. Louisa felt like she was in a courtroom and the Judge was pleading his case, making a convincing argument that no jury could deny. Good thing to keep in mind if she were to do something drastic, like drive up to Chicago, wring Grigor's neck, and get charged with murder.

"Thanksgiving, we're bringing Blue Moon to the training center in Louisiana," Cecil said. "I bring your colt, see what he's got, and then we can talk. Can't come to an agreement, you change your mind, then I bring him back and you can sell him in January."

"No minds are going to change," the Judge said. "This is something I've wanted for a long time, and you've got a strong record that speaks for itself. The only reason I'd sell that horse at the yearling sale is if you told me he can't win."

"What do you think, Weezie?" Cecil asked.

She thought it was a bad idea all around, bringing the Judge and Cecil into close contact that would inevitably drag her into the middle. How was she to maintain these separate spheres if business intertwined with the personal? "You can't judge a horse's personality, let alone its ability, before you work it," she said. Perched precariously on the middle of the fence, in danger of toppling, Louisa concentrated on slipping a little more lunch into Chloe's mouth. One portion too many, an uncoordinated arm lashed out to push away food she didn't want, and Louisa was suddenly wearing it.

The tomato sauce only added to the colorful display that splattered the side of her skirt. Louisa dabbed at the spots with a wet napkin, then wiped down Chloe with a touch that was an apology for not paying attention to the little girl. Like men the world over, Cecil and the Judge didn't notice, their conversation continuing as one tried to weasel a training secret out of the other. So much bonhomie, these men of good cheer, while she could look forward to an afternoon of turning slightly sideways to hide the mess. At last they concluded their conference and the Judge came around the table to plant a chaste good-bye kiss on her cheek, departing with a reminder that they try to do lunch one day during the week before Halloween, when Chloe was scheduled to trick-or-treat through the Judge's neighborhood.

Cecil turned full around to gawk at the Cawthon party behind him, to get a better idea of who he was going to be working for. He watched Malibu Barbie act all giddy, probably because the Judge told his syndicate that he had lined up the hottest trainer around. He observed the bleached blond drape her long, manicured fingers on the Judge's arm, winced when her glossed lips parted to reveal brilliant white teeth as she dazzled with a smile. Any idiot could read her body language, the hand near her throat, the tilt of her spine. Cecil was so preoccupied with the girl that he must have missed Evelyn's frosty glare and the slight shift in Maribel Coots' posture that implied she was literally turning her back to the pretty young thing. Judge patted his guest's grasping fingers and reached for his cocktail.

"Bon rien number deux," Cecil mumbled. He looked Louisa up and down, shook his head and asked Chloe if he could have the picture she had drawn. A lopsided circle, off-centered eyes and a wavy curve of a mouth was proclaimed an exact likeness. "Maybe later you can make me a horse, pischouette. Starting with the ass end."

"We'd better get moving," Louisa said. "I want to place a bet."

Cecil tapped his chest over his heart. "I have a wager here. After the race, I'll tell you if I won or lost."

"So who's riding King's Knight?" Louisa continued. Sometimes Cecil could be just plain silly. "Should I bet across the board or can I count on a win?"

"Count on me to win. A horse, you never can tell."

Checking her watch, Louisa realized that she had a few minutes to spare before her scheduled appointment with a woman she didn't much want as a client. Gayne Goshirian was the only daughter of a self-made man who used his money to spoil her. She grew up to be a difficult person to do business with, retaining her father's mania for parsimony and love of getting a discount on everything. It was said that she moved her brood mares around for no good reason, taking offense at a farm owner's failure to answer her call on the first ring or wait for her at the front gate in the middle of a downpour. The problem was, Gayne had all the brain power of a bird and everyone in Bourbon County tended to grant her too much leeway out of pity. Louisa feared that she would fall into the same sympathy trap.

After placing a bet, Louisa made her way to the rail but stopped short when she thought that she saw her sister walking towards her. The woman came right up to Louisa, shook her hand, and introduced herself. While the facial similarities were startling, there was a vast difference in clothing styles between Gayne and Daryl, a difference that could best be described as taste, and the lack thereof in Gayne's wardrobe. "And I'd like you to meet," Gayne said, her bleached blond hair moving in perfect unison with her head as she scanned the betting area. "Now, where did he get off to? My international man of mystery. Everyone tells me he's Russian Mafia, but that's just plain silly, don't you think?"

"Anything's possible," Louisa said. She introduced Chloe, who had decided that she would view the world from behind Louisa's legs for the time being. "As long as he's good company, does it matter?"

"He's advised me not to move my mares to your farm," Gayne said. Louisa felt her shoulders relax. She would rather starve than depend on appeasing a client who was never happy with anything. "Hope you don't mind."

"Of course not." A corner of Gayne's false eyelash had come loose and Louisa couldn't help but stare, as if it might spring off at any second and put out someone's eye.

"But I simply can't agree with him that you shouldn't sit on the Board of Directors of Ride On." Gayne fanned herself with the racing program. Must have been a hot flash. "On that, Louisa, I will not bend. Nor will I take no for an answer."

"I wouldn't say no to something as important to us as Ride On," Louisa said, delighted to be granted such an honor. The smile slipped from her lips as a slight hint of expensive perfume floated apart from the usual racetrack aromas, filled Louisa's nose and left her gasping for breath. She had last smelled that same fragrance on Grigor. She was absolutely certain.

THIRTEEN

A plan to discuss her father's pending arrival was wiped out the minute Louisa told the Judge that she was going to deliver the colts to the training facility, rather than go to Chicago to spend Thanksgiving with her family. As if she had announced she was going to Tahiti to find herself, he criticized her life choices and her failure to set priorities. Of course there was more to life than work, she knew that, just like she knew that all the stalls were filled and she was getting by financially. Louisa didn't need anyone to remind her about Maribel Coots and the promised oil painting of her recently departed child, but the Judge drilled home his point just the same. He, after all, was waiting on his promised portrait and if she was suggesting by her delaying tactics that he didn't much matter to her, it was a case of actions speaking loudly.

A long and winding apology followed, which spared Louisa from having to explain that she had no family to go to, hence her new itinerary. All Thanksgiving trips to Chicago were cancelled permanently, a situation that was best explained at some other time when the Judge wasn't in quite so unpleasant a mood. No need to rush into a confession that might not garner the man's sympathy. In the end, Louisa swore that she would stop being a workaholic and set aside more time for their relationship. Without Hal or Daryl, she was almost desperate to craft a strong relationship that could replace all that Grigor had taken away.

The drive to Carencro was a long one, the time crawling by until Louisa let slip about her sister refusing to speak to her. Cecil heard her out, nodding in acknowledgement of the injustice. "You think it's this man she married?" he asked.

"Here's the proof," Louisa said. "Amy stopped by to visit, and Grigor told her the Professor didn't want to see anyone. Not that he went and asked my Dad if he wanted a visitor, no, he flat out closed the door in Amy's face."

"That ain't right, no."

"It's worse. Before he told her to get lost, when Amy said she'd discuss it with Daryl, he boasted about his influence on my sister and said all he has to do is tell her she's beautiful and she melts."

"He admits it, him. A man like that, he's going to make a mistake and then we catch him up good."

If anyone would level with her, it was Cecil, but even she was starting to think that she was nuts for thinking Gayne Goshirian had anything to do with Daryl's boy toy. The last thing she wanted was to get Cecil laughing at her, mocking her foolish notions and outlandish assumptions. While he was a pest and a nuisance, he held her in the highest regard and losing his admiration at a time when she was feeling less than good about herself would only crush what little self-esteem remained.

"Why you don't bring him to live with you right now?" Cecil asked.

"I don't know if Judge Cawthon is completely on board with it," Louisa said.

The sound that he made, the way he leaned against the door and steered with only his left hand, the slap of his right hand on the steering wheel; his mumblings had a peculiar resonance, rather like a spell being cast in a graveyard at midnight. She turned to check on Chloe, who was listening to an audio book. It was a good time to stop, to walk Miss K and let Chloe stretch her legs.

"It's not like I won't call them to wish them a Happy Thanksgiving," Louisa said as they strolled along the sidewalk at the rest stop. "Caller I.D., right? They'll know it's me. Let the call go to voice mail, I'll leave a message and if they don't listen, it's their problem."

"You stay strong, chere," Cecil said. "The one who wins the feud is the one who holds out the longest."

"I'm afraid he's going to leave Daryl once he has what he wants, which is money," Louisa said.

"How could she be so stupid, this sister of yours? My brother dumb as a box of rocks, he ain't so dumb as that."

"Not stupid, Cecil, just blind."

"That run in your family, this blindness?"

They switched drivers again when they left the main highway, so that Cecil could navigate the back roads. Unlike Colmar, the middle of nowhere in Louisiana was little more than scrawny pines and flat darkness, without a hint of a town. Disoriented, Louisa stared out the window at nothing recognizable until she saw the warm glow of a house lit up like a theatre marquee. The eaves of the front porch were draped with strings of lights shaped like cayenne peppers.

Cecil's brothers hadn't changed a bit since the last time Louisa saw them, but their children were obviously older and there were more of them. Blue Moon and the colt that Cecil referred to as the bon rien were unloaded by many helping hands, all eager to see the ponies, while one of the sisters-in-law made a fuss over Chloe as three little girls insisted on petting the befuddled bichon. Like a man possessed with extra-sensory perception, Cecil picked up on Chloe's tightening muscles and put a protective arm around her shoulders, drawing her in to the safety of his embrace. Only when the initial excitement calmed did he let Chloe go, to explore the house with a gaggle of girls.

Accustomed to the near silence of her own house, Louisa was quickly worn out with the cacophony of dozens of people crammed into the tiny kitchen, all talking at once. If it wasn't Cecil's mother trying to stuff a bowl of gumbo into her, it was one of his sisters pushing the dirty rice while another insisted that Louisa try the shrimp. One of the nieces was having a fine time feeding Chloe, who had gotten her hands into a bowl of copper penny carrots and splashed the dressing onto the table. Glasses were never allowed to go dry, and it was remarkable that anyone was able to drink anything, so busy were all those mouths that never closed. Miss K hid under the table, on top of Louisa's feet, while a little boy tried to coax her out with a piece of bread. To Louisa's surprise, Chloe was unfazed by the madness.

For a while, when she couldn't swallow another bite and dinner wasn't quite over, Louisa sat back to watch the Surettes in all their boisterous glory. Her own family had never been loud, had never expressed emotion or raised a voice during meals, but Cecil's family used the time to blow off steam. Jokes were told, sisters were teased by brothers, and the Patches were accepted as part of it all. There were no secrets here, no orders to consider the guests. In Louisa's mind, a picture took form, a composition in vivid colors. The Surettes at table would be a very un-still life, three generations in constant motion. She impressed the image in her brain, to hold until she had finished the Judge's portrait. How would she ever get it done before Christmas, when she had to finish the Coots's project first? Coming to Louisiana for Thanksgiving wasn't such a good idea after all, Judge had been right. The full extent of the long drive hit her and she felt her eyelids hang heavy.

Mrs. Surette wouldn't hear of a guest lifting a finger, and there were plenty of other hands to make light work of washing dishes. More important that Louisa look in on the colts to be sure they were settled in, to walk the long drive out of her legs. No need to worry about Chloe, who was sitting on the porch swing with Cecil's nieces and doing just fine. The idea of taking a walk struck Louisa as the best thing she'd heard of in ages. All the driving made her mentally weary, but her body wasn't tired enough for sleep and exercise would solve the problem.

A tour of the facilities proved that little had changed since the last time she'd been to Carencro. The round pen had been enclosed, so that the horses could be worked in comfort year-round. Louisa wondered at the electric bill, at the high cost of cooling a large building in the sweltering heat of a Louisiana summer. There was a new barn, added when Cecil's brothers came on board and he was able to expand his operation. They walked the fence line between the paddocks, talking about costs and late payments, about loans and debt burdens and the risk of investment in an unpredictable animal. Cecil confessed that he wasn't fully satisfied with what he had. He had big dreams, but he had always had big dreams that got bigger as he went along. There was always another prize to be grabbed in Cecil's world; something better was further on up the road and he was chasing after it.

"The calcium in the soil, it get in the grass and it get in the horse," Cecil said. "There's a reason that the best horses come out of Kentucky. Our partner, he know that. All the money in the world can't change how God made the earth, no."

"That's what they say," Louisa said. She took a few slow steps towards the house, where a bed was waiting for her.

"That colt come through, everyone throw money our way," Cecil continued. He took the hint and headed back. "Mais, who can say for true? Blue Moon maybe don't have the heart, or maybe he turn out to be dumb as a box of rocks like my brother the jockey. If that happens, Weezie, I don't know how I can make it up to you, the money you lose by not selling him outright."

"I know what I'm getting into. Look, if things don't pan out, I'll wait a couple of years before I buy another brood mare. I'll still be driving in the same direction, right?" she said. "Just taking the scenic route."

Life was a risk. Getting out of bed every morning was a risk. Louisa spread an absorbent pad on the bed where Chloe would sleep and considered Cecil's fears. He was taking personal responsibility, of course, since it had been his idea and she would be more hurt by failure than he would. She could have reminded him that he took a chance back when he bought his farm and had a huge mortgage hanging over his head. It would have been easier to just go work for someone else, to collect a paycheck every week, but they weren't about easy, not Cecil and not her. Take a chance, and sometimes you lose, like when a guy who says he'll marry you doesn't. Take a chance, and sometimes you win. That's what the horse business was all about, anyway, and who would go into it if they didn't enjoy the adrenaline rush that came with every gamble?

She found Chloe sitting in the porch swing with Cecil, moving in a rhythm that invited her to stop and savor the moment. A Patsy Cline record was playing in the background, the music that Cecil had grown up on with his mother a big fan of the singer. "Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Patsy Cline. She sings the pretty songs we like to hear, pischouette. For listening, not for drawing the blueprint of your life, comme ta maman."

"Always walking, after midnight, searching for you," Louisa joined in the song as she took a seat. Chloe continued to nestle against Cecil's chest, fighting sleep, ignoring Louisa's offer to take her.

Side by side, they sat and rocked, singing together. Lonesome as can be, the song went. It was lonesome for Louisa, on the horse farm, without another adult to talk to. Maybe that's why she liked Patsy Cline's songs so much. The lyrics spoke to her, but not in a good way, as if a singer from decades earlier had seen another woman's future and put it to music. I Fall To Pieces started up and Louisa stopped singing. She lifted Chloe from Cecil's lap and cradled her child in her arms.

"When I said before that you bring your daddy to live with you, I'm just saying what you think," Cecil said.

"How do you know what I think?" Louisa asked.

"We think the same, us."

Chloe's hair smelled of sunlight and swamp mist. "Where will he stay? I can't put him on the couch. Or in a stall, which is what you were about to say."

"See, you read my mind." He laughed, but quietly so that the almost sleeping child wasn't disturbed. Miss K dashed up to the porch and collapsed in exhaustion at Cecil's feet. "There's always a way to do what you want to do."

No matter how difficult the day or perplexing the problem, Louisa found perfect peace with Chloe tucked safely in her embrace. Her precious child, a girl who tried her patience and broke her heart, was also capable of giving love in her own unique and wonderful way. There was always a way, of course. Finding it was the problem.

"Do you have any idea how annoying it is for me to admit that you're right?" she asked. There could be no question about bringing Harold to Colmar, if only for sessions with the therapeutic riding group. As if Daryl or Grigor would take the time to ferry the old man back and forth to the stable without expecting to be paid for the effort.

Cecil yawned and stretched out his thick arms, draping one over the back of the porch swing behind Louisa. "You don't want your daddy in the old folks' home, no. Think on it and you'll find what you need. Like you found those specialists in Philadelphia for ma pischouette."

Spots of light that had been bobbing around the yard coalesced into one line as the children abandoned their game of flashlight tag and headed for home. Louisa followed the beams as far as she could, followed the trail until she realized that Cecil was watching her with an intensity that made her catch her breath. "Good night, chere. Tomorrow, eh?" he whispered.

*****

Before the sun rose, Louisa was up, eager to close out a restless night. She jumped into the shower, which was still damp and flecked with hair, a sure sign that Cecil had gotten there first. Wafting down the hall to the kitchen was the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, a siren's song of caffeine that she could not resist. Mrs. Surette wished her a good morning and Louisa nearly jumped out of her skin.

They must have been padding around in their slippers to keep from making any noise, but once she made her appearance in the kitchen the volume went up. Cecil bore a strong resemblance to his father, a stocky and muscular man with the wrinkled hide of an old farmer. He was happy to see her again, hoped she slept well, and wasn't it a long drive from Kentucky. Or at least she thought that's what he said in a mixture of English and French.

"Chut, Paulie, you wake the bèbè," Mrs. Surette admonished him.

A peculiar odor filled the room, a smell that Louisa recognized as brand new stove being used for the first time. Tired the night before, she hadn't noticed that all the appliances looked pristine, as if the kitchen had just been outfitted the day before or Cecil the bachelor only walked through every day on his way to the barn and his mother's house for meals. The world's largest turkey was sitting on the table, keeping company with a plump duck and a chicken that was in the process of shedding its bones. A pile of sweet potatoes was in the sink; a bowl brimming with raw green beans cuddled up against a convocation of pies on one of the counter tops. Mrs. Surette handed her a cup of cafe au lait and went back to the chicken.

"You go ahead on and look in on your colts," Mrs. Surette said. "The bèbè, she won't wake up for a long time, no."

Not sure if Chloe would know where she was when she opened her eyes, Louisa hesitated. She didn't want to imply that the woman who had raised six children was incapable of looking after an eight-year-old, but there was no telling with Chloe, who might be disoriented after the long drive and the overstimulation of the previous night. Then again, she wasn't likely to wake up much before seven, giving Louisa a couple of hours to enjoy the crisp autumn air and watch the thoroughbreds greet the morning. Wouldn't hurt if she picked up a shovel and earned her keep a little, considering how much effort was going into the dinner she was crashing.

The barn was open and she walked in, straight through to the other side where a laneway ran between the paddocks. Off in the distance, a man walked two horses, only to disappear into the mist. She retreated into the barn, to find that Blue Moon was still in his stall, looking like a gangly teenager who was about to get his growth spurt, not quite an adult but no longer a baby. He stuck his head over the top of the half door, expecting to be petted and kissed and treated to an apple. This was his new home, however, and there might or might not be apples in the morning. In a way, his training was already beginning.

"You're going to get big and strong here," Louisa said. "And you're going to learn how to run fast and how to hold back. You're going to be the best horse ever created, aren't you?"

"He's all that already," Cecil said. "Come on, we take him to the round pen for a little exercise."

"Isn't he too young?"

"Ten minutes, that's all. Be another few months before he's ready to do some real work." Cecil slipped a halter over the colt's snout and smiled at the little head shake that showed Blue Moon wasn't entirely pleased. "That's good. He got some fight in him. We see if he fights to beat out the competition when the time comes."

"How do you know if your oven works if you never used it before?" Louisa asked. "Taking a big risk there, with so many people coming for dinner."

Cecil tugged at the brim of his cap and cast his eyes to the ground. "It's nice, huh? My sister, she picked it out. Some day she might take the house, depends."

"You moving out?"

He put a halter on the Cawthon's colt and frowned, but Louisa couldn't tell if it meant the colt was better than Blue Moon or a complete waste of the trainer's time. "You take this one. Get done faster and get to breakfast sooner."

"Should I go help your mother cook?"

"She got plenty of help on the way. We got work to do."

For exactly ten minutes, Cecil intimidated each horse into trotting around the pen, crowding them if they tried to turn the wrong way and spreading his arms to appear bigger, like the alpha stallion in the herd. Once the first lesson was completed, Cecil took Blue Moon and Louisa led the other colt to a paddock where King's Knight was grazing. For a moment, she considered introducing Blue Moon to his brother, a ridiculous notion when dealing with dumb animals. They had no sense of siblings, felt no sorrow at being separated or joy at being re-united. Louisa envied their simple needs, their oblivious nibbling at whatever was at the end of their snouts. Once they were turned loose, the colts nipped and nuzzled in play, breaking into a run that Cecil watched very closely. Blue Moon jumped to get ahead and the trainer murmured his approval. Then the Cawthon's horse made a move to take the lead and Cecil cursed in French under his breath. The mini-race was over within seconds, a prelude to the mile and a half that awaited them in the near future.

