Page 113 of The Way We Touch

“All this time it was horses?” A week has passed, and I’m standing on the edge of an arena connected to a large horse farm south of Newhope, watching Zane lead a gorgeous thoroughbred through its exercises. “But why keep it a secret? Jack and Dylan would be relieved to know you’re doing something so… positive.”

I know my beautiful girl has been worried about her broody older brother since he came home and started disappearing every day. It’s part of what prompted her to suggest he help Miss Gina.

He shakes his head looking down. “To be honest, I hadn’t planned to keep doing it, but after a while, I couldn’t seem to let go.”

I lean on my crutches behind the rail as I watch him slide his hand over the brown neck of the purebred animal. “They’re beautiful.”

He nods, scrubbing his fingers under the horse’s mane. “They come here because they’re useless once they’re injured. Just like… people.”

I’m not sure if he was going to say just like us or just like me. Either option is pretty dark, so I let it pass.

“What do you do?”

“Exercise them, brush and feed them. I help out when the therapy kids come here, holding them and guiding the volunteers. I was surprised by how well the kids respond to them.”

“Like troubled kids?”

“A few, but more like injured and neurodivergent kids. The horses are very calm, almost like they can sense the person’s needs. You might try it.”

“Sounds pretty woo-woo to me,” I tease, but he stiffens.

“It’s not.” His reply is curt. “Equine therapy is well-documented in clinical research.”

Clearing my throat, I straighten on my uninjured knee. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply it wasn’t.”

I’m only just getting to know Zane, and I want to continue building the bridge. He and I are in a similar boat—only my career isn’t over like his.

“We’d better get going. Miss Gina has some new problem for me.”

I exhale a laugh. “I think she likes having you around.”

“I know she does.”

He leads the tall horse back to its stall, and I start the trek to his Jeep. I do my best to keep pace with him, but it takes me longer to do just about everything with these crutches. I’m trying not to be pissed as hell about it.

It’s worse knowing it was an intentional foul, but I got a slight reprieve when I found out Peter Krall was suspended from the league pending further review.

It’s not complete retribution, but it’s close. They said if my injury had been career-ending, it would’ve been worse for him.

As it is, I’m healing fast. The physical therapist said I’ll be off the damn crutches in a few more days, but I still have to wear a brace—and figure out what comes next.

Zane drives us north along the scenic road, headed to the old lady’s mansion on the bluffs. It’s a cool day, but we have the top and doors off the vehicle. I’m not sure, but I bet it’s to curtail the need for conversation.

Dylan’s brother isn’t much of a talker, which is fine by me.

I look through the live oak trees mixed with magnolias at the sparkling water of the bay. It’s cool, and the briny scent of saltwater is in the air. A lone sailboat drifts past, and it’s restorative, peaceful.

In addition to being with Dylan, being here helps to loosen the fist of anger in my chest, about a lot of things.

Traveling along the old scenic highway, I notice a small cinder-block building with a low roof and a giant satellite dish in the backyard. It’s painted white, and it looks like it’s been here for a century.

“What’s that?” I shout over the wind, nodding at the building.

Zane glances, then leans to the center to answer. “The old AM station. Been around for years.”

“Does it still broadcast?”

“Some.” He shifts in his seat. “It’s mostly for storm warnings, local stuff like that.”

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