Chapter Two

      Duke slowed his steps and smiled as he watched Luke playing tag with Zorro. “My dog loves all the attention,” he said, waiting while Angie checked the enclosure and the feed trough of a potbellied pig.

      “This is Layman. I’m trying to find him a home. There was a time potbellied pigs were considered ideal pets. Once the novelty wore off, and people discovered they really were pigs with just a bit better disposition, a new animal fad replaced them, and they get discarded like old tennis shoes.”

      “That sucks,” Duke grumbled, bending to scratch the fat white pig behind his ears. “Pets are part of the family.”

      Angie had cut a shock of fresh lettuce from her garden as they walked past. She scattered the leaves in Layman’s trough. “Sadly, not everyone believes that,” she said, growing serious all of a sudden. “My grandparents ran this animal rescue ranch, but it’s grown since I took over. And costs keep rising.”

      “Ace mentioned he treats your animals.”

      “I hate calling him, because half the time he doesn’t charge me. And bless your aunt for spending time showering love on some of my neediest pets.” They walked on to a pen full of goats. “The family who raised these goats had to move when the husband found work in the city. The babies are so cute I can’t bear to part with them. I’ll probably wish I had when they grow bigger and start being pesky.”

      “You have an odd assortment,” Duke remarked, when a very pregnant donkey lumbered up to the fence. “I would have sworn this was primarily cattle and horse country. Where do these all come from?”

      “Oh, people drive out from surrounding towns and dump some off in the middle of the night,” Angie said. “Some bring abandoned animals that wander onto their land. I have three sheep from a family whose daughter raised them in 4-H. She went off to college. Her dad is a long-haul trucker, and his wife wanted to go on the road with him. They planned to sell the sheep, but the daughter couldn’t bear the thought of sending them off to be lamb chops.”

      Duke laughed. “You’re as soft a touch as Ace, I can tell,” he said as Luke ran up followed by Zorro. The boy stuttered his way through telling his mom he wished their two dogs were this much fun.

      “Honey, you know the dogs we currently have were mistreated. They’re afraid of people. We need to be patient.”

      “I—I know,” the boy said, as he went to his knees and flung both arms around Duke’s big dog.

      “There’s a tennis ball in the backseat of my truck,” Duke said. “If it’s okay with your mom, Zorro loves to play fetch.”

      “C-c-can I?” His hazel eyes lit. Duke figured the boy’s father must have had brown eyes, because Angie’s eyes were almost a silvery-blue.

      “You may,” she stressed, taking time to point out the difference between can and may.

      The adults stood in silence as boy and dog tore back down the path. Duke broke the silence first. “If the only reason you haven’t signed him up for the Wild Pony Race is a lack of teammates, I can ask around and see if anyone in his age group is in need of a third person.”

      Angie clamped her teeth over her bottom lip. “I guess you noticed my reluctance to commit about the race. I’m not being mean. His first year of school was difficult. Two weeks into the school year, practically out of the blue, he started to stutter. Our pediatrician says there’s no physical abnormality. He believes Luke will probably outgrow it. I had him tested by the school. When school starts in the fall Luke will meet twice a week with a speech therapist. Call me overly protective, but his condition worsened when other boys picked on him. He’s small for his age and, well, I can’t risk this pony race being another bad experience for him.”

      Recalling the difficulties he had with the same problem of stuttering and being teased unmercifully as a kid, Duke nevertheless couldn’t bring himself to share such personal information with Luke’s mom, a woman he’d like to impress.

      “I’m not trying to pressure you,” he said, “but I see all the entries and usually hear about kids wanting to sign up. I could pass on names of any seven- or eight-year-olds who need a partner, so you can check them out. There are a lot of good kids in Roundup.”

      “Lucas has been badgering me since the Sunday he came out of class with that flyer. Okay,” she said slowly. “Call if you hear of anyone needing a partner.”

      Duke sensed she still had reservations.

      They meandered on and she stepped off the path to fill a scoop from a bin and then she scattered corn for the chickens. They saw a pair of barn cats slink away from where they hid in weeds to watch the chickens. “Those cats,” Angie lamented. “I need to find them homes before my feisty hens give them a lesson they won’t soon forget.”

      Her companion didn’t comment, and Angie worried that she was talking too much and was boring him. “We’re nearly at the field where I have the horses turned out. I have an old Shetland pony and two gentle mares I rescued from a urine production line selling to a slaughter house. They’ll make someone good saddle horses. Ah, there’s the old fellow I told you about, plus a younger gelding I rescued from a rodeo-stock contractor who beat him to make him buck.”

      As soon as they reached the fence, the horses wandered over. Angie had treats in her pockets, and the horses crowded in for their share.

      Duke saw the old horse still had prominent ribs, but none of the animals in her care had defeat in their eyes. He liked that.

      “The mares look so much better than when the Humane Society turned in the farmer who ran the operation. The Shetland came from an elderly lady’s farm. She couldn’t feed herself, let alone a pony, a dog and multiple cats.”

      “I’m sorry to have troubled you,” Duke said, withdrawing his hand from the old horse’s muzzle. “Color is the only thing this old guy has in common with my aunt’s stallion. I’ll let you get back to your baking. I really wish Midnight had jumped your fence. Dinah is frustrated because the thefts are getting more frequent, and no one sees anything.”

      Luke, out of breath from his game of fetch with Zorro, caught up with his mom and Duke as they turned back toward the house. “That was fun,” he announced, this time with no stutter. He handed Duke the tennis ball. As Duke tried to close his swollen left hand around the ball, he caught his breath at the sudden pain, and the ball fell and rolled down the path.

      Angie saw and automatically reached for his puffy, discolored hand. She examined his injury in the light spilling from an outside barn light that had switched on. “That looks bad, Dylan. What happened? Have you had it x-rayed?”