Like a considerate guest, Louisa measured feed and toted bales to the bins in the paddocks. It was a token gesture, in reality, since the stable hands had their daily routines and they didn't need her help at all. She leaned against a fence rail and watched one of Cecil's pupils break into a full stride, making a leap so long that it took her breath away. Muscles rippled under the dark grey coat, reminding her of human bodybuilders going through their posing routine. Every one of the horses, both fillies and colts, could be described as muscle-bound, with powerful legs and chests that were designed for speed. No wonder that Cecil had taken such a huge risk, to have this to wake up to every day.

"Vite, vite, Weezie, before them brothers of mine eat up the last crumb," Cecil said, breaking into her reverie. The sun had burned off most of the morning fog already, and that meant Chloe might be up and possibly frightened.

The turkey was now in a roasting pan that was being loaded into the oven, under Chloe's careful observation. Still clad in her pink nightgown, with Miss K at her side, she gaped at the unaccustomed activities that surrounded her, head swiveling to take it all in. Here was sensory overload, with Mrs. Surette talking about how long to cook a bird while Mr. Surette called Chloe over to get her chin wiped and Cecil's sister Therese maneuvered around them to reach the stove top where she was pouring some kind of thick batter into a large skillet. Three people talking at once, three people Chloe had only just met, but she was doing just fine and seemed to be enjoying the craziness.

"You sleep good, pischouette?" Cecil asked as he rumpled Chloe's hair. "Pretty soon your p'tite amies are here to play, eh, but first we eat some of Tante's couche-couche with plenty of good cane sugar."

"Not too much sugar," Louisa said.

"Not too much, not too little," Mr. Surette said with a laugh.

Before long, the Surette clan had assembled for breakfast and Louisa marveled at the noise level, so accustomed was she to an electronic voice answering hers. The men talked horses and training, Cecil's travel schedule for the next few weeks, while Louisa discovered that Therese was an assistant professor of French studies at LSU and her sister was a nurse at the Earl K. Long Medical Center. Somehow, the boys had been drawn to all things equine while the girls turned to education and escape from the farm. Therese had her doctorate and the youngest Surette brother hadn't even finished high school. Wrapped up in a fascinating conversation about opportunity and pursuing dreams, Louisa forgot about sugar and hyperactivity. Whatever Mrs. Surette had ladled into Chloe's bowl was exactly what the child got. Why not take a break from healthy eating for a couple of days and just plain enjoy things?

Chloe was whisked away by the same crowd of children who had entertained her the night before, and Louisa did her best to be an extra pair of hands for Mrs. Surette. While she wasn't any kind of cook, she could snap the ends off the green beans and put them into a pot, keeping her nose out of an argument between Therese and Mrs. Surette about the other sister's work schedule and couldn't a nurse who didn't have family be on duty for the holiday. Someone like Louisa, she thought, with herself and one child to entertain.

Five women managed to dance around each other, sorting out food as they sorted themselves out in the crowded space. The kitchen table was set for the adults, with a linen cloth and delicate china that spelled a long session at the sink while the dishwasher stood idle. The living room furniture had been moved to accommodate a pair of card tables where the children would sit, each one covered in serviceable vinyl and set with unbreakable melamine.

The hard-working cooks retired to the porch, to get away from the heat of the oven and the big electric roaster that was purring away on a wheeled cart that Mr. Surette had been sent back home to fetch. Louisa checked her watch before calling Daryl's house, to preclude an excuse that they were just sitting down to dinner and that's why no one answered the phone. Just because Daryl had a Grigor-shaped bug up her ass didn't mean that their father was equally off limits. It was Thanksgiving Day, and Louisa was going to send greetings whether her sister liked it or not.

"No, Daddy, I'm not coming. Stop waiting for me to get there, all right?" she said when he asked, for the third time, why she was late for dinner. How was it possible that he could remember the day but not something she'd said two minutes ago?

"Is Hal coming with his family?" her father asked.

"I don't know what plans he has this year. He usually spends Thanksgiving with Wendy's relatives, doesn't he?"

"That's right, yes, of course. You'll be with Josh and his parents, I suppose."

The correction was on the tip of her tongue but Louisa held back. There was no point in explaining something that had happened in the recent past, when her father was holding on to events in the distance. A time would come when even those memories would fade, and Louisa would be a little more alone. Daryl would have Grigor, and whatever collection of relatives he had in Chicago, while her brother had his circle that would expand with the introduction of grandchildren and in-laws. Listening to her father collect his disparate thoughts, Louisa gazed vacantly across the front yard where the girls were playing house and yelling at the boys over infractions aimed at drawing attention. Next year, she would have Chloe as her sole guest, a holiday of silence punctured only by the blare of professional football or early Christmas tunes. The idea was so bleak as to be unimaginable.

"I'm keeping an eye on your bank account," she said, to remind him that he had asked her to do so. "Have you asked Daryl why she's signing checks for things you didn't buy?"

"Nursing homes are very expensive," Dad replied.

"Absolutely. That's why Daryl has you live with her, so you don't have to pay for a nursing home."

"Yet it's unjust to expect her, and her alone, to be burdened with my added expense."

The suggestion of financial hardship rubbed Louisa the wrong way. Daryl made a very good living and had done her fair share of traveling to exotic destinations. Their father had his monthly pension to fund his retirement, and he had never once suggested that it wouldn't be enough income to cover his needs. Yet here he was, slowly going broke while Daryl dipped into his funds to pay for a new snow blower and make payments on a new car that Dad claimed she had to buy to deal with his diminished physical abilities.

"Since it's such a burden for Daryl, Daddy, she'll be relieved to have you come live with me," Louisa blurted out.

"However will you manage?" he asked. "You are pursuing your passion, my dear, and your mind will not be changed no matter how often your mother and I urge you to consider a more lucrative pursuit. But no, I cannot accept your offer. It would be less fair to you than it is to your sister."

"I'm not interested in fair," Louisa said. She had learned long ago that life wasn't fair, that fate was fickle, that shit happened and all she had to do was pick up a shovel and turn it into fertilizer. "You know what's not fair? Grigor's taking your money right out from under your nose and my stupid sister is too blind to figure out what he's up to."

"You aren't being fair, Louisa, you're not being fair to Grigor. He's been very kind and considerate, like a private nurse if you must know."

The answer she sought was right there, in the truth that her father spoke. If she were to add up the odd expenses, the ones that didn't relate to her father's medical bills or normal purchases, she was sure that she would get a total that was equivalent to the pay of a private nurse. The fact remained, however, that hiring a professional caregiver was brought up, by Louisa, and ignored, so maybe her wily brother-in-law had the job in mind from the start. She could feel her blood pressure rising, a throbbing in her ears and a hot flush sprouting on her cheeks. Stupid to get so worked up over it. No one was worried about her; they as much as turned her out when she threw reality at their unbelieving faces, so let Grigor take every last penny. When it was all gone, he'd be gone too and then Daryl would be the one to crawl back to Louisa, desperate for a compassionate shoulder to cry on.

"The days do stretch out to their full length," her father said.

An unmistakable sorrow trickled through the wireless air, the sound of a man who had nothing to do, isolated from the old and familiar. He was incapable of driving, not when he couldn't remember things, and no one was around during the day to bring him places. Add to that Daryl's busy schedule of seminars and meetings on weekends, and Harold was probably alone most of the time, in a big rambling house that lacked the cozy touches of his former life, with its books and leather armchairs that smelled of tobacco smoke.

"Hold on a little longer," she said. She had no room for him, no real time for him, but something in Harold's voice told her it was the only way to go and they'd sort out the living arrangements later.

"Is there a good hospital there? My eyes are failing me and it's getting so difficult to read. Daryl's quite tied up with her teaching. Can you help me, my dear? Cataract surgery is commonplace, I believe. It shouldn't be difficult for you to make arrangements."

The University of Kentucky operated a clinic in downtown Colmar. State of the art equipment, the latest techniques and treatments; she would prove that she wasn't petty and vindictive, that she wasn't the spoiled brat her siblings thought she was. Right away, not a moment to lose, and her father would be grateful for her consideration and he'd grant her power of attorney and Grigor would be out in the cold and the Patches would reconcile. She had created a successful horse operation with nothing more than hard work, and she could fix her family the same way. To do nothing, to let hard feelings take precedence, would be the same as surrendering to Grigor and letting him win without fighting. No matter that she didn't owe her father a thing; what mattered was that Grigor came out on the losing end of his scheme.

Just before Mrs. Surette called everyone to dinner, Louisa rang her brother and wished his voice mail a Happy Thanksgiving, her tone sincerely cheerful. She called the Judge, knowing that he wouldn't answer with the football game holding his undivided attention, but there was no harm in letting him know that she was thinking of him. Seated at the table, she bowed her head in prayer before tucking into a bounty of food and pictured Judge Cawthon listening later that night, maybe as he was getting ready for bed, hearing her voice and tearing up because they weren't together. Once she was back to the farm, she would make a concerted effort to forge stronger bonds, to make them a real couple with a shared future.

Mr. Surette offered a toast to the blessings received and those to come. In her heart, she offered up her own thanks, that a way had been shown to save her sister from disaster. The question was, would Daryl and Hal appreciate all of Louisa's good intentions, or would she make the rift a little wider?

FOURTEEN

After a leisurely weekend in Carencro, Louisa jumped into relationship-building mode. She cleared the studio of anything that was good enough for sale, to remove the temptation to tinker with minor flaws and distract her from the task at hand. The Judge was invited to dinner and then surprised with a coquettish demand that he sit for the artist, with the first sitting not getting beyond Louisa's bedroom. She filled his free time at the court house with her presence, scheduling time for posing and studies so that he could have the portrait he wanted to pass on to the next generation of Cawthons.

Squeezed into spare minutes she didn't have, Louisa drew out potential floor plans for the farmhouse to accommodate an extra body. She'd sleep standing up in a stall before she'd let Harold go back to Chicago. Every other day, she called to give him the countdown to renewed vision, enjoying the conversation of adults speaking on equal terms. Still, she couldn't find the best way to approach the Judge to tell him of the changes that were coming. Things still weren't quite red hot between them, but she had a good month to stoke the fires of love before it was obvious that Harold was in residence in Colmar.

Late at night, in random snatches of time, the Judge's portrait took shape. Louisa asked him to stop by the studio to take a look at the sketch she had put on canvas, to get his approval of the concept before she started applying paint. She had taken photographs at one of the sittings, the Judge looking all judicial in his custom-tailored suit, law book on his lap, law library behind him. Her goal was to finish in two weeks, not impossible but not accomplished without sacrificing some sleep. The background detail alone would take several hours of focused effort, and she was determined to make the portrait a proper, classical presentation rich with detail rather than blurred impression. She had neglected Chloe's therapy exercises over Thanksgiving break, and she vowed not to do that during the Christmas holiday. The only way to get both things done was to stay up later and wake up earlier.

"If you're free tomorrow night, we could work in the studio," she said when they talked on Sunday afternoon. It was halftime of the football game, his habitual time to talk to her on Sundays, when he was watching the game with his buddies. The group existed to watch football, attend homecoming at the University of Kentucky, or fish. Wives and girlfriends might just as well not have existed in the clique, since they never socialized as a mixed group.

"Politics," he said with an annoyed sigh. "One of the boys is thinking about running for state representative and we're brainstorming over Monday Night Football. He gets enough beer in him and he'll be declaring for the presidency."

"How's Tuesday?" she pressed. "I'd rather do a live sitting until I get going, and then I can pretty much work off of the photographs I took."

"Tuesday might not be good. Listen, Louisa, we always get together on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Can't we stick to that schedule?" he asked. "I keep those nights open for you. For us."

Two nights was not enough time, unless they skipped the eating and the sex, and she had no interest in celibacy. "Anything during the day? I can bring the easel and everything to your chambers if you can spare an hour."

"Running up to Christmas, the docket's full. You understand, don't you? Everyone wants their cases concluded, settled, finished and done. Then there's the lawyers who think they've got a short one, squeeze it in before the New Year and collect their settlement in time for a vacation in Florida."

"Of course, I understand. Don't I have my busy season when the foals start dropping?" And when her father was added to the mix. This was not the right time to spring her news. After the bustle of the holiday season would be better. Or after Harold was there and the Judge had become accustomed to the old man's presence.

Even without her father to mind, this year would be more hectic than the last, with several of the mares expected to foal at around the same time. Louisa didn't expect the Judge to turn up in his suit, ready to pitch in like he had last year. Thoughts of their first kiss became a blur of nights since then, as if the relationship played out in her mind at breakneck speed. They weren't moving too fast, not for people of their age with biological clocks ticking.

"Now, I expect to be free on the twenty-third all the way through to the third of January. Anything in there work for you?" he asked.

"Too late, Your Honor," she said. "Looks like we're on Plan B. It's just that I want this to be perfect, and I can work from photos but it's not quite the same."

"That painting you did for the Cootses was the most perfect image I've ever seen. You captured their little girl because you worked from your heart." In the background, Louisa could hear his buddies arguing over some football related issue. "Plan B, does that involve you dressing up like a very hot Mrs. Claus? I'll bring the mistletoe."

"If we can't find some time, then we can't. It's not important." In her bones, she just knew that he would be giving her a diamond ring, not too big and ostentatious because Louisa had simple tastes. She had to give him something spectacular and unique to match, and nothing was more perfect than an oil portrait.

*****

In keeping with Gayne Goshirian's love of holiday parties, the socialite scheduled the therapeutic riding association fundraiser for the middle of December. Not black tie as usual, but Gayne decided that all her guests would wear riding pinks, including the handicapped children who were going to demonstrate a typical session. It took some fast talking and more than a little pleading on Louisa's part to convince the Judge to escort her. She interpreted his edginess as nervous tension, like a man with cold feet who knew deep down that he was making the right move.

"What in God's name is wrong with that woman?" Judge hissed as he watched a boy with cerebral palsy deal with his physical limitations and an ill-fitting riding jacket.

"She can be overbearing, I know, and she always manages to get her own way," Louisa said. "But she's the leader of the band and she donates the most, so she calls the tunes."

"You don't have to make excuses for her," Judge said. He must have seen the look on her face, the sting of his harsh retort. "She's too showy and you know it. You're just too nice to say so. Looks like our Kentucky manners have rubbed off on you."

Only enough time for a chaste kiss before Louisa had to lead Chloe's mount around the indoor ring while the therapist explained the theory of equine therapy. She spoke of muscle groups and strengthening routines possible only by riding, while Louisa broke into a trot to show that even a little girl who could hardly walk was perfectly capable of sitting a horse with confidence.

Louisa turned horse and rider over to the therapist, who would then demonstrate the post-ride grooming that was as much a part of the treatment as the actual riding. From her spot along the rail, Louisa observed her little girl and noticed that Chloe seemed to have grown up in the past few weeks, a bit more mature and less prone to tantrums. It had to be the riding that did it, providing a touch of poise that translated into an improved outlook. What did it matter that she couldn't walk without stumbling? Anyone could tell that the child had accomplished something remarkable. Scanning the audience for their reaction, Louisa thought she saw a familiar figure dart out the side door.

"Can't be," she whispered to herself as she pushed the door open. Cold air hit her in the face, refreshing after the overheated climate of the riding ring. Looking left, right, and center, she saw no one except for a quartet of valets, smoking cigarettes while waiting for the party guests to claim their vehicles.

A cloud of dust appeared in the back of the parking lot where a Mercedes SUV screeched through the aisle. Burning rubber, the car careened onto the road and all that Louisa could make out of the driver was an indistinct blur.

"Can't be him," she said to herself. "There's no way it could be him."

When Judge put his arm around her, she almost jumped out of her skin. "How's the fresh air out here?" he asked. "Need me to keep you warm?"

She burrowed against his chest, smelled his cologne and imagined them in bed together, under the hand-stitched quilt of his king size bed. "You're making me hot."

"That Chloe is a picture today." He kissed the top of her head, a gesture of affection that Louisa felt like fire all the way down to her toes. "But do you ever think about her future? When she's bigger and you can't manage on your own."

"I'm her mother," Louisa said. "There's no question that I'll manage, whatever it takes or how long it takes to do it."

"Just don't close your ears to advice you might get from friends who care about you and Chloe," he said. "You don't help her by working yourself to death, do you? Promise me you'll keep an open mind?"

"Well, sure, but, no, I can't ever give her up no matter what."

His lips pressed hers and just like that, she forgot to ask if he was hinting at group homes like so many other people had when Chloe was born. Neither did a head full of passion have room for puzzling over Grigor's whereabouts or what the future held for a handicapped child who would never get better. Escape from worry was found in the Judge's arms and he was happy to hold Louisa's fears at bay. A Christmas engagement. It was a done deal. She could feel it in the way his tongue touched hers.

*****

With the last remnants of an orgasm still pulsating in her hips, Louisa waved good-bye to the Judge and hurried to her studio. The room wasn't as warm as she would have liked, but the cost of heating the space to a comfortable level was too expensive and the cold helped to keep her focused. It wasn't easy to focus, not when her mind kept returning to the parking lot of the riding stable. Was it possible, no it wasn't, he wasn't so stupid as to carry on an affair right under Louisa's nose but maybe he was that stupid or that cocky; no it was Louisa with Grigor on the brain that made her hallucinate. She gulped down the last of her herbal tea and opened her sketchbook to the studies she had done of the Judge's hands, to see which arrangement she preferred. Pencil in hand, she drew in the faint outlines of a wedding band, casting a spell to make her wish come true. Once she had a husband, she would build a new family and forget about her siblings and their problems, as easily as they had cut her off like a dead branch.

When her fingers were too stiff to continue painting, Louisa went back to the house and the stack of Christmas cards that were waiting for a personal note and a signature. As she did every year, she wrote a few lines to her brother and his family, refusing to acknowledge the rift that would only grow wider over time. A few years from now, she might send a card without a note, just another holiday greeting to someone on the list, no more meaningful than the cards she sent out to clients with a photo of their mare. Business correspondence, and it would eventually end so quietly that she wouldn't realize they had lost contact. She addressed envelopes to each of Hal's kids and dropped in the gift cards she had pinched pennies to afford. Once the kids started college, the Christmas presents would stop and it would be that much easier to put an end to a dying relationship. There would be the Judge's friends and acquaintances added to her list by then, more than enough new names to fill the empty spaces.

Such dreams kept her company over the next few days while she put the finishing touches on the Judge's portrait. With the pressure lifted, she was able to focus on Christmas and decorations, to have Cora stop by so that they could exchange home-made cookies and sit down to a leisurely cup of coffee while the Best girls kept Chloe entertained. She was part of Colmar, woven into the local fabric, and the bad old days on a Texas ranch were all but gone by the morning of Christmas Eve.

As usual, Louisa opened her e-mail to start the day, and found a new note from Cecil with another video of the colts attached. Blue Moon had learned to accept a break saddle on his back, not willingly but Cecil could convince a horse to do just about anything. She peered at the screen, comparing the height of Cecil's brother to the height of the colt, and there was no doubt that Blue Moon had grown some in the past month. In the background she could hear Cecil's voice loud and clear, talking while filming, to let her know that he believed in starting early, with constant repetition, to make the later stages of training go smoother. Repetition wasn't the word to describe Mark Surette, taking off and putting on the saddle about a dozen times in a two-minute span. She laughed when he led the horse to the camera while Cecil encouraged Blue Moon to say hello to Weezie back home. With a tug on the halter, Mark coaxed a head shake that devolved into a tight close-up of the colt's nostrils.

"I'm forwarding another video to you," she said to Evelyn, whose regular calls usually had something to do with the colts in Carencro. "Your little pony does not much like having things put on his back."

