I inhaled it, obviously, much to Harry’s clear amusement. He didn’t gloat, but he didn’t have to. And I wouldn’t have cared anyway, because watching him eat a full plate of food without fretting over it was a fucking gift.
Emma ate too, and she didn’t flee the kitchen the moment she was done. Damn. Was there something in the water?
I poured more tea from the chipped pot to make sure, forcing some on Harry just for the fun of it. Flicking sugar at him across the table had become one of my favourite games when mealtimes weren’t taken up by invoices and bank statements. “Where’s Mum?”
“On a date,” Emma said.
“What?”
She sniggered. “Joke, I swear. She got the bus to Truro to visit Aunt Deb like she does every other week, you numpty. What’s with you today? You’re starting to make me look sharp.”
Emmawassharp. For the thousandth time that morning alone, her stolen future flashed through my mind. Anxiety, the farm, her loyalty to me—any one of them would’ve been enough to keep her here by itself.
Harry got up and did something with the ancient blender Mum had dug out of the attic for him. The screeching motor cleared my scratchy brain. His hand on my shoulder a few moments later rinsed it clean. “Take this,” he said. “Top you up till dinner.”
And then he was gone, leaving me staring into a travel cup of something purple.
Emma kicked me under the table. “Blueberries, I think. He did say, but I was too busy trying not to puke behind the mushroom stall.”
“You went to the market too?”
She nodded. “Yep. Harry taught me some visualisation techniques and gave me a crystal to hold.”
“A crystal?” This day just got weirder and weirder. “Did it work?”
“Maybe. I didn’t die, so I guess that’s something.”
“Ain’t it always?”
Emma smiled and pressed a spiky purple stone into my hand. “Try it and see.”
“Close to death, am I?”
“You’re the one who claims to be dead inside, Joe.”
She had me there. I gave her the finger, and her fancy crystal back, and left her to the washing up. Out in the yard, there was still no one around, and I didn’t fancy the gloom of the tack room. The sunshine we’d been blessed with all week had faded slightly, but the skies were still bright and the breeze cool enough for a ride. Mani’s broad back called to me, but he deserved a rest day. Shadow was my other option, and for the first time in months, I felt patient enough to give him a chance.
I sloped up to the top field. Like he’d heard my thoughts, Shadow was by the gate, flicking his mane and blowing through his nostrils, his black eyes tracking me as I approached him with a saddle. Most horses responded to gentle mutterings and crooning as I saddled them up for work, but Shadow was different. True to his name, he preferred absolute quiet, and despite the cheery sunshine beating down on my back, the silence suited my mood.
Working with Shadow was exhausting. He fought every command, refused every turn, and kicked out at every little noise. Except when he didn’t, and then he was wonderful... those rare moments of perfection that made every painful wrangle with him worthwhile. Grandpa had often said he should’ve been my father’s horse for just that reason—that they both endured a fraction of the heartache they gave out—but I wasn’t convinced that either of them could’ve survived the other.
Hell, the rest of us barely did, and after three hours with Shadow, I was about done with the world.
I unsaddled him and released him. He galloped away like he’d been in a cage all afternoon, only pausing to glare back at me reproachfully, even though he went half-mad when I didn’t work him enough. That was the problem with clever horses—they needed constant stimulation or they became a beast who would kick you in the head just for something to do.
Perhaps he should’ve beenmyhorse.
I lit a cigarette and ambled back to the house, daydreaming about Sal’s Sunday roast and a hot shower. Maybe I was daydreaming about Harry too, but I blamed the spinach for that. Huh... spinach. A million Popeye jokes came to mind, but I pushed them aside as I pictured Emma in his car—relaxed and laughing. It seemed surreal, but the odd feeling in my chest wouldn’t quit. I was proud of Emma, but there was also... guilt. What had Harry done for her that we hadn’t? How could he have loved and cared for her more than we had?
The answers weren’t there. Perhaps Harry would tell me. If he knew. Despite my propensity for being a dick, I’d learned enough about Emma’s anxiety to know that it rarely made sense.
Leave it alone, boy.
Jonah’s gentle voice kept me company up the path until the tell-tale goosebumps of Harry’s close proximity prickled my arms. I glanced up, expecting to see him playing volleyball in the yard with Toby or sitting on the steps, scribbling in a notebook and generally getting in my way.
But he wasn’t doing any of those things. Harry was with my mum by the feed store—standing in front of her, his body shielding her—as he went nose-to-nose with Dicky McGee and two of his friends.
Chapter Six
