If Wishes Were Horses. Carolyn McSparren
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“Don’t move! You may have broken your neck.” Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Copyright
“Don’t move! You may have broken your neck.”
Liz Matthews turned her head on a neck that was obviously still in working order, and looked at Mike Whitten. “I’m fine,” she gasped. “Knocked my breath out.” She put both hands on her diaphragm and pushed. “Better.” She raised up on her elbows. “Nothing’s broken.”
Mike put one arm behind her waist and the other behind her knees and scooped her up. He began to walk as quickly as he could toward the stable.
“Hey!”
“Where are you hurt?” he asked, afraid for a moment he might have done her more harm than good.
“I’m not hurt, I’m mad as hell. I’m mad at the horse, mad at myself, and if you do not put me down this instant, I am going to be really mad at you.”
“Fine.” He dropped her legs. She limped toward the spot where the horse was standing. She obviously intended to get back in the saddle.
Mike watched her. She hurt considerably more than she was willing to let on. Maybe she’d cracked a rib. He ought to drag her to a doctor, just to be sure. She’d never go. Hard-headed, opinionated damned female. He caught his breath. The kind of woman his daughter was growing up to be.
Great, he thought, now I’ve got two of them to worry about....
Dear Reader,
Like many of you, I have experienced some of the struggles the hero and heroine of If Wishes Were Horses endure on their road to happiness.
Soon after my husband and I married, my teenage stepdaughter. came to live with us. I was clueless. Even birth parents waffle between being too strict—our children’s viewpoint—to not strict enough—our own gut feelings. While I knew that taking my own risks was scary, I found that letting this child I had grown to love risk heart or mind or body was downright terrifying. In the end I learned to close my eyes, cross my fingers, pray, and let her go for it. I didn’t stop worrying. I just got better at concealing my fears.
I also firmly believe that riding horses can slide kids through adolescence with fewer problems. Without her horse, my daughter would probably have landed me in a straitjacket before she hit fifteen. Thanks to horses, I managed to cling to the sane side of loony until she was happily married.
Last, but definitely not least, I absolutely believe in lifelong love. It seems as though I’ve been married to the same man since before the American Revolution. But falling in love with a man who comes complete with children can be daunting, especially if we have absolutely no experience with kids. We have to handle special problems, and if lucky, we discover special rewards. I hope you’ll agree that for Mike and Liz, love is worth the risk.
Carolyn McSparren
If Wishes Were Horses
Carolyn McSparren
For Ann Lee, who taught me to train horses and turned my
daughter into a centaur, and for her daughter Liz, an extraordinary rider. For my own daughter Megan, and Karen, the stepdaughter I helped raise. For the people at St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, who fight death every day and seem to win more often than they lose, and finally, for my wonderful editor, who manages to stay cool even when I don’t.
CHAPTER ONE
MIKE WHITTEN’S FIRST glimpse of the lush pastures and sprawling stable complex filled him with dread. He’d never been truly comfortable outside of cities, and even this close to town, these rolling pastures definitely qualified as country. He stifled an impulse to do a one-eighty and head his Volvo straight back to Memphis.
He’d never get away with it. Not with his eleven-year-old daughter Pat straining against her seat belt beside him. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her so eager.
He stopped the car at the open front door of the stable, and Pat unfastened her seat belt and leaped out before he could turn off the ignition. She was in such a hurry she slipped on the gravel and nearly fell. Mike’s heart lurched. He leaned across the seat as though he could reach her, steady her. “Hey, Pitti-Pat, watch it,” he said.
This blasted place was already conspiring to damage his kid.
“Daddy,” she said disdainfully. “I’m too old for pet names. I’m Pat, just Pat, remember? Now come on!”
He sighed, followed her and looked around this place where he did not want to be. The board fences were stained dark brown and were in good repair. The pastures had been mowed or perhaps eaten down by the horses, several of whom quietly chomped their way across the paddocks. The parking lot was edged with neatly trimmed shrubs, and beds of bright flowers—he had no idea what kind—surrounded the front door.
Something buzzed close to his ear. He slapped at it. A damned bumblebee! To his knowledge, Pat wasn’t allergic to bees, but there was always a