"Is that bad?" Evelyn asked. "Mr. Surette phoned, to talk to the Judge, and I think it might be bad news."

"They're still pretty young," Louisa said. "Probably a bad sign the other way, if the horse just stood there and was passive. What good is a colt without some spunk?"

"I hope that he called to tell us we should keep him. Well, let's talk about all that tonight. You won't forget, now, coffee at seven and Santa is coming. I can't wait to introduce you to my daughter and my beautiful grandbabies." Evelyn said. "You and Amberlyn are two peas in a pod."

"You're sure I'm not imposing?" Louisa asked. "I mean, this is a family thing."

"Why, it's no imposition at all, and you're just like family," Evelyn said.

Just like family, Christmas Eve, meet the rest of the Cawthon brood, and Louisa nearly dropped the phone as her elbow slipped off the edge of the kitchen table. "Don't tell the Judge, but I've got something special for him for Christmas and if you don't mind, I'd like to give it to him tonight." The sound of Christmas carols drifted out of the living room where Chloe was playing with Miss K, rolling a ball in a game of fetch that was suited to the handicapped. Last year's dress didn't fit anymore, and there really wasn't a replacement in the closet. They'd have to move fast to put together a presentable outfit, something appropriate for a grand occasion.

"You've finished the painting? Oh, my, this is going to be so exciting. Of course, the Cootses will be there, and the Cairns, and a few other friends. I'm sure you'll know everyone. Let's make it a spectacular show, Louisa, let's put the painting on your easel and I'll find some pretty fabric to make a drape and you can unveil it. Yes, an unveiling. Won't this be a wonderful, wonderful Christmas?"

"I do hope it's the best one ever," Louisa said.

She was deep in Chloe's closet when Amy called, to chat about New Year's plans, but Louisa was too preoccupied with dressing her daughter in something that wasn't stained or too short to listen closely. They would talk on Christmas Day, to make plans for Amy's visit, to gossip about old friends from art school and complain about the men in their lives. Who could say if Louisa just might be springing some very surprising news on her best friend, and their planned antique hunt could encompass a search for some vintage bridal wear. Not wanting to jinx things, Louisa held her tongue.

She sent Chloe out to walk the dog before they left to see Santa, using the time alone to spirit the girl's presents into the back of the pick-up without being seen. In a last-minute rush, she picked up a splinter in her thumb from the rough wood she had used to package the portrait, which she hadn't had time to get framed. Where she would put it in the truck cab became an issue, with Chloe occupying the passenger seat. As much as she hated to do it, Louisa had to set the picture on edge and create a wall between her and her daughter, which meant that she had to adjust her rear-view mirror so that she could keep an eye on Chloe while driving with only her side mirrors for safety.

To her amazement, they arrived at Evelyn's elegant antebellum mansion unscathed, although Chloe hadn't been at all happy with her isolation-ward corner of the truck. The communicator was put to heavy use, a steady barrage of "no, no, no" filling the air until Louisa was ready to wear the Judge's portrait on her head so that she could reach across the bench seat and shut down the device. Only the appearance of Evelyn's winter wonderland decorations distracted the little girl, her finger paused in mid-air, on its way to another electronic whine. The shrubs that hugged the front porch were all dressed in white fairy lights, twinkling in the chill wind that sent the giant snowflakes bobbing from the tree branches. A herd of white wire reindeer mingled on the front lawn, their frames outlined with more white lights. An electronic doe dipped her head to the ground and then rose, in a never-ending cycle of luminous grazing.

The front door was festooned with evergreen garland that was twined with red and gold ribbons and dotted with shiny gold balls. Two wreaths framed the door knockers, real spruce and balsam that gave off a scent that reminded Louisa of her childhood, when her parents insisted on freshly cut trees that made the house smell wonderful for days and days. Evelyn opened the door and embraced her guests, while Tucker Coots scurried out to the truck to get some things he said he needed. No one knew for sure if Chloe was fully cognizant of the whole Santa Claus thing, but it did no harm to err on the side of caution and assume that she believed, with all her eight-year-old heart.

The foyer had been decorated in Winter Wonderland splendor, a stage set right out of Hollywood. If it were possible to have it snow inside, Evelyn would have hired someone with a wood chipper to shred and blow ice chips for the full effect. Chloe stumbled over her feet, her eyes wide with amazement. A young lady in black trousers and a white shirt took their coats, and they were propelled into a room that was a museum-quality replica of a true Victorian Christmas. The tree was huge, in proportion to the high ceiling.

"You must be Louisa, who I've heard so much about, and is this sweet little thing Chloe? How is Miss K doing?" The woman who barraged Louisa with questions had to be Evelyn's daughter. They could almost have been twins, they looked so much alike.

Amberlyn brought Chloe to a corner of the parlor nearest the tree, where the Judge's niece and nephew were tormenting one another, while Evelyn walked Louisa around the room, making introductions. All the ladies were wearing holiday sweaters, a gathering of intarsia wreaths or appliquéd holly berries in reds and greens, country club fashions for the country club set.

It turned out that Malibu Barbie, with her spray-on tan refreshed for the holidays, had an actual name. Danielle Woodley was a former cheerleader who had retained a perky smile, looking as if she was on the verge of bouncing on her feet with a Let's Go Team chant on her glossed lips. Her daddy owned a chain of banks that catered to those in need of wealth management and agricultural loans, a financial institution that didn't house any of Louisa's limited capital. "The Judge was just telling us what an achingly pretty girl your daughter is," Danielle said. "My goodness, the most beautiful eyes."

"The window to the soul," the Judge said, leaning over Danielle to hand her a glass of white wine. His gaze was fixed on Louisa's eyes, however, penetrating and suggestive, raising a flush in her cheeks.

"She's happy wherever she's planted, it looks like," David said. Amberlyn's husband had a real tan, developed on a golf course or tennis court in Santa Monica.

"I've always taken her with me when I've had to travel for business," Louisa said. That sounded better than boasting about dragging the child along to the race track, which resounded of white trash and déclassé. "She's gotten used to being around strangers, and I think she's always happy to be with other children."

"She is the light of so many lives here," Evelyn said, more to Amberlyn than anyone else in the room.

Tucker returned to the parlor, rubbing his hands with glee as he informed everyone that he swore he heard some noises outside that sounded like reindeer. A clatter of sleigh bells and a stomping of feet pulsated through the pocket doors, which Evelyn slid open with a flourish. The back parlor was decorated as elaborately as the front, with another huge tree that sparkled with hundreds of lights, shiny glass balls and gold ribbon garland. Louisa scooped up Chloe, who couldn't get to her feet easily, and held her hand as the guests moved as one to catch Santa in the act of leaving gifts under the tree.

A Southern- flavored "ho, ho, ho" boomed out and Chloe froze. Normal, quiet adults were one thing, but a big man in a bright red suit put her over the edge into sensory over-load. She hid behind Louisa's legs, clinging to her wool trousers and making a sharp sound that was pure fear.

"It's only Santa Claus who brings presents to the good little girls," Danielle said.

To Chloe, Santa was big and loud and frightening, not at all like the adults who came up to her with baby-talk and soft sighs. Tucker stepped in as Louisa pressed Chloe closer, the grandfather taking charge and using his body as a screen to protect the child in case Santa made any sudden moves. Evelyn's grandchildren barreled forward, as if their earlier conviction that the red-suited man didn't exist had been proved false by his very presence in their grandmother's back parlor and they were glad they had been wrong.

David captured it all on video, while the Judge popped into the scene to lend a hand to a beleaguered Claus. On his heels came Danielle, wanting to help, caught up in the excitement, or scouting out the wrapped packages under the tree to see if there was something for her. Louisa caught herself eyeballing the brightly colored and beribboned, in search of a small cube-shaped box, hoping and wishing and ready to climb on Santa's lap to tell him what she wanted this year.

Clothes and books were cast aside, to mingle with the pieces of wrapping paper and abandoned bows. The Judge tried to help Chloe with her first present, only to be pushed aside by his niece who was taking charge. Louisa almost wanted to cry, so tenderly did Emma take Chloe's hand and guide it under the fold before lifting the edges so that the paper tore and the box of handicapped-suitable paintbrushes and tempura pots was exposed.

"An artist like her mama," Norma said. Turning to Danielle, she added with a definite note of hauteur, "Did you know that Louisa studied at the Rhode Island School of Design?"

Mr. and Mrs. Woodley murmured their approval, although Mrs. Woodley was only going through the motions. She inserted a comment about the horse farm, as if agriculture and the arts were incompatible, which set Norma's teeth on edge. Why Evelyn would have invited guests who did not seem to care the least for one another was odd, considering how much she prided herself on her social graces. Louisa wondered if the Woodleys were a charity case, people who had no place else to go on a holiday and were taken in like lost waifs.

As if she were itching for a fight, Norma spoke glowingly of the studio that Louisa had fixed up behind the barn, to which Maribel added a dewy-eyed remark about capturing a spirit that she feared had gone to heaven and wouldn't be seen again until she, too, was laid to rest. Fearing that the evening could grow maudlin, Louisa quickly added that she had been able to paint the Coots girl from memory, since she had met her informally, and that painting from a photograph alone would never have yielded the same result. To drop the subject, she turned her attention back to the Christmas scene, where Chloe was sitting a little behind Emma, safely away from Santa's reach. The two girls tore open another gift, this one not provided by Louisa. Surprised by the unexpected, she told Chloe to thank Santa for thinking of her and Miss K together, with the pretty dog collar that was color coordinated to a scarf and mitten set that would make for a stylish walk between the house and the barn.

After Santa departed and the children were fully involved in their new acquisitions, the adults returned to the front parlor for coffee and conversation. Louisa followed behind Maribel, jabbering about the pleasure in seeing the little ones so happy, and would have sat next to her if Evelyn hadn't called her over to the love seat with a light-hearted command to sit right here. The Judge took what Louisa figured was his customary spot as head of the family, dropping into an armchair that faced the fire and putting his knees in close proximity to hers. There would be no ordering Danielle into a spot, not when she declared that she would be fine where she was, on the overstuffed arm of the same chair the Judge was in. Mr. Woodley smiled up at Louisa and told her he'd never met an artist before and if he'd known earlier how pretty they were, he'd have a house full of paintings to his credit.

"There's one more thing that Santa left that has yet to be opened," Tucker said to the assembled guests. He disappeared into the foyer and came back with the maid, who helped him set up an easel that had been draped with holly print fabric. "Judge Cawthon, I believe this is for you."

As he rose from his seat, the Judge patted Louisa's knee and winked at her. He made a dramatic show about lifting the cover, not sure if the finished product was suitable for mixed company. The cotton fell to the floor and he stood speechless, staring at his own face and his own wall of law books, as if he had never seen them before.

Danielle slipped her hand into the crook of his arm as he gaped, a half-smile of appreciation mixed with forced humility. She gingerly reached out a manicured finger, as if she had to touch the oil image to verify that it was not real flesh and blood. From under lowered lashes Louisa scanned the faces around her, to gauge their initial impression. One by one, they left their seats so that they could stand closer, to compare Louisa's version to the real thing. The longer the silence carried on, the more Louisa was certain that she had accomplished something that would not soon be forgotten.

With tears in his eyes, the Judge took Louisa's hands and pulled her into a warm embrace as he thanked her, several times, claiming that his words were meaningless compared to her gift. He led her back to the easel, his hand resting gently on her elbow. Louisa stood next to her picture like a gawky art student and bowed slightly to acknowledge her admirers. The Judge called for a toast, for champagne, and the maid was right on it, as if she had known all along that seven crystal flutes filled with bubbly would be required at nine p.m.

David, still taping, said, "Louisa, you are a breath of fresh air around here."

"And it needs a good airing," Norma mumbled under her breath.

"Let's talk about horses," Maribel said. They returned to the comfort of the silk upholstery, while the Judge moved the easel so that he could sit and admire his image at the same time.

"I'd like to know how Louisa talked Cecil Surette into training our colt when he turns down requests every day of the week," Mr. Woodley said.

Mrs. Woodley edged a little closer to the edge of her seat, sipped her champagne, and cast a very quick glance at her daughter. "Yes, we'd all like to know how in the world you managed to snag such a catch as Mr. Surette."

FIFTEEN

There hadn't been any gifts on Christmas Eve, and all Louisa could think of as she went about her daily chores was what might come to pass on Christmas Day. She was distracted, unable to remember if she'd dispensed vitamins to a mare or if she might have double-dosed another. The coffee she brewed when Cora and Billy came by was too strong. She forgot to put out the cookies until they were ready to leave, and she had to run out into the cold, chasing down their truck so she could hand them the gift cards she had picked up for their kids, who had all pitched in during the past year to take care of Chloe and lift a little of Louisa's burden. The Judge didn't arrive until shortly before noon, just as Billy was leaving to enjoy as much holiday as farm life permitted.

The Judge couldn't stay for lunch, an unappealing can of condensed cream of celery soup. Chloe dragged her communicator to the table where he was sitting and waited for him to ask her a question, which he did, while Louisa waited for him to ask her the question. Chloe had a good time at the party, Chloe liked her presents from Santa, Chloe liked Emma, Chloe didn't like Emma's brother Chas who had ignored her completely and wouldn't cooperate when Emma wanted to play house and make him the baby. They had a long talk, the Judge and Chloe, while Louisa stood at the stove and whirred a hand blender through the soup to mix in the protein powder.

"Seems I caused a little controversy last night," the Judge said. "Not everyone thought I made the best choice in gifts. I waited until this morning to give it to you."

Not too eager, forced calm locking her knees, Louisa carefully put the blender on the counter top and brushed her hands on her jeans. Slowly, maybe a little too slow and artificial, she took a seat across from the Judge and put her hands on the table, left on top of right in case he wanted to slip the ring on her finger. She gazed into his eyes, searching for the glints that were their future children, but there was no image of undying devotion looking back at her.

From his jacket pocket he took a long, thin box, wrapped in deep green velvet and closed with a delicate gold ribbon. "Merry Christmas, Louisa," he said, and slid it across the table until it rested at the tips of her fingers.

With hands that trembled with disappointment, Louisa slipped the ribbon from the box. Chloe snuggled closer, to see what it was, and Louisa paused for a moment to put her daughter on her lap, a barrier between her heart and the wrong-shaped package. She twisted the ribbon around Chloe's wrist, making a holiday bracelet, all to postpone exposing the evidence of misplaced hope. At last, she opened her gift and struggled to come up with some words of thanks for the watch.

"It's got a second hand and a stopwatch function," he said, very pleased with himself. "Can't be a real thoroughbred owner without a stopwatch on you at all times."

"What can I say," she stammered. "It's really lovely. Thank you so much. You didn't. I mean, such an extravagant gift and all I gave you was something I made myself."

The Judge laughed and took her hand. "This little thing doesn't come close to being as special as what you gave me. Tell you the truth, I don't feel right." He gazed into her eyes, a look of pure lust that warmed her to her toes. "You surprised me, caught me off guard. If the stores were open in town today, I'd be doing some shopping right now. But, seeing as it's Christmas Day, there's only one other thing I can give you. Homemade by me."

He brought Chloe into the living room and sat her down in front of the television before firing up the Disney DVD that Santa had given her the night before. Orchestral cheer filled the first floor of the house, the sound turned up a bit louder than necessary. With Chloe entranced by cartoon characters sweeping across the screen, the Judge came back to the kitchen, pulled out Louisa's chair, and took her by the hand.

Up the stairs, and maybe he would find the courage. Into the bedroom, and maybe he needed something to build his confidence. Out of their clothes, and it was enough for Louisa that she had someone to talk to, to touch, when the long day stretched out before her in all its solitude and quiet. She had an expensive Swiss watch that she could use to count the minutes as they ticked away, a quality timepiece that would mark the days until her biological clock ran out.

As long as the cartoon was still playing, they could stay in bed, pretending that it was a leisurely lovemaking session when in reality the Judge was running late. He had little time for a shower, not when he was expected at his mother's for dinner and wanted to catch the opening kick-off of the football game. Louisa threw on her clothes, not concerned with appearances when no one was going to see her besides Chloe. She packed a small tin with cookies, the Santa shapes she had painted with frosting, each cookie unique with a different expression on Santa's face. At least Evelyn would appreciate them, and Amberlyn and Emma. Some other family would enjoy her labors, some other group of relatives who liked her well enough to wish that they could see her again, and soon.

"We could all use a day off from all that celebrating," the Judge said. He gave Chloe a big hug and a kiss good-bye before he kissed Louisa. "You rest up, because you're going to be summoned and it's not easy to say no to my mother."

A renewed spark of hope flared in Louisa's heart. Of course, Christmas was too corny and the Judge couldn't know for certain that she'd have said yes last night, if he had asked. In front of his family, their friends, it would have been the most humiliating thing ever. Better to speak privately of life-changing issues liked marriage, without the distractions of a major holiday. "I hope it involves Amberlyn's kids. Chloe had the best time with Emma last night."

"You picked up on her subtle hints, I see," the Judge said. "My brother-in-law is quite the patron of the arts and they're tired of talking about horses. That makes you the perfect guest. You turn to one side and it's all things equine. Turn the other way and it's all Degas and Picasso with not a horse in sight."

"Would you like me to paint in a horse somewhere in your portrait?"

"Wouldn't that be funny? It would have to be a 'Where's Waldo' horse, and everyone could stand in my chambers for hours, trying to find it. That'd keep some of those infantile prosecutors quiet for a little while."

The bitter cold morning had morphed into a cold afternoon. Louisa stood in the open doorway, waving as the Judge's big Suburban stopped at the end of the driveway to let a car pass on the road. She couldn't just sit around, analyzing the man's every word and gesture, seeking clues to his intentions. This jumping to conclusions was causing too much stress, and a sleepless night had been evidence enough that she wasn't doing her health any favors by obsessing. There was still time before her father arrived, a good week at least for the Judge to propose.

"Toilet," the tin-voiced communicator announced behind her. Louisa gasped, startled out of her musings.

"That's my best Christmas gift ever, sweetie," she said. "You haven't wet a diaper since September."

"Yes," the communicator said. There was an unquestionable sparkle in Chloe's eye, a happy smile that Louisa had seen the night before. The child loved socializing, she enjoyed company, and here they were, just the two of them. They would make their own celebration, take the time to be together without horses or lovers or life's problems getting in the way.

"You know what? Good hard work deserves a good reward. Let's go riding after lunch, you and me."

With the holiday, none of the stable hands were around to lift Chloe up after Louisa had mounted Bonesapart. She dragged out the card table and butted it firmly against a stall, then saddled the horse and led it to the table. Praying that Chloe could keep her balance for half a minute, Louisa deposited her onto the table, lifted herself into the saddle and then used her knees to steady the old gelding while she added the extra weight of an undersized child.

At first, she kept Bonesapart at a slow walk as they rode out of the barn. Louisa held Chloe tight, squeezing the little flak jacket that Cecil had sent as a Christmas gift. He as much as admitted he had been wrong to gallop around like a maniac, and the padded vest was proof. Even the riders at the track wore them when they exercised the horses, and he of all people should have known better. Trying to make good, Louisa knew, to express a little remorse when he didn't have all that much regret.

The latch on the paddock gate was high, made to be accessible to a rider on horseback, and Louisa closed the gate behind them even though there were no other horses grazing there. Hugging Chloe as close as she could, a firm grip on the reins, Louisa shot her heels into Bonesapart's flanks and felt the sudden rush of the cold wind on her cheeks. Under her riding helmet her ears tingled but she kept going, kicking at the horse while digging her left knee into his side, to make him run in a circle. Full out, as fast as the retired bag of bones could run, they raced around the paddock until Louisa heard the slight wheeze of a winded animal. Her legs were tired, her back aching from the tension of hanging on to her daughter while they did something dangerous and a little bit stupid.

Yet it had been exhilarating, to take a chance, to grab risk and hold it close to her heart and not consider the consequences. In all honesty, it had felt good to go fast, contemplating the difference between giving birth and giving life. They were alive, mother and daughter, hearts beating fast, blood flowing. Really alive, not just living.

