Fear Of Falling. Catherine Lanigan
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FOUR
RAFE SLIPPED OUT of the house as soon as he could, knowing that most of the guests would hang around after dinner, devouring the remains of the desserts or sipping brandy with Nate, Gabe and Mica. The air in the house was claustrophobic. The walls pressed in on him as if he were the one in the coffin. It was all he could do to make it through dinner. He’d barely registered what had been served, except for those cookies the caterer had explained to him.
Macarons. He had to remember that. She had been nice. Pretty, too. Soft brown eyes. A guy could lose himself in eyes like that. He’d liked how genuine she seemed. He didn’t actually recall much else about her—she’d been dressed in her chef’s coat and black leggings. She looked official, he supposed, for a caterer.
His mother seemed to know her fairly well, he thought, trying to rattle his thoughts into place.
Rafe rotated his neck from left to right. Everything seemed surreal. He knew people had been talking to him, but their voices seemed so far away. Words floated around him like kelp in the ocean. He felt as if he was half-conscious. Or going crazy.
Pulling the collar of his jacket up to ward off the early-spring chill, he made his way toward the stable. The sun was down and the warmth he’d felt earlier was gone. He shoved his hands into his pants pockets and held his arms close to his sides to keep warm. The cold was more than physical. It bored into his psyche and sat upon his soul. Suddenly, he felt alone. Abandoned. Adrift.
He supposed these feelings were to be expected when death came around. Rafe hadn’t experienced death personally before, except when his chocolate Lab, Moosie, had died ten years ago. His father had been orphaned as a child, and his maternal grandparents had never come to America. He remembered talking to them on the telephone a few times, but all he’d ever said was buongiorno, since they didn’t speak English. When they passed on, he and his brothers all stayed home. He didn’t have any aunts, uncles or cousins in America—even Aunt Bianca had been a stranger to him before this visit.
He hadn’t really missed having relatives around. Today, the house was filled with friends who had become like family. Austin McCreary was nearly a brother to him. He liked old Mrs. Beabots. But when he got down to it, his life had been wrapped up in his father, his mother and his brothers, this farm and his horses.
He’d never needed much else. Naively, he’d thought it would all go on forever. He’d never once thought about his father dying. Angelo had been the essence of good health and had always had a strong body. Sure, they’d been worried about his heart condition in recent months, but Rafe had chalked it up to a bit of aging. He couldn’t believe there was anything seriously wrong with his dad. He was Angelo. The invincible Italian.
Rafe looked down as he neared the stables. His father had hand-laid the drive and pathways when Rafe was just a baby. Angelo had built half the house with his own hands and as the boys got older, they were expected to do the same. They’d all worked on the barns and the horse stable. Rafe had painted every board, shutter, gate, fence post and board in and around the paddock. He’d hauled dirt, raked loam and planted grass to make the horse arena the finest in the area.
He pulled his hands out of his pockets and looked at them. Rafe had believed he could build a dream with his hands, just as his father had. But they couldn’t stop death. He’d pressed on his father’s chest with all his might, and it hadn’t made a difference. He felt incompetent and inadequate. In the days since Angelo’s collapse, Rafe had wished over and over again that he’d been Nate instead. A heart surgeon. A man who could have saved his father. But he was just Rafe. A farmer. A guy who loved horses and horse racing.
Rafe went into the stable and closed the door behind him. To his left was the tack room and next to it was the office, complete with a sofa and television that Curt used. There were six wide horse stalls to his right. Years ago they’d installed heaters to keep the horses warm during the bitter Indiana winters. Warm, dry air blasted into the hallway between the stalls. It felt good on Rafe’s back as he went over to see Rowan.
Curt must have just cleaned the stall because the concrete floor was strewn with fresh hay. Rowan’s feeder was filled with food, and the plastic water bottle that fed into the trough had been replenished.
Rowan, hearing Rafe’s approach, turned from the back of the stall where he’d been taking a drink and walked to the white half door. The horse raised his neck and bowed his head as he always did when he saw Rafe. It was their greeting. Rowan held his head still for a long moment, as if assessing his owner. Then he put his head on Rafe’s shoulder.
Rafe curled his arms around Rowan’s neck and wept. For three days Rafe had felt a burning inside him that cut off his breath and strangled his heart. Yet even as tears slid down his cheeks and soaked the horse’s mane, the pressure didn’t subside. It grew worse. He nearly fell to his knees but he clung tight to Rowan.
“Sorry, boy.” Rafe didn’t recognize his own voice, raspy and filled with a pain he’d never known. Rafe struggled just to open his eyes. But feeling Rowan’s heartbeat surging through his chest and the warmth of his breath cascading over his shoulder, Rafe suddenly felt safe in a way he hadn’t in a very long time. Rafe had loved his father, but Angelo had rarely shown him physical affection. He hadn’t cradled Rafe in his arms when he fell off a horse, spraining his ankle; or when he nearly drowned in the swimming pool attempting a swan dive when he was eight; or when he’d broken his collarbone during the rival football game his junior year as quarterback.
Every time he’d needed comforting, it was his mother’s arms that held him. Her hands that smoothed his sweaty hair from his face, and her lips that kissed his cheek, giving him the courage to try again.
He’d tried to prove himself to his father, but nothing he’d done had ever been good enough.
Except for Rowan.
This horse had saved Rafe in his father’s eyes. By the time they’d bought Rowan, Rafe had learned how to ride like a jockey, though he was much too tall and at a hundred and seventy-five pounds, far too heavy; but he had the skills. Angelo had seen that and admired it.
But now Rafe’s chance to show his father just what he could do with Rowan was gone.
There was nothing left to prove. Rafe’s dreams were dust in his hands.
Rowan snorted and jerked out of Rafe’s embrace. He backed up and stomped his foot.
“What is it, boy?”
Rowan whinnied. He cocked his head, and Rafe read challenge and chastisement in his eyes.
“You can’t know what I’m thinking,” Rafe said.
Rowan walked back to the door, lowered his nose and pushed Rafe. Hard.
Rafe stumbled backward and nearly slipped on the cement. Extending his arms out to his sides, he caught his balance and righted himself. He stared at his horse. “I get it. You think I’m feeling sorry for myself. Well, I was. I have a right to. Everything has changed.” Rafe’s voice rose as his emotions battled between grief and anger. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. There’s just me and Mica now to run things. That leaves no time for you or for training. Maybe it would be best if I sold you to someone who could do you justice.”
Rowan stood stock-still and leveled his eyes at Rafe.
Rafe rubbed his forehead. “I must be losing it. I wouldn’t do that. I promise. In the long run, you may not like staying with me, but I won’t abandon you.” He put his arm around Rowan and then placed his face against the horse’s neck. Rafe exhaled so deeply he thought he might have expunged all the sorrow and guilt inside him. But when he inhaled again, he felt the same painful barbs clinging to his ribs. Maybe he deserved it.
It was his fault his father was dead.
Just as his dark thoughts were about to overwhelm him, Curt Wheeling came through the door carrying a bucket of feed and a plastic jug of water on his right shoulder. Curt was wearing his familiar plaid wool jacket, faded jeans, Western boots and brown work gloves. He had a horse brush sticking out