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Phoebe leaned on the fence and watched Izzie and George trot around the corral. A ride hadn’t been on the agenda for today, but Izzie had asked, and Phoebe hadn’t seen a reason to deny her.
Izzie’s dad stood beside her. “I was on Facebook, looking at the pictures you posted when you brought George here. I can’t believe that beautiful guy there is the same horse. You do good work, Phoebe.”
“Thanks.”
“It’d be a damn shame if you lost this. I’m gonna put some money in your GoFundMe. I can’t spare too much, but I’ll help as much as I can.”
She turned to smile at Izzie’s dad. “Thank you, Mr. Powell. You know, we got some good news the other day. We got a good deal on the roof, so we’re close to raising all the money we should need. I don’t want you to do anything that’ll hurt you, but we really appreciate the help. Truly.”
He gave her a half-smile and touched the brim of his hat, good-ol’-boy style.
When Izzie and George were done with their ride, Phoebe let Izzie help her unsaddle him and give him a quick brushing. Then, after some treats for George and the usual box of adoption goodies for Izzie (a lot of free samples, a small photo album, George’s halter and lead, and his favorite brush), Phoebe led him into the trailer. There, alone with him for the last time, she rested her head on his nose and let the first lash of loss thread through her.
“You’re a good boy, Georgie Porgie. Izzie’s gonna love you so hard.”
George, who enjoyed a good cuddle, pushed closer. He nickered softly, as if he’d understood her words.
She kissed him and stepped away as he dropped his nose into the hay box.
As she stepped out of the trailer, Izzie slammed into her and threw her arms around her. “Thank you so much, Miss Phoebe! I love him so much! I promise I will make him happy every day!”
Remembering a version of herself that had been a lot like Izzie, Phoebe hugged the girl back. “I know you will. And I hope the two of you win lots of roping trophies!”
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~oOo~
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After the Powells left, Phoebe wiped her face and headed back to the stable. Mickey was off today, but the work was the same seven days a week. Often, Margot helped out on Mickey’s days off, or, lately, Duncan, but Duncan had a shift at the service station, and Margot was at Ty’s office, catching up on busy work she’d gotten behind on while she’d focused on the ranch troubles.
So Phoebe was mucking stalls on her own this afternoon. Yay.
As she headed back to the stable with the empty wheelbarrow, having carted out a load of manure to the composting bin, a flash of light caught her eye. She looked toward the house and saw a black Land Rover pulling up to it.
Dropping the wheelbarrow where she was, she headed toward the house. She’d just pushed her work gloves into a back pocket of her jeans when the driver of the car got out and stood up—and Phoebe stopped dead in her tracks.
Lydia Copperman.
Feeling like a coward and a sneak, Phoebe ducked behind the stable’s propane tank. She pulled her phone out and texted Vin: RICHBITCH JUST SHOWED UP. HURRY AND LOCK THE DOOR. DON’T ANSWER IT!
While her phone was in her hand, she texted Margot, too: COPPERMAN JUST SHOWED UP HERE!!!
Margot returned within seconds: OMG! Do NOT talk to her about ANYTHING.
I won’t, Phoebe wrote back.
When Copperman finally headed up the porch steps toward the front door, Phoebe used the distraction to hurry back into the stable. This was ridiculous and she knew it; she couldn’t hide all day. For one thing, her truck was parked right there, a few feet from the Land Rover, and next to Vin’s truck. They were obviously home. Surely when she couldn’t get an answer at the house, Copperman would come down to the stable looking for her.
But she needed a few minutes to figure out how to deal with this completely unexpected development. Why was the woman here now?
The five minutes or so it took Copperman to make her way to the stable seemed a year at least. Phoebe was in the tack room, cleaning the saddle George had used, trying to seem busy and focused.
“Phoebe?” Copperman called, and Phoebe shuddered at the sound of that voice. “Phoebe Davis! Are you in here?”
With a deep, full breath for strength, Phoebe stepped out of the tack room and went to the corner, where she could see the stalls. She was in about the same place she’d watched Mrs. Princess Oilman snark about the ranch, back in January. This time, however, she’d left her nicer friend behind.
She was dressed much the same, like a Monied Horsewoman—jodhpurs, pussy-bow blouse, fitted riding jacket. Her perfectly dyed blonde hair was perfectly styled in a sleek French twist.