Slow, at an easy walk, Bonesapart sucked wind on the way back to the barn. Chloe helped her mother rub down the horse and fill the trough with fresh alfalfa. The child's grip was unsure but she tried her hardest to hold an apple up to Bonesapart's mouth without getting nipped as he bit the fruit in half with one bite. Only when Louisa removed the flak jacket and helmet in the tack room did she realize that Chloe was buzzing with the same excitement she had shown after Cecil took her for a mad gallop. This time, though, there was no temper tantrum when it was over.

"We better call Cecil and thank him for the safety gear," Louisa said. In reply, Chloe took her hand, ready to be led to the house and a phone. "Bath first. We're so stinky that Cecil will smell us all the way down in Carencro."

After a bubble bath to wash away the horse smell, Louisa was at loose ends. She stared at the contact list on her phone for a minute, wondering if she should call the Judge but then decided better of it. He had been there a few hours ago, and she didn't want to seem desperate. Instead, she called Hal and recorded her holiday greetings after the beep. Her brother's family used to stay at home, when the kids were small, but they were older now and didn't pitch fits when they had to leave their new toys behind to go to Grandma's house. Maybe Hal had taken them to Costa Rica for the holiday, like he had talked about last summer. Maybe he just wasn't going to talk to her, even if it was Christmas.

Going through the motions, Louisa called Daryl and used a happy, full-of-holiday-cheer kind of voice to wish Daryl and her husband a very merry Christmas. Hope all is well, she added, and then other words tumbled out, sentences that arose from habit. "Give me a call when you get a chance," Louisa said. Before she said anything more that she would regret, she ended the call. She should have called back, to add holiday greetings for their father, but she just couldn't make her fingers push the button on the phone.

Some Disney princess or other was cavorting on the television screen. The little family shared a music-laced cartoon with Chloe snuggled in her mother's lap, and Louisa was grateful for Amy's well-timed call, making her escape from the preposterous, animated, happily-ever-after. More pleasant to consider antiquing in Mays Lick over the long weekend, with the rest of the days filled out with spontaneity and whimsy. Her working life was regimented, and making a point of doing things on the spur of the moment would do her good. She needed some unstructured time for a change, to break out of a daily grind that might grind her down if she wasn't careful.

The movie ended and Chloe was hungry, or possibly just bored but she didn't have a button for that emotion. Louisa made a paste with some cookies and milk, sat Chloe in a chair and let her try to feed herself, and to hell with worrying about the mess. Life was too short to worry about clots of cookie or dribbles of food adhering to every flat surface. Miss K parked her little white self under the table, pouncing on every spill and licking up every last crumb, eating more than Chloe no doubt, while Chloe wore herself out with effort. The child would sleep well after such a hard day and Louisa could retire to her studio without keeping an ear so tightly tuned to the baby monitor. She would clean up a little, maybe stretch some canvasses in anticipation of a visit from her muse. Just another weekday, just another night like all the others. Somehow, Louisa couldn't seem to convince herself, no matter how often she repeated it.

With a mountain of slop growing on the table, Louisa sat down to call Cecil, to thank him for Chloe's gift. She considered rubbing it in, about the safety vest given after the fact, and how useful it had been, but then she recalled how mad she had been when Cecil was the one doing the riding and it was too hypocritical to bring it up. Five rings, six rings, no answer, and finally his voice mail kicked in. Even Cecil wasn't talking to her, too busy perhaps with his work or more likely too busy with his family. Louisa left a short message, thanks and Merry Christmas. Behind her eyelids she watched a scene play out, the Surettes gathered in a house too small to hold them all, filled with laughter and voices raised in argument. The clatter of dishes in the kitchen was like music, the women preparing a grand meal like an elaborate dance.

Louisa's own kitchen was empty, cavernous in its unoccupied space. She dug around in the freezer and found the plastic cartons that Mrs. Surette had given her to take home, packed with left-over turducken and candied yams, green beans almondine and cornbread stuffing. Here was the beggar's banquet, a feast recreated in flavors but not in mood or setting. All she had was the makings of a party, without the guests, but it was better than nothing at all.

"Little girl, you need a shower," Louisa said. In response, Chloe smeared cookie across her cheek, managing to reach her mouth before dropping the blob on her fingers. Too early for dinner, especially after an appetite-breaking snack; too early to sit around like a couple of potatoes on the couch. "Let's get dressed up and go into town. We can look in the windows and there won't be anyone taller than you standing in the way."

Arms uplifted signaled agreement with the plan. She was fine through a bath and a brisk toweling. She had second thoughts when Louisa turned on the hair dryer, its high-pitched whine hurting Chloe's ears, but an assurance that beauty required such efforts got them through the ordeal. Louisa considered the black velvet dress but it was too cold a day to walk with legs exposed. Chloe pulled out a pair of old jeans but everyday clothes would not do. They would wear trousers instead, dressy but practical, with turtlenecks and sweaters to provide layers of warmth. To complete Chloe's ensemble, Louisa bundled her up in the sparkly pink hat, scarf and mittens that matched Miss K's rhinestone-studded pink collar. For fun, she applied a touch of lip gloss, a gesture that put a glow in Chloe's eyes. They would promenade in style.

*****

The Shop-n-Save was closed; the Dollar Store was locked up. Even the Catholic Church was dark, services concluded for the day. Louisa turned her eyes back to the road, aware that she had forgotten about church even though the Patch family never, ever missed Christmas or Easter. What had she done instead but wait in vain, like a poor child waiting for Santa to come when Santa wasn't real. Better if she'd gone to church instead, and asked God to give the Judge a good hard shake to wake him up and get him moving forward.

Renovated antebellum homes, once the residences of prominent local citizens, were now law offices that perched at the edge of the Main Street business district. Heavy oak doors sported evergreen wreaths, a concession to the non-secular or an attempt to reproduce the Victorian look that the city fathers worked so hard to restore. "Grandma always had to have real evergreen wreaths, not the fake ones," Louisa said to Chloe. "And once she put evergreen boughs on the fireplace mantel and Grandpa nearly set the house on fire when he lit his Yule log." Smiles, laughter, all for Chloe's benefit. Remembering how it used to be made Louisa realize that this Christmas was a failure, and it was all Grigor's fault.

Someone was using the drive-up ATM at the bank, proving that the need for cash never took a day off. The roof rack of the SUV was twined with garland decked out with red ribbons, the sign of a person who had a compulsion to decorate. To see who was that obsessed with lily-gilding, Louisa checked out the driver and thought that she saw Danielle of the perpetual tan, but she was past the bank before she could get a better look and the buildings blocked her view. There was little use for money on a day when all the stores were closed. Louisa chuckled as she described the scene to Chloe. Miss K, nose pressed to the passenger side window, wagged her tail in agreement.

Plenty of parking was available up and down Main Street. Louisa pulled in near the furniture store, where an elegantly attired Christmas tree flashed for no one but the Patch ladies. They paused to admire the sight of colored lights, twinkling garland and molded plastic ornaments that showed signs of wear. Walking down the sidewalk, they stopped in front of the appliance store to wave back to the mechanical Santa whose arm wagged as his entire body wobbled through a quarter-turn and then wobbled back, beckoning customers who would find the front doors locked. Transfixed by the plastic figure, Chloe banged on the window to let Santa know that she wasn't afraid of him anymore. Despite her new-found bravado, she wrapped an arm around Louisa's neck. "You're growing up, aren't you?" Louisa asked. She hugged her daughter close, to hold the moment that was already passing.

They stopped for a long, lingering look at Avery's windows, packed with bits of a by-gone era's idea of proper holiday decor. As much as she admired the antique ornaments, the hand-blown glass balls were well beyond Louisa's financial reach. The looking was free, of course, which was why she planned to come back in a few days with Amy, to browse while sweating out Chloe's attempts to navigate the tight aisles. It was part of her balancing act, to behave as if Chloe were like any other girl, while remaining vigilant because she wasn't like other eight-year-old girls who were able to go shopping with their mothers without breaking things. When they came here with Amy in a week's time, they would sit at the soda fountain and Louisa would pretend that Chloe could drink a milkshake, aware of the very real danger of choking and inhalation pneumonia while keeping the knowledge to herself.

On they went, to see what the neighboring gift shop had to offer in its cluttered, very Victorian collection of non-essentials. Chloe was captivated by the shiny glass angels hanging in the tree, spinning in lazy circles on motorized hangers. Louisa looked up the street, to see how far they might go, and spotted a new painting in the window of the art gallery. It replaced her own work that sold in days, an impression of horses leaving the starting gate at Keeneland. Her painting was equivalent to a Renoir in comparison to the waste of paint that took its place, and helped to explain why she got her requested price. She needed every dime of it, too, with profits going to Christmas bonuses for her stable hands, an attempt to buy their loyalty for another year so she wouldn't have to deal with training a new employee.

Chloe's nose was against the glass, her eyes agog as she watched the Hallmark ornaments in all their flurry of activity. A squirrel slid down a banister, a bonfire glowed as a woodsman chopped. A cobbler cobbled, skaters danced, and it was all too much for Louisa in her weary frame of mind. She leaned her back against the window and told Chloe that Modigliani's was still urging diners to book their New Year's Eve reservations early. She didn't have any trouble getting a table for their party of three, but not many people liked to eat at five-thirty when they were going to party far into the night. What remained of her profit from the oil painting was going to pay for that big splurge at the expensive restaurant, to bring in a new year with good food and a firm hope that the Judge would come through before another year was over.

The thin leather of her dress flats didn't do much to keep her feet warm. Louisa flexed her toes to get the circulation back and decided they'd had enough window-shopping for one night. Chloe took exception to the tug on her arm and her protest grew louder as Louisa pulled her away. It didn't take much for the little girl to lose her balance and she began to wobble, which made Louisa stumble and drop to one knee in an effort to keep Chloe from hitting the sidewalk. The headlights of an SUV glared harshly on the shop window and Louisa looked up, to see Danielle's mother gawking at her from the passenger seat. Making the best of it, Louisa lifted her hand in a friendly salute, a royal wave that exposed her shiny new watch to the glint of the street light overhead. In the back seat, Gayne Goshirian returned the wave. The man sitting to her right disappeared like a puff of smoke.

"We better get home, sweetie," Louisa said. A bad case of Grigor-itis had her seeing things. She was so furious at him about wrecking Christmas, a head full of vengeance, and she wanted more than anything to confront him. Her desire was getting translated into hallucinations, not unlike her experience at the Ride On fundraiser.

Louisa started up the truck and turned on the heater, scrolling through the contact list on her phone while waiting for the engine to warm up. Her parents' old number was still there. She couldn't erase it, not as readily as Daryl and Hal had erased the past when they cleared out the house and shut off the phone and dragged their father away. If she dialed it now, she might get a message that the number was no longer in service, which pretty much described the condition of the Patch family. Not in service. Disconnected. She'd give anything to be able to talk to her mother, to ask for the recipe for chestnut stuffing or to find out if a man giving a woman a watch for Christmas was significant of anything. Calling Daryl was not the best idea, considering how gloomy Louisa was feeling.

The horses were stabled by the time she got back to the farm, all the work done by men who were expressing their gratitude for their bonus. All that was left to do was pop containers into the microwave and watch them spin. Louisa set the table with Spode china, holding fast to a tradition that she realized she had to carry on for Chloe's sake. Holiday glasses, sterling silver cutlery, it was all there on the painted meadow in the kitchen. With every bite, as Louisa spoke of their time in Carencro, the child's head swiveled as if she was searching for the people who had made the food. The tastes were associated with socializing, with playing and fun, but these were the remainders of a good day, warmed up to be edible but not as tasty as the fresh version.

She let Chloe draw at the kitchen table while she washed the dishes, and then decided that they should visit the horses to give them apples for Christmas. It wasn't a simple matter of throwing on boots and coats to walk out to the barn, not when Chloe had to wear the hat and scarf that matched Miss K's collar. Louisa checked the clock, wishing that the hours had flown by at record speed and it was time for bed, but the day wasn't even close to being done.

"Merry Christmas, Bonesapart," Louisa said. She helped Chloe hold out an apple in her open palm. After the gelding had inhaled the gift, Chloe touched its long nose in her version of an affectionate petting. "Thanks for the run this morning. We'll do it again as soon as your old legs have recovered."

Lula May was waiting, her neck stretched over the half-door in an attempt to reach the bucket of apples before one was offered. "Do you miss Blue Moon, old girl?" Louisa asked. Did horses ever get lonely? Boxed up in their little compartments, did they long for the interactions of the paddock and the company of the other brood mares? The way that Lula May dropped her head so that Chloe could pet the horse's nose suggested something similar to a welcome. "So you know what it's like to see the kids grow up and move on. Am I really luckier that I don't have to go through that?"

They continued down the aisle, to check on the mares who were expected to foal at the end of January, their bellies distended with future champions or slow-footed plugs. Louisa made a special point of looking in on Richard's horses, since she would see him at the yearling sale and she wanted to have some information for him, a few words that showed she was doing a superb job and was on top of her game. In addition to the mares were the yearlings who deserved an apple, a farewell present since they were about to go off to new homes where men like Cecil would put them to work, teaching them how to obey the jockey's command. "Horse school starts soon, and even you'll be going back to school," Louisa said to Chloe.

Christmas story books and carols playing in the background filled up the rest of the evening. Once Chloe was in bed, Louisa went to work, checking e-mails and returning messages from clients. Owners wanted updates, they wanted the vet's reports, they wanted her prognostications about the yearling sale. Most important of all were the clients who wanted her to arrange stud service for their mares, the horses that represented repeat business.

One e-mail stood out from the rest, a reminder that reminded her of something else. Harold would have to stop at the outpatient clinic one week prior to surgery for routine blood work. Louisa still hadn't told the Judge about the new arrangements, about giving her room to her father and sharing Chloe's space. How would she break the news if His Honor failed to pop the question before then?

SIXTEEN

The summons came as advertised, with a call from Evelyn that left no room for refusal. With Chloe in tow, Louisa returned to the Victorian confection on Middletown Road. Winding through acres of horse country, the truck's cab was filled with Vern Gosden and Patsy Cline and sad tales of love lost. Blue Moon of Kentucky reminded Louisa of her piece of the racing world, the costs still unknown and the outcome of Blue Moon's training undetermined. Her mind drifted, numbers tumbled in her head and she wondered if Cecil was as infallible as his reputation made him out to be. The yearling sale was coming up, the auction that would have provided her with enough money to buy another mare and take the next step in her enterprise. She wasn't getting any younger, and here she had gone and given up a full year of progress without a single guarantee. What if, she asked herself over and over as the telephone poles flashed by the window. What if, what if.

Yes, no, dog woof, cat meow, hungry, thirsty; Chloe pushed the buttons as if she was making sentences from a few words that had no connection. "Honey, don't do that if you don't mean it," Louisa said. She took the communicator and slid it down to the floor. "Let's save the battery for Mrs. Cawthon's house. You wouldn't want it to die when you were in the middle of playing with Emma, would you?"

A cluster of horses stood in a field, huddled for warmth under their heavy blankets. Louisa pointed them out to distract her daughter; here a horse, there a horse, everywhere a horse, horse; more horses than people in Bourbon County. Crazy. Crazy for being so lonely; Louisa sang along with Patsy Cline. The constant silence, the one-sided conversations, had become intolerable in the past five minutes. Even if she had to drive through a blizzard that afternoon, Louisa would have taken to the road, if only to be with other people.

The Christmas cheer was still posted at the front gate and scattered about the front porch, which looked different in daylight. The period detail was more obvious, of course, but it was the clusters of outbuildings that framed the picture and gave it depth. Tucked well off the road, far from prying eyes, the place was like an island surrounded by acres of land, a Currier and Ives print of a cozy farm. Louisa pulled up behind the garage, in what must have once been the carriage shed. In the distance, she could see Amberlyn and David riding horses across open ground.

One minute, Evelyn was opening the door, and the next minute she was pushing Louisa out of the door. "You've never seen my stables," she said. "Judge, why don't you show Louisa around and I'm sure Chloe would rather be with Emma than with us old folks. Go on now, there's time before lunch and someone has to get Amberlyn's attention or she'll ride to Lexington and back."

The Judge touched Louisa's elbow to steer her towards the barn; in response, she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and made small talk. She showed him her new watch and boasted of using the stopwatch that very morning, to clock a couple of yearlings who raced a car that happened to be passing.

"You weren't expecting something better, were you?" the Judge asked. "I mean, an oil portrait and all."

"I wasn't expecting anything," she said. "I wanted to paint you. If I was looking for payment, I'd have given you a price up front and sent a bill. You should know me well enough by now, I'm not the diamond encrusted Cartier type."

His head tilted so that he was looking at her from the corner of his eye, a devilish grin playing on his lips. "Sure are a different kind of lady than what I'm used to," he said. "Times like this, I think my mother might be right. We are too inbred around here."

"There sure are an awful lot of Bests in these parts," she said, aware that over half the residents in the county were named Best.

He was still laughing when they reached the gate that Amberlyn had conveniently left open. Cupping his hands, the Judge called out to his sister, "Mama says to come home right now or you'll get a whoopin'." To Louisa, he added, "Last time I told her that she rode her horse right up to the front door and would have trotted into the foyer if Daddy hadn't caught her."

The barn was decorated with a cupola that was crowned with a racing horse wind vane, the sort of thing that dotted just about every building in the state of Kentucky. Three quarter horses called the place home, cared for by a stable hand who was as tiny as a jockey. David helped him remove the saddles and tack, while Amberlyn gave Louisa the full tour. The tack room was as spotless as a hospital operating room.

Side by side, their feet crunched along the gravel walk, with Amberlyn pointing out the sights along the way back to the house. Over there was the big oak tree where the little Cawthons had made forts and castles; back behind the equipment barn was where Boyce got his hide tanned after sassing his mother. The idyllic childhood resembled Louisa's own upbringing, surrounded by intellectuals and safely cushioned by enough money to provide a few luxuries. No anxieties about paying bills, no worries about sick animals; it was no wonder that Amberlyn returned to such serenity. Louisa had lost that touchstone, sold off to strangers, with only a portrait of Queen Elizabeth II to remind her of better times. She'd have her father back, at least, but that presented a whole new set of difficulties.

"Come on up with me while I change," Amberlyn said. "We can talk about our men without them hearing us."

The main staircase swept up to the second floor in a graceful curve of master carpentry. The treads were slightly bowed, as if the scuffling of thousands of feet had worn down the wood. A long hallway ran the length of the upper floor, ending at a large window that was festooned with swags of holly, ivy and stiff red velvet ribbons. A fully decorated Christmas tree wouldn't be out of place in every bedroom, and it wouldn't be surprising to find the bathrooms outfitted to the limits of good taste in holiday finery.

Every piece of furniture in the bedroom was an antique or an excellent reproduction. The heavy mahogany frame of the sleigh bed had presence, imposing and unmovable, in contrast to the lightness of the lace-trimmed linens. Amberlyn flopped onto the mattress and peeled off her wool stockings. "God, I do miss riding. If only the financial world had discovered Colmar instead of Los Angeles."

"You'd leave L.A. and all that sunshine for this?" Louise asked. That wasn't the scenario that the Judge had presented when he'd spoken of his sister's flight from a rural backwater and a controlling mother.

Amberlyn rifled through the clothes that were hanging in the wardrobe. "If I could take a few things with me. Like the Getty Museum, the symphony, the theaters." She found a pair of tailored trousers and held them against her hips, checking the image in the wardrobe's mirror. "The stores. The weather. It's just so unfair that little old me can't have it all."

The excitement of the big city had its place, but a girl who had been raised in horse country missed the open land, the horizon that stretched for miles, the trees and fences. She led a peripatetic life as the wife of a financial wizard, tagging along behind a husband who was chasing the next promotion and the bigger salary. Amberlyn expressed grief, a sense of loss, and Louisa couldn't believe that she had abandoned Kentucky to escape from her mother's badgering.

"What about your mother?" Louisa asked. "Are you glad to have some miles between you two?"

