Page 18 of Windlass

Angie dared to glance back up at her friend, whose eyes held too much sympathy to bear.

“Maybe someday,” she said, her voice small and quiet.

The kid was there in the morning when Angie, shivering a little in the brief morning chill, headed toward the barn to check on her boarders. Jaq had her hood pulled up and her hands buried in the sleeves of her sweatshirt, which was in a considerably sorrier state than Angie’s own. She suppressed a smile. She remembered when it had been a point of pride to wear her sweatshirt until the hems were tattered and the band logo faded with wash after wash, though the laundry had never quite been able to cleanse the lingering stench of teenage angst. “Hi, I’m Angie.”

Jaq looked up at her warily. Angie noted the soft doe lashes and deep brown eyes and the skin of the girl’s lip, which she clearly made a habit of chewing ragged. “Hi.”

“You’re here nice and early. Do you drink coffee? Wait, how old are you? Should I be offering you coffee?”

“Fourteen.” A pause. “I drink coffee.”

“Thank god. Want a cup? I want a cup. And I’ll show you where the bathroom you can use is, in case Stevie forgot.” She didn’t wait to see what Jaq said, remembering the agony of making any decision at that age, and walked into her boisterous, noisy world.

The area of the barn she’d turned into her lobby was built out of the lumber she’d had removed from the barn in renovations. Warm reclaimed pine planks glowed in the lights she’d chosen specifically for that effect: homey, rustic, and reminiscent of the vague, idealized idea of “the farm” where dog owners wanted to send their dogs to play (not to be confused with “the farm” parents told children dead pets had been sent to). Jenny, one of her employees, looked up from the front desk and smiled brightly. Angie explained Jaq’s position and bathroom privileges to Jenny, showed Jaq where said facilities were located and with one more reassuring smile, let the kid go clean stalls or whatever it was she was doing for Stevie and Ivy.

“Cute kid,” Jenny said when Jaq had gone.

“Right? Apparently, she just showed up one day.”

“Are you keeping her? Doesn’t look like she eats much.”

“Very funny. Can you imagine?”

Mornings, before she tackled admin, she spent time in the yards. It was important to keep a pulse on the flow. It was also a lot more interesting than paperwork. Today, she took over the small dog yard and gave Vanessa a chance to clean runs and individual kennels for their overnight boarders. As she refereed interactions between dogs, she thought yet again about her roof. If they could get more regular day care clients, would that be enough? There was room before they hit capacity, but maybe not without hiring someone new, which would cancel out the surplus. The reality of the matter was that she simply didn’t make enough money to support all her bills.

Maybe a tarp would work? She’d float the idea by Stevie later. Surely the two of them could do it safely enough, now that Lilian wasn’t around to freak out about heights.

“Easy, Pumpkin,” she told a quivering cockapoo desperate to chase a small Chihuahua mix who had tired of the game.

She had what she wanted: friends, a safe place to live, and a steady income. The thing about losing something big, though—like, say, your family—was that she knew just how easily those things could vanish. Having the very roof over her head leak was fucking with her sense of security.

She wasn’t sure where she’d be if Great-aunt Heather hadn’t spited the rest of the family out of her will and left everything to Angie. Maybe she still would have started working at the Seal Cove Veterinary Clinic, but maybe not. More likely she would have moved in with Lana, or someone like her, and started the downward spiral that had been sucking at her heels her whole life. The only reason she hadn’t ended up on the streets after she left home was the kindness of her then-best friend’s family. That kindness had lasted a year and a half, right up to the day Kristin’s mom walked in on them. At least the woman had had the Christian charity to wait long enough for Angie to find a room to rent, rather than just kicking her out the door, even if her religious beliefs hadn’t extended to welcoming a queer daughter.

At least she had her job. Working hard was the one thing she’d always been good at. Too bad it never paid well enough.

Her phone buzzed.

Lana. Of fucking course. She stood to prevent the dogs from squabbling over her attention and walked down the yard to break up the mob, calling out the names of a few persistent troublemakers. Lana had a nose for weakness, or perhaps a sixth sense. She was still, all in all, a step up from Angie’s previous partners. Her friends didn’t understand that. Stormy sort of did, though she had an annoyingly sympathetic habit of pointing out “step up” did not equate to “good, healthy, or even remotely worth your time, Sugarplum.”

Lana served a purpose. She pictured Lana’s sharp, austere face with its cold beauty. Girls like Lana had been hurt and liked to hurt others. Girls like Angie had been hurt and liked to be hurt. Different symptoms of the same disease.

The itching began beneath her skin, followed by a pressure in her chest that tasted like a scream. She tried to focus on the dogs. This was her job. Her life. Her feet were here on the ground—she’d heard that was a technique that helped, focusing on your feet, not that it had ever done much for her—and the air moved in and out of her lungs.

She lasted until Vanessa returned. Then, excusing herself for a moment, she stepped not into her office but out through the front door and into the horse barn, where she was sure to be alone. She leaned back against a beam and let her head hit just a little too hard. Her palms pressed into the rough wood. Each breath came harder and faster than the last.

“Um. Are you . . . okay?”

Angie’s eyes snapped open.Fuck. She’d forgotten about the kid. Jaq stood with a broom in her hand, staring at Angie with a look that suggested she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Hi.” She didn’t need to explain herself to a child. The word came out strangled. She tried again. “I needed a minute.”

Jaq nodded. “I’ll go pick the pasture.”

“Yeah. Good idea.” Her chest ached fiercely. She didn’t have much time left. “Actually, I’ll head up to the loft. You’re good here.”

Without waiting for Jaq’s response, she headed for the stairs and darted up, tripping and catching herself on the last step.

The openness of the wide space with its heavy beams and stacks of hay bales welcomed her. So did her bag. Forgoing wraps and proper form, she launched herself at it, landing punch after punch until her chest burned with exertion instead of a brewing panic attack. Only one knuckle had split by the time she stopped. She pressed it to her lips and tasted blood, coppery and harsh.

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