"Because Mama's the queen bee and you can't have two queens in the hive?" Amberlyn laughed. "I've got my own hive and we sure don't need all that many miles between us. You must miss your own mama something fierce."

"Sometimes. But your mother's been so good to me," Louisa said. The Josh-shaped wedge that split mother and daughter apart had been extracted too late to heal the rift, followed by a Grigor-shaped pile of shit to infect an open wound. "She's taken me under her wing, made introductions. Thanks to her, I'm a part of Colmar, like I've been here forever."

"All the more reason for you to stay. You're one of us." Amberlyn's head popped out of the neck of a cashmere turtleneck. "You want to see Boyce's high school yearbook picture?"

Fifteen years fell away when Amberlyn opened the volume with embossed gold lettering. Page after page of pimple-faced teens, girls with big hair and braces, were hysterically funny to a pair of giggly girls. Not ashamed, Amberlyn reached up to the shelf and pulled out her own awkward history, revealing a sophomore beauty queen with a bucket of sculpting gel in her hair.

"Didn't turn out half bad, considering," she said as she presented an image of that same girl as a graduating senior. She could have been Miss Kentucky, if Miss Kentucky was a devotee of Nirvana.

"Who is this person?" Louisa asked. The baggy flannel shirt was in startling contrast to the present-day outfit of a twin set and pearls.

"A girl who thought that moving to California was just about the most wonderful thing to ever happen in her entire life." Amberlyn sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on a pair of brightly patterned socks. "I do love it there, but I'm a country girl at heart."

"I think I am too, a country girl. But I didn't start out in the country."

"Boyce is country to his bone. Just won't admit it. And it doesn't help that Mama keeps trying to convince him to accept his fate."

"Like breeding horses for fun and no profit?"

"Exactly. And then you come along and he's all interested in hoofed animals." Amberlyn ran a brush through her hair, soft waves that had been a spiral perm in her high school era. "What really irks him is the fact that Mama's so often right. Like when I thought I should go to art school in San Francisco because I wanted to be a sculptor. Good Lord, I didn't have a lick of talent and didn't she try to talk me out of it? I wasted a whole year before I saw what she was looking at."

"Did she push your brother into law?"

"Encouraged him, but that was Daddy's doing. He had Boyce's future all lined up before that boy drew his first breath."

"He's a good judge, I think."

"Not as good a judge as he needs to be," Amberlyn said. "I'm starving. Let's go on down and get some lunch."

Keen to play the perfect hostess, Evelyn was more like a watch spring wound too tight. She had too much flounce and artificial cheer in her voice as she seated her guests, all of which drew an exaggerated eye-roll from the Judge. He poured the wine, asked David about some vineyard in Napa Valley, and managed to calm his mother through the tone of his voice. She stopped chattering like a magpie and turned her attention to some much-needed improvements for Bedford Farm.

With Billy Best planning on getting married soon, the two-room bunkhouse would be too small, but whether an addition or an entirely new building was needed became a topic of discussion. Louisa couldn't find the right place to insert her future needs, especially since she had a lot of explaining to do before she dove in.

"Doesn't it make all the sense in the world to build a handicapped-accessible house?" Evelyn asked.

The Judge mangled the chicken croquette and pushed peas around his plate. "No reason not to convert the living room into a bedroom and then add on a family room," he said.

"That doesn't make that old bunkhouse any bigger," Evelyn countered.

"I am not throwing money away on that farm, Mama, and that's the end of it," the Judge said. "I'm sure Billy Best would be just fine in a shiny new double-wide and that's nowhere near as expensive as your little pipe dream."

"Would it be all right if I had a slab poured for a trailer home?" Louisa offered. Now that she had the Judge's attention, she had no idea how to bring up her father's impending arrival. Something in the set of his shoulders told her this was not quite the right moment.

"I think you should build a new house," Amberlyn said, ignoring her husband's murmured appeal to mind her own business. "And you know what I think about all the rest, too."

Only siblings could trade poisonous barbs, where single words represented volumes of prose written over the years. Words like coward and immature and selfish were parried by accusations of meddling and ignorance of the situation, coded conversation that flew right over Louisa's head. She turned her attention to Chloe, who had finished eating long before everyone else and sat quietly, listening and watching as if it were all a live performance that was not particularly amusing. "Chicken" was thrown at the Judge while Louisa scrubbed at a spot of dried cheese sauce on her daughter's chin. "Y'all need new glasses, blind girl" was the final salvo that was answered with "A nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse." Evelyn turned her gaze down to her empty plate and asked Amberlyn if she might have some time to give Louisa a few decorating tips to make better use of the house's limited space. Maybe something could be done with nothing more than a new arrangement of the furniture. A slightly toxic atmosphere settled into the room by the time lunch was over.

"Boyce, honey, why don't you go give Louisa a hand?" Amberlyn suggested. His answer was a tightening in his jaw. "Time's running out."

He helped Chloe into her coat and twined the sparkly pink scarf around her neck before he held Louisa's coat for her. "You go on and make arrangements for the utilities and the concrete pad. No reason for you to pay for the trailer, either, not when it's going to be attached to my property."

"We can talk about it later," Louisa said. After her father was installed in the bedroom and she was bunking with her daughter in a most unromantic setting for a sexually active couple, they'd have plenty of talking to do then.

His shoulders slumped, as if she was dumping the weight of the world there. "If you won't be too busy," he said.

"I'm never too busy for you," she said. To lift his mood, she swayed her hips and leaned up against his chest, the sort of coquettish behavior that she associated with Danielle et al. "In between foals dropping, that work for you, Judge Cawthon?"

"Of course," he said, but he wasn't smiling. "Whenever you can fit me in."

SEVENTEEN

It was time for Plan B. Before the Judge came back from his fishing trip in Florida, Louisa had to figure out how she would break the news. He left in a very foul mood, not happy with the lack of attention and not happy that she wouldn't even consider anything outside of the Colmar School District for Chloe's education. There was nothing that the residential school in Philadelphia could do better, except to free up Louisa's days and nights, and being a mother didn't mean off-loading responsibilities. Meeting the cost of the tuition and board never entered into her refusal, and Judge didn't have to take offense when she turned down his offer to help her with expenses. Good intentions, but he didn't know Louisa well enough just yet to realize that she was not one to give up when the going got hard.

A small sedan rattled up the frozen driveway and Chloe made a dash for the door, stumbling and falling but picking herself up without a whimper. Amy flung open the door and yelled, "We're here."

Completely dazed, Harold stood in the doorway, looking confused until Louisa threw her arms around him and pulled him into the kitchen. "Did Amy come through or what?" she said. "Wasn't it nice of her to fly out with you so you didn't have to fly by yourself?"

"I left a note for Daryl," Amy said. "I kind of spirited him away in the middle of the day when no one was around."

"Do they leave you by yourself a lot, Daddy?" Louisa asked. His head turned, scanning the room, seeking something familiar. The trip had left him disoriented. "You'll have a few days to rest before the surgery, remember the cataract surgery?"

Suitcases, bottles of champagne, toys and the myriad collection of things that people carry along on life's journey were dumped into the living room, to be sorted out later. Amy bustled around the kitchen, putting on the kettle while Louisa set the table. Her father picked up the china teacup and related an anecdote about his mother and her punctuality when it came to afternoon tea. Like flipping a switch, he was back to his old self, full of self-deprecating wit and wry grins.

"How many more days until my operation?" he asked. It had been the touchstone of their many phone calls, the regular tally of days until the big day. Amy poured the tea while Louisa gave her father a run-down on the procedures and protocols that she would keep track of for him.

"All things considered, we had a good flight, didn't we, Professor?" Amy asked. "A very nice policeman at the airport brought him to the men's room and brought him back so he wouldn't get lost."

"With my bad vision, I was very much afraid I'd wander into the ladies'," Harold said. "Should we have waited for Daryl's young man before we boarded?"

"Nope," Louisa said. The very thought of Grigor having anything more to do with any of them was enough to get her blood boiling.

"Speaking of which, I used some connections to find out that Daryl doesn't have power of attorney," Amy said. "There's your out."

Studying her father's face, Louisa couldn't tell if he knew where he was or was just waiting for someone to come along and bring him to wherever he needed to be. She thought she knew what she was getting herself into, studying all the websites she could find, but like dealing with Chloe's limitations, every day was a learning experience, filled with the unexpected. The mares would start dropping foals any day and this wasn't the best time for further education, but there never was a best time and there was no point in waiting for it.

"My friend the banker says open a new account, transfer the funds, you as co-signer, or, you have him sign over power of attorney to you and there you go," Amy said. "No, no, don't thank me. I see you're stunned."

"Hal and Daryl would have me in court so fast," Louisa said.

"And? You make lover-boy explain where all the money went. All the "Cash to Grigor" checks," Amy said.

"He'll have a good answer," Louisa said. "He's too slick for me to ever get one over on him."

The man who would have the answers knew nothing about the state of Louisa's entanglements, and she preferred to keep the Judge in the dark. It was all so sordid, reflecting badly on her since she was related to Daryl the fool, and she wasn't going to let her sister's nonsense spoil things. Until she was Mrs. Judge Cawthon, socially unassailable, she would have to keep quiet and hope for the best.

*****

A tenuous line of communication opened. Maintaining her distance, Daryl sent brief e-mails, inquiring about their father's health and the length of time he needed for post-op recovery. The long-winded replies that Louisa sent were meant to hint at the fact that Harold wasn't going back to Chicago, not when the quality of life in Kentucky was unbeatable. The sheriff's office had the Professor in their Silver Alert database, a photo and description available to every patrolling officer in the event that the old man wandered off. The benefits of small town life were not to be discounted when dealing with the elderly.

She extolled the benefits of routine on a horse farm, where Harold found stability in the daily chore of grooming the mares. Within a week, he had settled in, and while he had a hard time remembering Junior and Cora's names, he recognized their faces. Best of all, he latched on to the portrait of the Queen that hung in the studio, and found solace in a corner that Louisa converted into a sort-of replica of his man cave in Durham. Every evening after Chloe was in bed, he retreated to the old armchair with an audio book and waited until Louisa finished her painting and told him it was time for bed. He listened to the same book over and over again, unable to recall what he'd heard the day before, and never noticed when Louisa downloaded a different one.

One of the first things Louisa did was set up a bank account, letting Harold choose the bank so he could retain a little independence. He selected the Woodley's firm because the building reminded him of the bank he knew from Durham. After the paperwork was signed, he engaged Mr. Woodley in conversation and Louisa thought it best to take Chloe outside before she grew bored and misbehaved. She was listening to the weather report on the car radio when Gayne strolled over, her hand on Harold's elbow.

"I'm certain he is my son-in-law," he said, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead.

"You just need to get used to your new eyeglasses, Professor," Gayne said. She tucked Harold into the passenger seat and then came around to Louisa. "Poor thing. You have your hands full."

"It's funny, but the first time I saw you, I almost thought you were my sister," Louisa said. "A slight resemblance."

"Don't you worry about it," Gayne said. "We had a nice little chat."

"He did take my money," Harold said. "I am not mistaken on that count."

"I'm sorry if he caused a fuss," Louisa said, dying of embarrassment. "My sister married the wrong man and it's been difficult."

"I've got me a man who's tangled up with someone who won't let go," Gayne said. "Your poor sister isn't alone in that department."

"Greg," Harold said. "Greg. Craig. Something or other."

Louisa turned the key in the ignition, thanked Gayne profusely, and then said she was looking forward to seeing her again at the Ride On board meeting. As she pulled out of the lot, she breathed a sigh of relief.

"She called him by name," Harold said. His fists clenched as he found that he couldn't remember what that name was, even though he'd heard it only minutes ago.

"Grigor can't be here, Daddy. He's hundreds of miles away," she said. It was the resemblance between Gayne and Daryl that triggered the confusion. With any luck, Harold would forget all about it by the time they got home.

Louisa had not considered the speed of the Colmar gossip chain when she first brought her father to town. Before she could break the news to the Judge he was in touch, the chill in his voice enough to freeze hell over as he asked if Louisa was doing her best to push him aside. After all, she'd promised to do less, not more, and if she wanted to be contrary, he couldn't think of a better way to show it. Several days of regular pleading and apologies and requests for understanding brought on a thaw, and he had to admit that his own bed was more comfortable than Louisa's worn out mattress.

"After the auction, can we sit down so I can explain why I had to do it?" she asked. In his studio corner, Harold struggled with a word search puzzle, a little disappointed that Aricept had not fully restored his cognitive abilities. Doing better wasn't quite enough for him and he tended to be a grump by seven o'clock. "It's a long story and I know if I'd talked to you before you would have helped me but it's so embarrassing."

"After the auction. After the foaling too?" Judge asked. "You know, if Chloe was at HMS in Philadelphia, you could manage better. Think about it, and we'll have this talk you're so eager to have."

There was nothing to think about, but Louisa agreed to consider all options. Taking care of her father was far more difficult than she had imagined, but the geriatric doctor had told her in no uncertain terms that the time might come when her father became combative and had to be locked up in a secure facility. That meant she only had a few years to enjoy what was left of him, and where was the point in sending Chloe away until then? Why should the child be denied the joys of living with her grandfather? With her head swimming in a sea of worry, Louisa headed off to Lexington with a trailer full of yearlings.

"I have my eye on a brood mare. In foal," Richard said when he found Louisa in the stable before the auction. His gaze was bewitching, a stark contrast to the attitude that the Judge had taken on lately.

"I know a fine boarding stable," Louisa said. She went for the light-hearted approach, to lift her spirits. Not only had the Judge complained mightily about her preoccupation with her father, but he was in a snit about his mother's syndicate and their colt. Of course, she could have called Cecil to get the scoop on the horse, but then she would have been on the phone for over an hour, distracted by a long-winded anecdote or bits of news about his brother the jockey. Her father could wander off and get himself kicked in the head by a horse in about that much time. Long, lazy conversations had to wait until Harold was in bed, sleeping, and Louisa couldn't be sitting on the phone at midnight.

Richard petted the nose of the yearling that Louisa was brushing. "You've yet to explain to me why you have a picture of the Queen in your studio," he said. Another one of those sultry looks and Louisa feared that her knees would melt and buckle.

"Celebrating my heritage?" she suggested.

"Speaking of heritage, is your father settling in?"

Professor Patch had been used as a handy excuse to avoid going to dinner with Richard a few days ago, when he arrived in Kentucky for the sale. One thing led to another, and before she could stop herself, she was reminiscing about summers at her grandmother's home. With his soothing voice, he teased personal information out of her, and then decided that he had to meet her father. Perhaps a chat with a fellow countryman would bring the old man some joy, a chance to turn his thoughts to the past. Louisa found it hard to deny that long-term memory was her father's great comfort when he was aware that current events failed to take hold in his brain. How could she entertain Richard, however, when she was too busy to give the Judge more than a couple of hours on a Saturday night?

"Off and on, he's doing fine. He gave up smoking, thank God, and I have to ration his scotch," she said. His heart was broken because he'd lost the ability to read, to balance his checkbook, to carry on a conversation without having to stop to recall the word that was on the tip of his tongue. Even a game of solitaire could confuse him and leave him dejected. Always, the horses were there to comfort him and he often drifted out of the studio to the barn, where the animals didn't need conversation to entice them to nuzzle the old man's palm. The act of curry combing was relaxing, taking him away from the notion that once he forgot that he couldn't remember, he wouldn't be so sad.

"Then he wouldn't mind my popping in this evening," Richard said. "If I can get the mare for my price I'll stop by to see her tucked safely in for the night. And I do want to see how the other mares are getting on. Should be foaling within the next few weeks, I believe."

The last time a man had been around the stables when mares were foaling had been a life-changing event. She had to put some serious effort into the relationship, to carve out time to be with the Judge, but where were the hours to be found? Her busiest season was coming up, and it wasn't likely that he'd be interested in a date spent sitting in a barn with a bunch of pregnant mares.

Arriving back home after a long day of not-so-great sales, Louisa was relieved to find the house still standing, her father not dead, and Chloe stuffed with chocolate pudding before dinner. Things weren't as dire as she imagined, and she entertained the possibility that Harold could be trusted to mind Chloe for a few hours some night. Once the child was in bed, she was no trouble at all, and Harold could be content in front of a television tuned to any news network. Being the guardian of a senile adult and a brain-damaged child didn't have to mean the end of Louisa's social and sexual life.

Thanks to Cecil, she had a brilliant excuse for calling the Judge, but the new video of the colts in training was better suited to viewing by the whole syndicate, and not just the man who had put himself in charge. She explained that to the Judge when she finally got in touch with him. It took some doing, to perk up his mood when he was determined to be unpleasant, but he finally agreed to reinstate their Saturday night standing date. While chicken fingers whirled in the blender, Louisa flirted, pulling the Judge back into her sphere of influence. She was agreeable, but he was right. Two people couldn't build a relationship if they never spent time together, and Louisa simply had to put in the time.

Life had taken a turn for the better, or so Louisa told herself. Romance was back on track, Chloe had learned how to spell 'dog' at school, and Harold was having a very lucid evening. He managed to entertain Richard with recollections of his childhood while Louisa stabled the mare, and when they ended up in the studio, Harold had no trouble remembering why he brought the Queen's portrait with him when he emigrated, never to return. After a second scotch, Richard confessed that he sometimes acted as an agent for Her Majesty but didn't want anyone to know or the prices would skyrocket under the assumption that money was no object for a woman who was, in reality, rather tight-fisted. Leaving the gentlemen to their inebriated confidences, Louisa joined Chloe for the evening dog walk. As if he knew exactly when there was time to chat, Cecil called.

"You see, on the video, you notice something different about that bon rien colt?" Cecil asked.

"I didn't watch it yet," Louisa said. She had better things to do than sit around with Cecil's home movies. "Sale this week, remember?"

He switched gears and told her about the races at Santa Anita where he was trying out some three-year-olds. A four-year-old was running in the Sunshine Million in another week and his brother was riding, a sure winner, and would Louisa care to place a wager. Cecil trusted her to pay him back, knew she was good for it, but his conversation had a disconnected air, like he was talking around something that he didn't know how to bring up. She heard her father calling to her, a question about the studio, and she tried to end the conversation.

"Important client," she said by way of explanation. "Checking up on his mares. And delivered another one today, in fact. No more room at the inn around here."

"Tonight, you can watch the video, okay?" he said. "Call me so we can...don't matter what time, you go on and wake me up if you have to."

"What's so important?"

"My reputation is good, I think, and when I see a thing, I say so," Cecil said. "None of my business if an owner wants to do what they want to do, no?"

"Are you talking about our syndicate partner? Is there a problem with how you're training Blue Moon?"

"I was thinking about Chloe today, when I was wondering about the why," he said. "Her face, Weezie, always with the look of pure innocence. She's untouched by troubles, not like us, no, she's an icon of all that's good and not afraid. Then I think, how peaceful to be with her when your world is filled with bad men doing bad things. Can't buy such peace, no, chère. But someone pays the cost."

"Look, I really have to go. Let me finish up with this client, get Chloe to bed, and I'll look at the video."

"I wait a long time for you, Weezie," he said. "But how much longer, maybe I'm the fool, me. Tell you true, I can't wait forever."

"As soon as I watch it, I'll call, and it won't be that late."

"I've got an extra two hours," he said with a laugh. "California time."

By planting a seed of curiosity in her brain, Cecil made sure that Louisa could think of nothing else. She gave Richard a tour of the studio, which took all of ten minutes, while her mind processed the Surette mystery. With half an ear, she listened to her father explain how much he enjoyed coming to the studio, with the Queen's portrait providing a spot of the familiar. He sometimes saw people he thought he recognized, but he found the uncertainty upsetting. To be rude to a friend was unbearable, yet he was no longer confident about identities, and feared being seen as a madman if he randomly greeted everyone who passed him. It was the first time that Harold spoke openly of how difficult his existence had become, and Louisa admired him for his determination to adapt, a battle that he fought every day.

No matter that Harold knew next to nothing about horses. Louisa realized she had to include him more in her daily routines, with the dull sameness of the average day helping him to cope better by avoiding the new. When she sat down with her laptop and opened Cecil's message that evening, she used the opportunity to explain the training process to her father. "That's Mark, that's Cecil's brother," she said. "Remember Cecil? Anyway, they make the horse run in this round pen so that they can control its movements. No corners to back into."

Harold watched with rapt attention, laughing when Mark swore at Blue Moon for trying to kick him. Some of Cecil's nephews came into the picture, standing on the fence rails to watch the colt run in a circle. The race was a short one, since Blue Moon was still too young for heavy workouts. He was led out by one of Mark's boys and then the Cawthon syndicate colt was led in. Louisa studied the animal closely, as she had focused on Blue Moon earlier, to see what Cecil was rambling on about. The second colt went through the same steps as Blue Moon, baby steps for growing horses, but as far as she could judge, both animals were exactly alike. A circuit around the pen at top speed, camera zooming in on the horse after it stopped running, and Louisa's jaw dropped in horror.

"Why does this horse seem to, I don't know, is it swallowing?" Harold asked.

"Oh, Daddy, he's a bleeder," Louisa said. A bleeder who would never be a champion, a bleeder whose lungs would hemorrhage every time it ran hard. The condition wasn't fatal, and all horses were known to bleed a little because their lungs went through a tremendous strain during a race, but bleeders couldn't make fast time in a mile and a half stretch.

"I never knew that horses were susceptible to hemophilia," he said. "Disastrous consequences. The demise of the Russian royal family. Easily traced to a single genetic mutation."

Harold continued on, delivering a portion of some old college lecture if Louisa had to guess, the words so deeply imprinted on his brain that even dementia couldn't jar them loose. She replayed the end of the video, pausing to get a good look at the colt's snout, the close-up provided for her analysis. What did it mean, though, had Cecil screwed up, not giving the Judge and Evelyn a chance to unload the horse at the yearling sale? Her relationship with the Judge was already fraying at the edges, and to break this kind of bad news to him would surely cause a rift. After all, she was the one who introduced Cecil to the syndicate and some of the fault would lie with her. And it was very expensive fault, considering the fact that the Cawthon colt was unlikely to earn back its keep, no matter how many races it ran.

"Not hemophilia, Daddy," Louisa said, her eyes glued to the fuzzy image of a worthless animal. "It's called exercise induced pulmonary hemorrhage. The horse only bleeds if it runs hard, really hard."

"Isn't that what they're bred for, to run hard and fast?"

"Yes, exactly. It's a genetic problem. Evelyn should have caught it if she checked the bloodlines back far enough. Or someone sold her a bill of goods."

"Will I be going home now?"

"This is home, Daddy. You're still recovering from your cataract surgery."

He nodded, to acknowledge a recalled conversation that had slipped his mind. The tea was cold and he declined a fresh cup, his shoulders sagging in a way that suggested he was feeling the sting of his infirmity. Just as Louisa was lifted up by his ability to communicate with Richard in his usual style, so too had her father thought for a moment that he wasn't getting senile after all. The truth always had a way of inserting itself into unwanted places, and faced with reality, Harold retreated to the living room, where televised news helped him keep track of the day, the month, and the year.

The phone rang four times before Cecil picked up, the raucous sounds of a party in the background. "Don't you dare stick me with being the messenger of bad news," she said.

"What? You got bad news?" he said. She could hear his muffled voice call for quiet, followed by the sound of a door closing.

"No, you're the one with bad news," Louisa said.

"My brother the jockey is getting married," Cecil said. "You think it's bad, huh? My sisters, they're not so sure either."

"Tell the happy couple congratulations from me," Louisa said. Let Cecil make fun, but Louisa liked P'tit Paul and admired his ability to make something of himself, despite some severe learning disabilities. The poor man might not be much of a scholar, but he knew horses and he had earned the respect of the racing community. He earned the admiration of the backstretch groupies as well.

"You'll go to the wedding, you and ma petite pischouette?"

"Sure, yeah, send me an invitation," Louisa said. "The Cawthon horse is a bleeder, isn't he?"

"This Judge you think is so special, c'est sa couillon," Cecil said. "I called him three times, Weezie, three times. Sell the yearling, I say, someone will buy him to race on short courses. No Derby winner, this colt, I explain this to him real clear."

"Maybe the syndicate's satisfied to race him on the local circuit and pick up the smaller purses," Louisa said.

"You want me to waste my time training an animal that won't succeed? I train the top horses, not the dog food on legs."

"So you want me to tell him you quit?"

"No, for his mother's sake, I don't quit. He hate her or something? Want her to throw away all her money?"

"Of course not. Do you want me to ask him why he's hanging on to a bad horse?"

"I thought maybe you know already. He never says a word to you about the talks we had?"

"Why should he? It isn't anything to do with me."

"Ca c'est bon. No confidences, no?"

Cecil tended to revert to his childhood patois when he was stressed, and Louisa had no way of knowing if he was worried about losing his sterling reputation or concerned with Blue Moon's prospects. "How's our horse doing?" she asked.

A pause and a snort had Louisa on full alert. Things were not flowing as smoothly as Cecil had led her to expect. "The partner, I'm not so sure about him."

"He's not pulling out, is he?" Where in God's name would they ever get the money to finance the venture? Even if Cecil never asked for a penny in compensation for the training, there was the cost of feeding and housing an animal that ate very well and very expensively.

"Can't be trusted, no. Ask him to do one thing and he's doing something else." Cecil mumbled in French, more words that Louisa couldn't interpret. "He pays the bills, on time, no questions. Not money I mean, chère. A thing more important than money."

"What do you mean, then?"

"Some men don't see past the end of their bibitte, you know?"

The sound of the engagement party crashed down the line, inebriated voices paired with loud zydeco music. Cecil's brother hollered into the phone that Louisa would be invited to the wedding and if she didn't come, the entire Surette clan would drag her out of Kentucky. "We all make le mariage," he said, and might have added something to it but Cecil snatched the phone away and changed the subject.

By the time the call ended, Harold was asleep on the couch with the television droning on with the news of the day. She guided him up the stairs, her mind puzzling over the Cawthon syndicate. After looking in on Chloe she scratched Miss K behind the ears and tried to figure out if the group was more interested in a tax write-off than a champion thoroughbred, but all the wondering in the world would never answer the question. Why wait until Saturday night, when she'd have the Judge's attention? Who wanted to talk business over a romantic dinner, one that was designed to reignite the spark and put the relationship back on firm footing? All she had to do was wait for morning and pick up the phone and ask him.

EIGHTEEN

Funny how they were so in sync that the Judge wanted to see her, too, before Saturday. He was sorry that they had to meet in his chambers, but it was better than nothing and Louisa understood what it meant to be pressed for time. Business casual seemed appropriate for early afternoon, tailored wool trousers paired with a collared shirt and set off with a chunky necklace. As she passed through the metal detector she glanced at the ring finger of her left hand, picturing a small diamond set into a thin gold band. She lifted her purse from the x-ray machine belt and took another look, to imagine something more gaudy, more showy. Any size stone would get in the way when she was working with the mares. A big rock would be fine, in that case.

The Judge's bailiff was in a good mood, full of chatter that he had to share with Louisa before she could get close enough to the chamber doors to knock. It must have been the Judge who told him that Louisa was involved in the therapeutic riding program that Gayne Goshirian was always asking everyone to donate to. He had a niece with Down's syndrome, would she qualify, would it cost much? It wasted a good ten minutes, explaining the theory behind the association and reassuring him that only the most passive horses were used by the handicapped riders. Her own father had found some benefit as well, handling some very tame animals and finding respite from his fears of growing ever more dependent on his children. Louisa checked her watch twice before the bailiff got the idea that she had an appointment to keep and the school day ended at half-past three, even if Louisa was running late.

The Judge was seated at his desk behind stacks of files, tie loose and shirt tails hanging. His kiss was flavored with mouthwash and hints of stale coffee, while a cloud of men's deodorant lingered around his head, scenting the room. Louisa almost wanted to giggle at his attempt to freshen up for her arrival after a long, hot day behind the bench. It felt good to be in his arms, to feel the strength of his embrace and the passion he expressed in a wordless gaze that buckled her knees. Every thought in her head evaporated, every word on the tip of her tongue disappeared. The buttons on the tufted sofa dug into her shoulder blades but she felt no pain or discomfort. Her bare skin stuck to the leather upholstery while her wool trousers fell away from her ankles, her blouse crumpling behind her neck. What could she have been so busy doing that she deprived herself of the Judge's lovemaking? Nothing on earth could be that important.

*****

Louisa left for the Judge's house on Saturday after turning off the gas to the stove, just in case, and she piled cans in front of the doors to act as a noisy alarm if Harold tried to wander outside. It was asking a lot of Billy to keep an ear open when he was entertaining his fiancée on a Saturday night, but it was just as unrealistic for her to entertain the Judge at the farm with Harold sitting there. The solution was an in-law suite, a rather expensive proposition that was beyond Louisa's financial grasp. More sensible to wait and see what the future would bring, a future with a husband who would build her a new house on the farm because he would realize he belonged there and not in some monochromatic subdivision.

A valet flagged her down as soon as she pulled into the driveway, but Louisa was coming to a halt anyway. There were cars lined up, a party's worth of vehicles that told her this wasn't what she was expecting. Judge hadn't even told her he was having anyone else over, which might have given her a clue about proper attire. Thrown off-balance, Louisa left the truck idling as she walked without confidence to the front door, shrugged out of her coat, and accepted a glass of white wine, all without seeing the host of the noisy bash.

In search of the Judge, or a familiar face, she wandered towards the kitchen where most of the bodies seemed to have congregated. Here and there she saw one of the Judge's friends she had met at other events, but before she could strike up a conversation with one of them, Richard was at her side.

"Kentucky won a game of some sort. Great cheer," he said, polishing off the dregs in his glass while she couldn't figure out why he had been invited. "Um, if you'll excuse my bluntness, but I fear that you may have misinterpreted my intentions. Nothing meant by it. Overly friendly, I suppose, and I hope that you can excuse my behavior. Finding an intelligent woman to talk to, you see, brought out some exuberance. I wanted us to be good friends, trusted friends. Am I making myself clear?"

"Not particularly, no. How do you know the Judge? Did he call you ahead of time or is this some kind of spontaneous eruption?" Louisa asked. She found a spot on a side table to deposit her empty glass, only to pick it up again in the hopes of locating the rest of the bottle, which she would empty.

"I'm a natural-born flirt, Louisa, and if you thought I was engaging in something beyond harmless fun, I apologize," Richard said. "There are those who believe I overstepped the bounds of propriety."

As if it wasn't disappointing enough to discover that alone time with her lover was anything but, she had to contend with another blow to her ego. She had enjoyed the coy banter, imagining that Richard was swept off his feet by her beauty or her sharp intellect, but his frank statement was more like a hard blow to the gut. Her instincts were way off; her ability to detect sexual heat was totally out of kilter. Still, someone thought Richard had taken it a step beyond, and what other someone could there be besides the host of the party who had brought them all together? A little flirting and it was the Judge who failed to judge, to such an extent that Richard was forced to make a confession that he was not comfortable making.

"We should confine ourselves to horses, I suppose, and let there be no further misunderstandings," Richard said. He swiped a mint julep from the tray that passed by and took a rather large gulp. "Not when one is in the middle of business negotiations."

Louisa asked for details, but Richard only smiled, as if he was unable to do anything in the presence of a woman but charm her into submission. They were pretty much stuck with each other, the outsiders in the clutch of Kentucky equine aristocracy who would never be seen wearing Scottish tweeds or a Bohemian rhapsody of second-hand clothes. With her budding reputation as a master portrait artist, however, Louisa drew a small crowd around her, mostly wives of lawyers who were friends of the Judge since childhood. Within five minutes, she noticed that Richard hadn't been flirting with a purpose, because he flirted with all the ladies and, to an extent, with their husbands. He was ingratiating himself into their clique, the mark of a man who knew how to game the system and would do what it took to acquire inside information or the right contacts.

More surprises were in store, the shock not dulled by two glasses of wine. Danielle Woodley, normally cool to Louisa, came up and wrapped her in a friendly embrace, as if genuinely glad to see the artist. She was full of praise for Louisa's portrait of the Judge, her speech made with an arm around Louisa's waist. "I just don't know how you do it all," Danielle said. "I mean, the horse farm is famous; it's all you hear about in Lexington, and there's her poor little girl and her father needing her twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. To think that you can create such beautiful masterpieces and not be dropping from exhaustion, well, I can't tell you how much I admire your ability to have it all."

"Not to forget her work with Ride On," Richard said. "Although that dovetails with Chloe's needs, I suppose, so I can only award half a point."

"Is it true, that senile old people act normal around horses?" a woman with puffy lips asked.

"Dementia, Down's syndrome," Louisa said, only half-listening. She was trying to find the Judge, to ask him why he was so insistent on keeping a defective horse. To ask him why he had invited her to a big party when she thought they would spend the night alone. "Cerebral palsy. Like my daughter. Very beneficial."

His eyes lit up when they met hers, a glimmer of something that Louisa trusted was love that had been smoldering while they were apart. The Judge strode over with a cocktail in his hand, calling out a greeting as if she were his best friend just returned from death's door. "Louisa, honey, I thought you'd never get here. This here is Hollis Woodley, Danielle's big brother. Just got his divorce finalized and he could use some cheering up."

Hollis took her hand and shook it like a banker, firm and strong, with a confidence that came from heavy capitalization and a substantial balance sheet. He was substantial himself, built like his father, a round mound of Kentucky hot browns and deep-fried pastries. The glazed look that took in Louisa's figure suggested that he had been at the party for a good long time, and hadn't been passing the hours with a bottle of water.

"So this here's the busiest woman in Colmar," he said. "You ever need a man to pose for one of your pictures, you just call me."

With that, he struck a classical pose, his impression of an obese Greek god that drew laughter from the cluster of guests he meant to entertain. Before Louisa could get a word in, the Judge melted away and Richard followed suit, not interested in listening to inanity. She would have escaped as well, if not for Hollis's meaty arm draped across her shoulders, pinning her to the spot.

"Daddy's horse ain't worth jack shit, huh?" he asked.

"Are you part of the syndicate?" Louisa asked.

"Hell no, I'm not that stupid," Hollis said with a snort. "I told him he was getting sold a bill of goods, but my old man doesn't take kindly to constructive criticism."

"Mr. Woodley thinks he's quite the expert on horse flesh," the lip-lady said. Slight imperfections in the plumping suggested a less-than-artistic series of collagen injections. "He puts his faith in others just like himself, and Hollis was telling us that the colt's worthless."

"Then explain to me why the syndicate didn't sell it in January when they could have cut their losses?" Louisa asked. "Where's the sense in paying a trainer like Cecil Surette when the horse will never win a stakes race?"

Mentioning Cecil's name was a mistake. A few more people approached the circle, drawn by the magic that was embodied in one man's winning record. Rather than get an answer, Louisa got bombarded with a litany of racing history. It seemed as if everyone had a story about a horse coming from behind, money gambled and money lost or won, the turn of luck dependent on an animal's mood or the trainer's skill. For a woman who could practically recite bloodlines from memory, the information was old. Her subtle attempt to wriggle out from under Hollis's grasp resulted in a tightening clasp of his thick fingers on her arm.

"Can't let you wander off looking for a drink," he said. "What kind of gentleman will you think I am, to not look after a lady's needs?"

With his hand on her back, he steered her towards the family room, where a bartender was flipping open bottles of beer and pouring wine. The first two glasses had made her dizzy, but Louisa wasn't about to say no to a third. She felt uncomfortable at the party, as if she did not belong, but wouldn't she entertain these same people as Mrs. Boyce Cawthon? It wasn't that the Judge's friends were rude or crude. It wasn't that the wine was barrel wash or the drinks watered down. Whatever it was, Louisa couldn't quite put a finger on it.

"You were saying your father knew the colt was defective?" she asked again, to get back to where she wanted to be.

"Not right off he didn't," Hollis said. "Some friend of his recommended this brood mare, said she was in foal by a good sire, and my daddy jumped at it without looking at the records. Soon as the trainer told the Judge about the bleeding, sure enough, then he does the research after the fact."

"Friend?" Louisa said with a friendly smile. She had to be nice to Hollis, long enough to get the answers. "Or former friend?"

"Sugar, it's worse than that. Not only did my genius of a father get taken, he dragged Mrs. Cawthon and the Cootses into a syndicate. Only a fool would get on the wrong side of Evelyn Cawthon. She'd pull her money out of the bank and we'd be belly-up, let me tell you."

"Are you saying that she's being kept in the dark? After the first race, Hollis, she'll know and believe me, Cecil isn't going to take the fall."

"Everything'll be fine," he said. "Daddy's already got it set up with the Judge to take full responsibility. And pay full fare. Bet he never thought that Danielle would cost him so much to unload."

Giving Hollis the benefit of the doubt, that what he said was true, Louisa felt her blood pressure climb. They were taking advantage of Cecil, not only wasting his time but wasting his opportunities. He could have been training another horse that would have brought in some prize money down the road, but the syndicate thought nothing of Cecil's well-being. This was more like some kind of elaborate game to them, an opportunity to show off in front of their friends and neighbors. The colt was defective and wasn't worth the investment, but dangling expensive baubles under noses was part of the culture in the Judge's circle. The horse didn't matter; the fact that they had hired a top trainer was a clear indication of their wealth. It was Danielle who had made the comment at Christmas, the subdued bitchiness finally shining in the spotlight. Only the rich could afford Cecil's fees, and Louisa was far from rich, and wasn't it the natural thing to assume that she was paying with something other than cash?

While Hollis blabbered on about horses, a topic he adored, Louisa scanned the room in search of his sister. She had a desire to slap the girl, to take her out behind the barn and tan her hide but good for making a snide remark, one that had sailed right over Louisa's head. By chance, she caught Richard's eye, and he hurried over to her side like a man who was drowning and had spotted a life raft.

"Sorry to duck out on you, but I have an early day tomorrow," Richard said. "Looking over a piece of property."

Not too drunk to be deaf, Hollis inserted his opinion where none was asked. He peppered Richard with questions about location and acreage and current owner, managing to put in a plug for his family's bank in the process. Much to Louisa's surprise, the normally reticent Englishman committed a grievous error, letting slip a mention of the Royal Bank of Scotland and Balmoral. At once, three women who had been conversing nearby turned in unison and asked if Richard had ever met the eligible bachelor prince. Caught off-guard, his long pause was taken as a yes and he was sucked into a maelstrom that dragged him down into the depths of the gossip rags.

That left Hollis, bending Louisa's ear with an anecdote of a Derby Day in the recent past, one that involved him and too much alcohol. From there he veered off on a tangent that touched on his divorce and his ex-wife, a fashion plate of the first order. She had no accomplishments in her life, except for the ability to make herself pretty and marry well, which Hollis did not see as anything to brag about. He admired women who could do things and succeed, who had more going on in their world than shopping or hosting dinner parties.

"I always thought the Judge was on the same level," Hollis said. He gazed into Louisa's eyes with a look of inebriated admiration. "A gal like you, an artist, a businesswoman, one who don't spend every waking minute looking to a man to amuse her. A real prize, if you don't mind my saying, one that don't come along often around here. Then I come to find that I was flat out wrong."

"Thanks," Louisa said. She was trying not to make it obvious that she found Hollis abhorrent, but she must have given it away to be the recipient of such an insult. Not that she cared if he thought she was a prize, since his opinion didn't matter, but to be told to her face was more than she cared to accept with grace. "It's been nice meeting you."

The wine had given her a head-ache and the cheese straws had been so salty that she was dehydrated. Louisa worked her way over to the bar for a glass of water when Danielle caught up to her, dragging along a coterie of like-minded women who all had their hair and nails done at the same place in Lexington. Or were pressed out of the same mold. Or shared a plastic surgeon with no imagination.

Due to an unreliable chain of gossip and an intermingling of facts, the ladies were under the impression that Louisa was involved in the Royal stables through her father who was from England. For a good ten minutes, Louisa tried to explain the truth, that she had never been to Scotland, that her father had left the U.K. as a freshly minted Ph.D. and had absolutely nothing to do with royalty. The fact that she had a portrait of the Queen hanging in her studio had to be clarified, which then led to a discussion of Richard's real motives in boarding brood mares at Bedford Farm rather than any of countless other locations. Dealing in ridiculous flights of fancy set Louisa's head to throbbing.

As if she was now part of their clique, the ladies turned to another subject, to gauge Louisa's opinion of Hollis. They wanted to assure her that he was a catch, a man of prestige and wealth who was as much an avid horseman as Louisa. The discussion had all the earmarks of a hard sell, a committee with swamp land in Florida to be unloaded on an unsuspecting yokel, but Louisa took it in stride. After all, not thirty minutes earlier, the man had pretty much told her what he thought of her, and his sister could promote his many fine qualities all she wanted but Louisa wasn't buying.

"I'd take Hollis over Gayne Goshirian's Mafia man any day," Danielle said. "He's as phony as they come. Grigor Petkov. I don't think it's even his real name."

Not Grigor. Yes Grigor. Who else could it be there couldn't be two of them roaming the earth. Louisa's brain reeled, turned cartwheels and spun like a Tilt-a-Whirl on steroids. A slight buzzing in her ear muffled sounds, her mind attempting to blot out the name that fell from Danielle's glossy lips.

"Old Hollis thinks he's nothing but a common con man," someone whispered.

They were sharing confidences but Louisa wasn't going to share her secrets. Bad enough that Mr. Woodley had taken an oath of silence so that Gayne wouldn't take offense and do her banking elsewhere. It had to be Grigor, and someone had to stop him, but Louisa didn't want to get on Gayne's black list any more than Mr. Woodley did. The evening had turned into a nightmare. Louisa wanted to leave but she caught the Judge's eye and she didn't want to lose the opportunity. To save himself from another onslaught of silly questions, Richard tagged along at her side while she navigated through the knot of bodies that clustered near the television. A highlight reel of Kentucky basketball was playing, to the loud cheers of the men who loved their team.

"Just a quick question about the colt," Louisa said, drawing the Judge away from his buddies and a slam dunk revisited. "Do you understand what pulmonary hemorrhage means? The severity?"

The Judge patted her arm and mumbled something about not needing to worry about a thing before turning his attention back to a blow-by-blow analysis of the final few minutes of the basketball game. As if he was afraid that it was one of his horses involved in some medical disaster, Richard asked which animal she was referring to. With that, her opportunity to get an answer from the Judge was lost, as she found herself explaining the situation and using up her limited amount of time. When she turned around, the Judge was nowhere to be seen.

The party was in full swing but Louisa couldn't tolerate the company for another minute. It took a while to track down her host, to thank him and set up a date when they could be alone, to get their relationship back on track. With Danielle and Hollis tailing the Judge, the group walked to the front door where Hollis did the honors of holding Louisa's coat.

"Now, why do you have Cecil keep on training the colt?" Louisa asked. "You know it'll never be able to run fast enough to earn back your expenses."

With a wave of his hand and a light chuckle, the Judge tried to avoid the question. Hollis helped out by changing the subject, offering up a suggestion that the four of them go to dinner one Saturday night. Danielle was all over it, tucking one manicured hand into the crook of the Judge's elbow while resting the other on Louisa's arm, linking them all together as if they would henceforth be inseparable companions.

"Just dinner," Hollis said. "You've got yourself a full schedule, Louisa, but you got to book a little socializing in your life. Hour or two once a week isn't hard to do if you put your mind to it."

Louisa buttoned up her coat and studied the scene before her. Everything had been altered, but when it all changed was impossible to say. She understood enough about body language, about conveying certain emotions with particular gestures and poses, and she could interpret the postures before her as readily as she might read a book. Without so much as a closing argument, the Judge had broken up with her and had no intention of letting her know why or when it had happened. They were done, and Hollis was the consolation prize, the available single man who didn't mind the Judge's cast-offs. The words that were spoken after awareness dawned bright in her mind went unheard and Louisa found that she had lost the power of speech. Stunned, she walked away.

NINETEEN

It had been Richard on the veranda, waiting for the valet to bring up his car. Louisa drove out of the high-end subdivision before she realized that Richard had said something about discussing a new plan with her, but she had no idea if he had set up a time or was going to follow her to the farm. Her vision was blurred by tears that she tried not to shed, determined to defeat the disappointment and hurt by force of will. What did they have between them, her and the Judge, if he could dump her like a used tissue? She had misinterpreted everything yet again, drawn assumptions that had no basis in fact, and led herself along a garden path of her own devising. They had an affair, a fling that lasted until the Judge moved on, the alley cat who prowled for sex and changed partners when he couldn't get as much as he wanted. The pain she was feeling was self-inflicted.

Everyone had told her, all those years ago, that Josh would never divorce his wife but did she listen? So certain that she could show him how great they would be together, she had barreled ahead and wasted eight long years of her life in proving that she was right. Louisa chuckled at an insight, that this time it had only taken one year to find out she was blind and stupid when it came to men. She had found Hollis to be repugnant, hadn't she, which meant he must be perfect for her, her life meant to be lived through the looking glass.

The snow that had been forecast was falling in thick, wet flakes, reflecting the headlights back into her eyes. She was driving through a sparkling white tunnel, swirling and spinning until her head throbbed with motion sickness. The sides of the road were lost under a thickening blanket, the snow falling so fast that the blacktop was getting covered. Longing for sound, for the suggestion of company, she filled the cab with the mournful wail of Patsy Kline. As soon as the cell phone buzzed, Louisa snapped out of her funk, sure that the Judge was calling her to explain himself.

The vibration in her hand startled her with its intensity, while the caller I.D. had Louisa in shock. Not the Judge, but Daryl, her sister, the prodigal sister who had ignored every one of Louisa's numerous requests to discuss their tattered relationship. She would give up one hundred Judge Cawthons in exchange for blood relations, for a sister who understood where she was coming from and wouldn't take advantage of some troublesome blind spots. With a gentle touch of her thumb, Louisa re-connected with family.

"Good news to report," Daryl said, but Louisa picked up on the snarky tone that signaled rough seas ahead.

"Look, I'm just glad you called. Really glad," Louisa said. She would tell Daryl about the Judge, a sad tale of woe that was a prologue to the horror story that was Grigor.

White flakes flew at the windshield, as if the snow was coming from all around and not blowing out of the west. The wipers struggled to keep up with the load, and it didn't help that Louisa eased off the accelerator. She might as well have been in a subterranean cave that unfolded in front of her without a bend in sight, no light at the end of it. The whine of her tires warned of the edge of the road and Louisa slowed down even more, to keep the rumble strip on her right side as a jarring guide to the limits of the street.

"Can you guess?" Daryl asked.

No time for games, not when Louisa was driving blind and longing to get back to the warmth of her own house. The Judge's house. She didn't own a thing, no tangible assets to keep her in Kentucky beyond the reputation that she had worked so hard to build. The horses kept her pinned in place, where Hollis could easily find her if he still had any interest once he sobered up. Where Grigor could show up with Gayne on his arm, daring Louisa to risk the woman's wrath. Easy enough to pack the truck that very night, load up Chloe and Harold and move on to another farm where she wouldn't have to be reminded of how well she galloped through life with blinders on, always straight ahead on the track until some man pulled on the reins and brought her up short.

"Did you get a promotion?" Louisa suggested. "Department chair? You deserve it for all the work you've put in."

A long pause drew Louisa's attention away, intruded on her concentration. She grew uncomfortable with the wait, listening to her sister's breathing on the other end of the line. A street lamp cast a murky glow in the truck's cab and then was gone, a sign of civilization that assured her that she was still on the main road and not driving across an open field. How much further until she reached the farm? Louisa hadn't bothered to look at her watch when she left and she had no idea how long she had been driving. She looked at the watch now, but all she could see was Christmas morning. The signs had been there and she had ignored them, painted over the canvas until the picture matched her imagination.

"He left. Happy now?" Daryl asked.

Maybe she knew. Louisa's mouth was cotton-spitting dry but she tried to murmur words of consolation. "We broke up too," she said. If only she could roll down the window of the truck and stick her tongue out, to catch those big wet flakes of frozen water that would quench her thirst and cool off the fire that burned in her gut. The Patch sisters, united in misery, but they could be united in the healing process as well.

"Always has to come around to you, doesn't it," Daryl barked. "I'm talking about a husband, Louisa, a legally wedded husband who walked out on me. On me."

There was a time for I-told-you-so and there was a time to shut up. Which time was this, Louisa wondered. Chances were, whatever she said would be taken the wrong way so it didn't matter. She could offer a refuge, a place to heal a broken heart. Being around horses had done wonders for so many damaged people. "Why don't you come down here for a while," Louisa suggested. "Work with the animals. Get away from things." Tell Gayne all about the man she'd fallen for.

"I have a job, Louisa, thank you very much. I'm not so hard up for money that I have to resort to manure shoveling."

"Who said anything about mucking out stables?" Louisa had heart-ache enough to deal with. There was no room for Daryl's expansive self-pity. "Just, if you need a break, some space to think, you're welcome here."

"Do you honestly believe that I'd find Kentucky to be welcoming?" Daryl asked. "From the minute you met him you hated him."

Dislike, perhaps, but not hate. Mistrust was a better term for what Louisa felt towards Grigor, and that mistrust was spot on accurate. The fact that she was right about Grigor and way off base about the Judge meant that she had no right to gloat for fifty percent accuracy. "We can start over and get back to where we were, " Louisa said.

"Where were we, anyway?"

"For God's sake, Daryl, we're the only family we have."

"I made a family until someone drove a wedge between us." Daryl's voice broke on a sob.

"He stole Dad's money."

There was the wedge, in Louisa's opinion. Daryl had stupidly married a con man who tried to drain their father's finances. Pondering her next sentence, Louisa considered a more assertive approach to slap Daryl out of her funk. Grigor was in Kentucky with a woman far richer than Daryl would ever be. Unvarnished truth felt too rough. Past experience with Josh, however, served as a reminder that words mattered when the wounds were raw and bleeding.

"Dad put me in charge of his finances first and I'd like you to return everything," Daryl said.

Having Harold around had made Louisa's life much more complicated, but she loved her father and she wasn't going to give him up. Because of her care, he could see and he could function better than he had under Daryl's roof. She had never been closer to her father before, a proud man who didn't find it easy to ask for help and appreciated Louisa's efforts to guess what he needed. As for Chloe, she was basking in her grandfather's attention. It was impossible to tear all that apart just because Daryl was pissed off.

"Didn't you hear me? I want the bank books." Daryl was almost screaming.

"But Dad is doing so well here. He's made friends. He's in therapy."

"So let him stay there if he's so happy in Hicksville USA. I won't have any place to put him anyway."

The rumble strip on the road shook the truck and Louisa corrected her course, to what she hoped was the right way home. She suspected that she had missed a turn, or had headed off in the wrong direction when she left the Judge's place. Outside the window was nothing but snow, big thick flakes that spun at her from all around. North or south, east or west; she had no sense of direction on the winding roads through the hills of Bourbon County.

"He's entitled to half the house. My own lawyer told me I'd have to sell and give him half or pay him off," Daryl continued. "My house, that I paid for."

"You never should have put his name on the title," Louisa said without thinking.

"I never should have gone to Kentucky in the first place," Daryl snapped. "I never should have suggested that he drive down there to help you out when you needed help. Well, it's too late for that, isn't it?"

"Can't your lawyer prove in court that he stole money from Dad? Wouldn't that make a difference in a settlement?" Louisa peered out of the window, trying and failing to see beyond the reach of her headlights. She had slowed down to a near crawl when she wanted to speed up, to get home to the safety of Bedford Farm and the two barns filled with horses that wanted nothing from her but food and water.

"I will never subject myself to that kind of low, dirty dealing," Daryl said.

"You want Dad to loan you the money for the settlement, is that it?" Louisa had reached the point of being afraid, scared that her truck would run off the road into a ditch and she'd freeze to death, leaving Chloe an orphan and her father a what? A walking bank so that Daryl didn't have to dip into her savings to pay for an expensive lesson? "I know that you signed those checks for Grigor, the ones for cash. What were you thinking?"

"He needed it more than Dad."

Another street lamp cast a triangular arc of light and then vanished back into the storm. "How much is enough to make Grigor go away for good?"

What was meant as a stab at humor became a spark that ignited Daryl's ire. All the stress had built up, coming not only from Louisa's rejection of Grigor but from the factions within their extended family. Cousins weren't speaking to other cousins, and it all arose from a foolish act that Daryl was going to have to pay for. If there was one thing that Daryl despised, it was spending her hard-earned money.

The windshield wipers struggled against the weight, the long arms bending like palm trees in a hurricane. Off in the distance, Louisa thought that she saw tail lights, red points ahead, but the road dipped and the twin beacons disappeared. Daryl was on a roll, riding on her high horse through the Patch clan, taking umbrage at their aunt in Belfast who found the May-December romance utterly appalling.

"Hal wants to see the books. Dad's financials," Daryl said with a note of triumph.

Not one penny had gone from the old man's accounts into Louisa's. She kept scrupulous records, a habit from her breeding work, and there was not one transaction on record that anyone would question. "Any time," she said. "We can all get together at the farm and Hal can go over everything with the banker." She'd invite Grigor and Gayne for the entertainment.

"Which one? My banker in Chicago or the one who'd cover for your stealing?"

When Louisa transferred her father's money to the Woodley's bank, she had done so because Harold told her to. Mr. Woodley was a small-town, friendly kind of guy with a hint of obsequiousness towards his favored clients. The fact that he was part of Evelyn's syndicate had played into it as well, so there was a small benefit that fell to Louisa. There was no funny business involved, despite Daryl's implication. Harold liked Mr. Woodley and he liked stopping at the bank to withdraw a little spending money. Louisa suspected that Mr. Woodley shared his fine bourbon with the Professor on those outings, an added incentive for the old man to visit the bank on a regular basis.

"You can talk to every banker in Colmar for all I care," Louisa shot back.

The wiper swished away the snow and Louisa saw another cone of yellowish light. Another sweep of the windshield and she was again in the snow globe, no landmarks or fences or road signs visible. She was well and truly lost, completely disoriented. Was she pointed north or west? North by northwest? Heading towards Lexington or heading for the edge of a cliff, it was all the same. Her plans, her future, her entire existence was off track and had been since the first time that she picked up a crayon or touched the coarse hair on a horse's flank. Headed off in the wrong direction, butted into obstacles and bounced off, only to wander at random like a seed blown by the wind.

In the background was Daryl's voice, the pitch a little higher and the tone more heated. Someone had to be made to take the blame for her misery, and the past was resurrected in the space between Illinois and Kentucky. Every sin that Louisa had committed against her sister was brought up as an example of inconsideration and selfishness, culminating in a concerted effort to completely undermine Daryl's happiness and guarantee of companionship in her old age.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Daryl, it would be cheaper to hire a caregiver when you can't live alone anymore. What a shit investment you made in Grigor," Louisa said. "Who do I have, my daughter? Get real. We have each other, if you'd open your eyes and look past the end of your nose."

For thirty years they had bickered like that and Louisa realized that their mother had been wrong. Neither sister had matured when it came to fighting, neither one was a grown-up in the heat of a battle that fell under rules crafted by children. It was as it always had been and would be forever; Louisa was rubber and Daryl was glue, everything the older sister said bounced off and stuck right back on her. One side of the argument came from an analytical mind, the other from the sensibilities of an artist who let her emotions rule her head. Prone to emotional outbursts, Louisa's next sentence laid out the sad fact that Grigor had been cheating on Daryl for a long time.

Proof? With a little effort, Louisa could snap a few incriminating photos. Common sense alone would tell a woman that a healthy young man of twenty-one couldn't possibly be in love with someone old enough to be his mother. People in Colmar thought that Grigor was a sleazy con man. Did Daryl need affidavits?

The scientist and the painter could never hope to reconcile because they were too far apart, the distance so great that no bridge could link them. Jealousy had poisoned their bond, had killed it in fact. Louisa turned her back on everyone and their well-intentioned advice when she ran off to Texas instead of finding herself a safe and secure teaching job at the local high school. As far as Daryl was concerned, it was Louisa who didn't want to be part of the Patch family, and the Patch family was just fine with her decision.

"You can expect a call from my brother," Daryl said. "Or his attorney. We'll need a full accounting."

"Well, fuck you, you bitch," Louisa screamed into the phone. "Kills you that you, the smart one, turned out to be just as stupid as me, doesn't it?"

The truck vibrated as it rolled over the rumble strip, startling Louisa. She had nearly run off the road, not paying a bit of attention to her driving, and she dropped the phone in her panic. Taking one hand off the wheel after she'd straightened out, she felt around the bench seat until she found the phone. With her eyes locked on what looked like tail lights ahead, she apologized for an outburst that she blamed on weather conditions and stress. There was no one there. She was talking to herself.

The road dipped and what might have been red lights ahead winked out. She wouldn't pin her hopes on finding another vehicle and then following it until she found a familiar landmark to navigate by. Better by far to just keep on going, the miles rolling under the wheels, keep on going until she was past the storm and everything she'd ruined was behind her. North or south, it made no difference. She wanted to get away, start over as a stranger in a strange place, a woman with no past and no future.

Panic grew in the pit of her stomach, her mind playing out scenarios that terrified her. Harold would wake up and wander out of the house if she didn't get back to latch the door. He'd freeze to death, Chloe would be left an orphan with no one to take her in besides some cold, heartless institution. The air in the truck cab was cold but she was sweating like a racehorse, and her lungs couldn't get enough oxygen.

"You're hyperventilating," she said to herself in an attempt to calm down. "Breathe, Louisa. Breathe."

Was this how she would live out the rest of her days, talking to herself because there was no one else around? Stop it, she thought, get a grip. You're lost, the frightened corner of her brain warned.

Louisa pulled over onto the shoulder and put the truck in park, dropped her head onto the steering wheel, and let the tears spill out. Still sniffling, she tried to call Daryl back but her sister wasn't answering the phone. Half-blind with crying, she scrolled through the contact list in search of Hal's number and tried to collect herself while the phone rang.

"Beb, where you at?"

Already disoriented, Louisa felt a little dizzy as she realized that she hadn't reached her brother after all. Had he changed his number without telling her, maybe moved away without a forwarding address so that he'd never have to hear from her again? She wondered if cell phone service was disrupted by the storm, if wires were down or shorting out and she was completely on her own. With her heart racing, her hands shaking, Louisa mumbled, "Help me. I'm lost."

Some rational corner of her mind sprang up, the part where memories were collected for later review. She had scrolled beyond the P's and clicked on Surette, as if her fingers knew where to go and who to contact. From the very beginning, when she'd first arrived in Texas and things were tense between her and Josh's family, it was Cecil who inserted himself and gave her guidance. It was Cecil who talked her into buying Lula May, it was Cecil who named the mare and provided the key introductions to the thoroughbred industry. It was Cecil who identified the poison in her relationship with Josh, and it was Cecil who did all he could to pry her eyes open when she didn't want to see.

"You know where you're going, Weezie. I can come along with you maybe now, you think?"

TWENTY

What Chloe wanted was someone's undivided attention, but that someone couldn't be Louisa. "You can sit here like a lady with Grandpa or you can sit in a stall like a horse," Louisa said.

"Chloe wants. Dog."

"Only service dogs are allowed and you aren't blind."

"Chloe wants. Chloe wants."

"Chloe wants to be a good girl because Mama and Daddy are really, really nervous and this will be over before you know it and we'll be back to normal. Okay?"

"Chloe wants."

Derby Day was more of an adults-only occasion and Chloe was acting out her disappointment that her cousins stayed at home instead of joining the clan at Churchill Downs. Ignoring the tinned tantrum of the communicator, Louisa hurried across the track, walked double time under the grandstand and made her way to the stables, where Blue Moon was receiving the undivided attention of a small army. She had no idea if Hal and Wendy could manage both Harold and Chloe, but life was full of surprises and they would have to rise to the occasion.

Last minute instructions and general chatter generated a buzz in the barn, filled with horses and riders and trainers and owners on edge. Louisa wiped a finger across her upper lip where beads of sweat had sprouted, not sure if it was nerves or the heat that was getting to her. She fingered the string of pearls around her neck and then adjusted the neckline of her suit jacket, finding that every seam was rubbing the wrong way on an outfit that had felt fabulous only hours ago. She shifted from one leg to the other, wondering if it was true that Queen Elizabeth had worn just such an outfit while pregnant with Prince Edward, or if the woman who owned the vintage clothing shop was making up a story to make a sale.

The aquamarine of the 1960-era shantung fabric was repeated in the fleur-de-lis on P'tit Paul's riding silks. Cecil, Richard and Hollis wore aquamarine ties while Amy chose to paint an aquamarine streak in her hair, everyone contributing to a complete ensemble that would stand clustered in an infield box, all for a two minute race. Only Billy avoided the fashion parade, preferring his lucky jeans and blue bandana over the official color scheme of Briar Patch Stables.

"Riders up." The call echoed off the wooden walls and bounced around the straw. Billy gave Blue Moon one last stroke of the curry comb while P'tit Paul looked the colt in the eye and explained their strategy, like an executive running a board meeting. This is what we're going to do, this is how we're going to get there, and this is how I'm going to take you where we want to go. He understood Blue Moon after riding him for the past year, but more than that, he had made the colt an extension of himself. Louisa almost believed that if P'tit Paul thought about moving to the inside along the rail, Blue Moon would do just exactly that.

One by one, twenty riders led twenty horses out of the stalls and swung up into the saddle, to walk to the track escorted by twenty outriders resplendent in riding pinks. Cecil took her hand as they followed at the colt's side, making their way to the viewing area. An over-enthusiastic television reporter scurried over, walking on tip-toes to avoid lodging a stiletto heel in the packed clay, and made small talk while waiting for a cue in her earphone.

"What a unique outfit," she said to Louisa.

Louisa could only nod like royalty, not sure if she looked like a giant aquamarine balloon that had drifted over from the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. The reporter laughed as one would expect a black widow spider to laugh as she seduced her prey before eating it. Sure enough, the woman pounced on Cecil and peppered him with questions about the three horses he was running that day, why was he focused on Blue Moon, was the horse better than the odds suggested? There was no point in talking around things in Cecil's mind, so he stated the blunt truth. He had a vested interest in Blue Moon, as simple as that, and if the horse ran better than the other two colts trained at Briar Patch Stables, that's how it would be. Cecil gave Louisa's hand a squeeze, to reaffirm their shared belief that Blue Moon was far, far better than the tote board indicated. Some days, a horse could be snappish or hyper, like any teenager. It could hold back if it didn't feel like running. It could ignore the jockey's orders and do its own thing. Not so for Blue Moon on that particular Saturday afternoon in Louisville, Kentucky, on a warm spring day in May.

They crossed the track and didn't look back as the horses made their way towards the starting gate. The call to the post was trilled, a sound that vibrated in Louisa's chest and set her unborn baby to kicking up a storm. She laid a hand on her side, where a rib was being used as a drum, and stumbled into the Judge.

"Been a while," he said. "Aren't you a picture. Congratulations."

Cecil gritted his teeth, but he shook hands for the sake of good manners. Never would he forgive Boyce Cawthon for using Louisa as a pawn when the Cawthon syndicate's horse proved to be a blot on Cecil's reputation. The gelding had done well enough, pumped full of Lasix for every race, but it wasn't a star and rivals used it to suggest that Surette wasn't infallible. He tolerated the Judge for Louisa's sake. There was nothing he wouldn't do for Louisa.

"You haven't changed a bit," she said. Cecil touched her arm and kept on walking. Besides hello and good-bye, he had few other words for the Judge.

The Judge shrugged off the compliment. "I had another decision overturned on appeal," he said, the sting evident in his confession. He'd still make the appellate court, but without a pristine record. "Lost my touch, I guess."

"No one can be right all the time," Louisa said.

"I can admit that my mother is right more times than not," he said. "Louisa, I made a big mistake and I'm sorry. More than anything, I wish I could have another chance."

"Once the race is run, there's no do-overs," she said. "Sorry it didn't work out for you and Danielle."

"The road isn't always straight and smooth. Good luck. Remember now, you ever need my help, you know where to find me."

Thanks to the Judge's efforts, Josh's parents had backed off and backed out of Louisa's life for good. Not another word out of them since, not even when Cecil formally adopted Chloe. "Of course I would. You've been my champion."

A friendly pat of the arm and Louisa parted company with a man she felt sorry for. He had been raised in a climate that fostered his overblown ego, never learning to temper bloated expectations with a touch of humility. What did he think he proved when he put Bedford Farm on the market and then refused to sell it to Cecil? She would have given anything to be in the room when he signed the deed of sale and then watched Richard flip the property in two seconds time, the whole deal put together by Hollis Woodley. Less than six weeks later they bought the property to the west and Briar Patch Stables was born.

The crowd was thick in the infield and Louisa forgot if her group was to the left or the right. To the right it would be. To the left, she was sure that she saw Gayne Goshirian and avoidance was the better tactic. "Louisa?" a voice called out. Louisa spun around so fast she almost fell over.

"Daryl? You came?" Louisa embraced her sister as if there had never been an argument and their sisterly bond had never so much as frayed. They hugged, they cried, they apologized and told each other that apologies weren't needed. Sorry about missing the wedding, you didn't miss anything it was a quiet ceremony; Daryl held her sister at arm's length and made a fuss over the new baby coming. They embraced again, laughing at nothing, neither side claiming victory. The best way to make up after a knock-down, drag out fight was to act as if it hadn't happened, which was how they'd always made up.

"How can you stand Cecil?" Daryl asked, her face aglow with a happy smile. "My God, he's the most persistent man I've ever talked to. Did you know he had his sister call me from LSU and pretend it was university business when I didn't take his calls?"

"Sounds like something he'd do," Louisa said. "I'm glad he did, though."

Again, they wrapped their arms around each other, no room between them for harsh words or hostility. Just over Daryl's shoulder, Louisa saw Gayne and her joy melted in the May sun. "Come on, come on, let's get to our box before the race, we have to hurry, this way, won't Daddy be happy to see you," Louisa blabbered.

"We can congratulate each other, Louisa," Gayne said, her voice cutting through the general noise.

The smile on Daryl's face shattered into tiny, sad pieces. "Did you know he was here?" she hissed from the side of her mouth.

Yes. No. Sort of. Maybe. At the last Ride On fundraiser, Louisa heard that Gayne's fiancé had been called away on urgent business and wouldn't be attending. On top of that, Gayne froze Louisa out, changed the program so that Chloe wouldn't be doing a demonstration, and consigned Harold to a guest table when he was looking forward to helping the Down's Syndrome children groom the horses. Furious, Louisa made a point of telling anyone who'd listen that the man in question was in a Chicago courtroom and his divorce wasn't getting finalized any time soon. Not after Cecil convinced Hal to convince Daryl that she should fight and stall and string Grigor out until she broke his will and sent him packing without a dime of her money.

With her left hand waggling in front of her, Gayne approached the two sisters. For security, or to hold herself back so she didn't commit murder, Louisa tucked her arm in Daryl's. "Swear to God, I didn't know he'd be here. I didn't know you'd be here, Daryl."

Daryl had gone deaf. With her spine straight, head high, she smiled an icy cold smile and said hello to Grigor, her greeting arriving just when Gayne was in the middle of making introductions.

"You two know each other?" Gayne asked. "Isn't it a small world. We just got back from Vegas, and I'm just showing off my wedding ring. And to think he didn't want to come today and be the center of attention."

Louisa's knees buckled, the news so shocking that she felt the blood drain from her head, leaving her dizzy. Maybe Daryl felt her teetering because she tugged on Louisa's arm to restore balance. "Of course I know my own husband," Daryl said. Her eyes glared daggers at Gayne, sharp and pointed and slicing through the society doyenne's heart. "And yes, he is still my husband. The divorce is still in litigation. But I think it's almost over, isn't it, Grigor?"

"Jesus Christ, he's a bigamist and a con man," Louisa gasped.

All around them, friends and acquaintances stood in stunned silence. Gayne's mouth opened and closed like a startled trout, her composure gone. Nothing that Grigor said by way of explanation or shoddy excuse seemed to register.

With a kindness that Louisa found surprising, her sister put an arm around Gayne. "He fucked us both. I'm sorry you found out like this, but if I were you, I'd have his ass thrown in jail and I'd prosecute the living shit out of him. If you need a witness, you can reach me through my sister."

Too proud to let the pain show, Daryl turned her back on Louisa's vindication and marched smartly away, not knowing where they were supposed to go. The track announcer announced that all were invited to join in a chorus of My Old Kentucky Home, the politically correct version that omitted the darkies. Louisa would have kept right on walking if Cecil hadn't grabbed her arm and pulled her in.

The family squabble was forgotten when Daryl hugged her father and graciously accepted his reproach for tardiness. What would her mother think, indeed, and the siblings made no effort to remind their father that their mother was gone and he had forgotten, no point in correcting him when they could do nothing to remedy the slow decline. Always concerned for Louisa's health, Cecil noticed that she was unusually pale, which forced her to explain what had just happened to Daryl before she could introduce Daryl to Hollis and Richard.

As expected, Hollis offered to pound Grigor to a pulp, an offer that Daryl hastily declined. It was Richard who provided a calm, reasoned approach when he took Daryl's hands in his, gazed into her eyes, and expressed his heartfelt sympathy for her terrible experiences. "If there is anything I can do, any service I might perform," the knight errant said, "I stand ready."

"I told you he don't see past the end of his bibitte," Cecil said. He was half-distracted by the horses entering the starting gate.

"He never looked at me that way," Louisa said. Before she could ask what a bibitte was, the bell clanged and the gate flew open, so quickly that her heart skipped a beat. From her fingertips to her toes she trembled, fists clenching and unclenching while she held her breath. She gasped as the pack came around the back stretch, Blue Moon in fourteenth place after the first half-mile with Cecil's other pupils further ahead.

A wall of noise descended, a roar that terrified an already overwrought little girl. Chloe clapped her hands over her ears and pitched from side to side, mouth open to scream but her little voice no match for the crowd at Churchill Downs. No longer able to pick up the ten-year-old, Louisa had to crouch down and press her daughter's face to her shoulder, become a fortress, provide shelter from the storm that raged in the girl's mind.

"We'll take Bonesapart for a nice long ride when we get home," Louisa said in Chloe's ear. "We'll give the baby horses some apples and carrots and we'll have fun at our party. Daddy will be finished with his work real soon, sweetie, and we'll be back home real soon and won't it be great to visit with Aunt Daryl and show her our new house?"

The screaming reached a crescendo while Louisa babbled on, making offers in the hope that something would click and Chloe would stop screaming. Her own ears were ringing with the cacophony of thousands of spectators cheering on their favorites, her cell phone was vibrating with yet another message, and Louisa prayed that it would all just end because she couldn't stand it another minute.

Just as Chloe relaxed, Harold was tapping Louisa on the shoulder and crouching down to confide in her. "Do I know these men women?" he asked, a glint of sadness in his eyes. "I don't recognize them but they've said hello to me."

"It's all right, Daddy," she said. Louisa wanted to cry. She had regained her sister, gotten back together with her brother, but they were all losing their father. "Everyone here is very, very friendly. You just hello right back. It's how they do things in Kentucky."

"Am I expected to bow to her?"

"She isn't here." Often, he forgot words and what he used as substitutes might not make sense. Louisa had learned to formulate replies without substance.

"She's always at Ascot," Harold said.

Painful. It actually hurt, physically. Since breakfast, they had all been telling Harold that they were going to Churchill Downs and none of the reminders had taken hold. While it shouldn't have come as a surprise, since he thought of Cecil as the nice young man who took care of the horses, and Chloe was the little girl who visited with him, Louisa clung to a tiny shred of hope that a medical miracle would fall into their laps and Harold would get better. Or at least not get worse. Was that any more silly than going along with Harold's disjointed comments without telling him the truth? Equally harmless, she told herself.

A new sound crashed through the viewing area, a mixture of groans from the losers and insane joy from the winners. Louisa looked up, to search for a television monitor that was showing a replay. All she could see was Cecil, broad and strong, his thick mop of curly black hair disheveled. He scooped up Chloe with one arm as if she were as light as air, wrapped the other around Louisa, and lifted her with enough strength to launch her into orbit.

Faces milled about, bobbing, smiling, tear-streaked and glum. Evelyn and the Cootses popped into view, offering their congratulations. Like an idiot, Louisa stood there without moving, not quite seeing clearly. Norma and Bill Cairns asked her about stud service, only to be interrupted by Evelyn. "Won't we have just everything to celebrate at the baby shower next Saturday?" she chirped.

Caught up in a whirlwind, Louisa feared that she would be swept away, a scenario that got her feet moving. Before her, the entire family was disappearing into the mass of well-dressed bodies and big hats as far as the eye could see. With a whoop of victory, Amy came out of nowhere with Hollis at her heels. "We're going to the winner's circle," she said.

"The what?" Louisa stared at Amy's back until it was swallowed up. Where was Chloe? Louisa turned, left and right, behind, but she had lost her daughter. "Chloe?"

"Bet she's there by now." Hollis brushed past her and kept right on going.

One thing Louisa had learned about football was to follow your blocker. She wedged in behind Hollis and let him part the seas, and she was making some progress until a pair of spindly arms reached out and wrapped her in a warm embrace.

"You must be so happy," the vaguely familiar woman said. Over her shoulder, Judge Cawthon winked, as if he wanted to advise Louisa not to take the following seriously.

"I don't know what I am," Louisa said. Was she getting Alzheimer's too? Where had she seen this lady before?

"Lindsey doesn't know much about the ponies," Judge said. "But she does know a good thing when she sees it."

"Will we see you later at the parties? Here in Louisville?" Lindsey asked.

"No, we're going home," Louisa said.

"She wouldn't want to be too far from her obstetrician, Lindsey," Judge said.

"Oh, that's right." Lindsey giggled and Louisa could only stare in puzzlement at the Judge. For this, he dropped Danielle Woodley? "You can't drink, can you. What's the point of a party, then?"

"Will I see you again soon?" Judge asked.

"Drop by any time. We don't need to stand on formalities," Louisa said.

His grin hadn't changed from the first time he had flashed it at a new arrival, a woman reaching for a dream who was easily sidetracked by the promise of company on the lonely road. She had moved on while he had stayed in place, demanding all the attention while Louisa wished to divvy up her attention as she saw fit.

She had every right to be angry with him for treating Harold like an unwanted interloper, but she couldn't. Boyce Cawthon was a lonely man and she felt something more akin to pity. Too blind to see that women latched on to him because he had money and prestige and power, he couldn't understand that she didn't need a man to give her financial stability or a stellar reputation. Louisa had gained all that through hard work and perseverance, with her own two hands. Cecil understood. Figuring that part out took some doing, the flash of insight hitting her on a country road in the middle of a blinding snowstorm. No, she hadn't been lost at all. It was an illusion, created by her unwillingness to admit that she had a thing for Cecil from the minute she met him.

As she approached the Winner's Circle, someone handed Louisa a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses and guided her into position for the arrival of horse and jockey, the entire tableau arranged for the photographers. Cecil stood at the edge of the grass with Chloe, shouting with joy at his baby brother who had the audacity to walk an extra lap around the track. The two brothers clasped hands as soon as Blue Moon stepped onto the manicured bluegrass, two men overcome with emotion and not ashamed to be seen by millions of people with tears streaming down their cheeks. P'tit Paul plucked a rose from the blanket on Blue Moon's back and tucked it behind Chloe's ear. A hand touched Louisa's back and she turned to find Daryl at her side. Every tear Louisa had held back for over a year flowed freely.

"I've missed you so much," Louisa said.

Daryl's hug was strong, an affirmation of a bond that was stronger where it was mended. "I was so wrong. I was so stupid," Daryl said.

"Daddy still remembers you," Louisa said, to change the topic. They didn't need to waste words on past mistakes.

"I did some research online," Daryl said. "Eventually, he won't remember who any of us are."

"Good reason to spend as much time with him as possible before that day comes," Louisa said.

"Starting now."

"Right now."

Blue Moon's owners lifted the trophy in unison before handing it to P'tit Paul, who kissed it with a deep, abiding love. Pictures were snapped, smiles captured for all time. Richard swiped a rose from the bunch draped on Louisa's arm and tucked it behind Daryl's ear. "Will you be staying at the farm, I hope? Perhaps you can explain the significance of Queen Elizabeth's photograph which your sister keeps in her studio."

"Oh, that thing," Daryl said. She drifted off to one side, laughing over an anecdote that took place before Louisa was even born.

As if he was untouched by the frenzy, Billy went about the task of returning Blue Moon to the stable, to get the horse ready for the trip back to Colmar. Louisa reached over to pet a flank, to offer up thanks to the animal for running faster than nineteen others. She knelt down in the grass and planted a kiss on Chloe's cheek before telling her that she had been the best little girl ever, and she could stay up as late as she liked to celebrate. A tractor was chugging along, grooming the track and smoothing out the evidence that a race had just been run. Louisa looked around, to take it all in before the moment was gone.

"The horse, it knows what it wants to do." Cecil pontificated for the journalists with their recording devices stuck under his chin. "Me, I have the patience to wait until it sees what I want it to do is what it wants to do. I give the guidance, me. Point the way and let it run for all it's got. Ain't no secret, no. Just use the eyes to see and the ears to hear and the heart to feel."

A few stragglers remained around the track. Hollis counted out twenties into Hal's outstretched hand, the proceeds of a wager they'd placed, and then handed his share to Amy. Never in a million years would Louisa have guessed that Hollis was an art collector with a fondness for Ed Paschke. Amy was certainly surprised. Very pleasantly surprised. Louisa could hear it in her best friend's voice as Amy made plans with Hollis to visit art school friends who had relocated to Marfa, Texas.

The years of hard work, the months of tension and the brief excitement of the race wound down to a quiet finish. Louisa studied the twin spires, the modern seating that had been added on as Churchill Downs grew, the tote board that made it official. Despite his dirty silks, P'tit Paul embraced her and thanked her. He knelt down, smooched Chloe's claw-like hand, and said, "Pischouette, what a crazy family we have, yes?"

"Chloe wants." She hunted for the right button. "Ice cream."

Alone in the group, Harold stood stock still, unsure of his surroundings. His face relaxed when Hal put his arm around his father's shoulder and told him that little Louisa was the winner that day. Wendy took Harold's arm to guide him towards the parking lot and the car, to get him through the confusion of a drive across Kentucky, to reintroduce him to surroundings that would never be familiar.

"We're going home now, Dad," Hal said after he caught sight of Cecil's little nod towards the stables.

"Chloe wants. Ice cream."

"You got to excuse me now." Cecil winked at Louisa as he shuffled towards the exit, taking his leave from the journalists. "My little pischouette deserves all the ice cream she can hold, her."

A corner of Louisa's brain churned, the part that dealt with logistics and racing schedules and hotel bookings. If Cecil felt that Blue Moon was up for more, she would have to make arrangements in Maryland and New York for the remaining two jewels in the Triple Crown. She had to talk to the ob-gyne about travel close to her due date. Who was she kidding? Louisa would drop her baby in a foaling stall if she had to, as long as she was there when Blue Moon charged out of the gate.

"Do you know where to go?" Hal asked Wendy.

"I could use some directions myself," Daryl said. "I don't want to get lost."

"None of us get lost," Cecil said. He picked up Chloe and put his other arm around Louisa. "All of us with a good sense of direction. Vit, vit, Weezie. We'll be late for our own party."

*****

About The Author

Sean Gleason is the author of Saints of the New Irish Kitchen. He lives in Chicago, where the last horse stable recently closed.

He can be reached at Newcastlewest Books.

http://newcastlewestbooks.com/city-that-works

CITY THAT WORKS

