“But you still got arrested for fighting. Again. And what the hell for? What has Dicky McGee ever done to you?”
That she didn’t know was oddly relieving. I’d worked hard to keep our father’s mess from our doorstep, though my mum likely knew more than she let on. “It doesn’t matter what he did—or what I did. It’s done and no one’s pressing charges. Can we just go home and get the stables done? I’ve got to fetch the horsebox home and cadge a spare tyre from somewhere.”
Emma shot me another withering look that belied the anxiety still making her tremble. “The stables are done,” she snapped. “And Dex brought the horsebox home last night. That’s how we knew where you were—he rescued it from the tow company and they said you’d been arrested.”
She turned on her heel and rounded the front of the van. The slam of the passenger door rang out in the empty car park and kickstarted a headache I could’ve done without. Guilt morphed into self-loathing, and the image of my mum fetching my father from the police station ran through my mind on a loop. I wasn’t a raging pisshead, but that aside, was I a better man?
Not today.
I got in the van and turned the key in the ignition. A thousand apologies danced on my tongue, but I kept them in. Emma had heard them all before, and we both knew that words meant nothing in our family. Never had.
A mile away from the police station, she turned in her seat and put her hand over mine. “That mare died, didn’t she?”
I nodded. “Didn’t get to her in time.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Isn’t it? We should’ve kicked those barn doors in and brought her home as soon as we knew she was there.”
Emma shook her head. “You’d have got arrested for that, too, and charged with theft.”
“She’d be alive, though.”
“Not for long, and nor would our other old nags with you in prison. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Me and Mum—we can’t handle the farm on our own. Weneedyou. And so do the horses we already have.”
My heart knew she was right, but it still hurt. “I wish the RSPCA wouldn’t call us before they had a seizure order. It fucks with my head.”
“Mine too.” Emma’s hand slipped from mine. “But we can’t let it eat us whole. There’s too much at stake.”
Wasn’t there always? I sighed and turned down the narrow lane that led to the farm. “We’ll be okay. If I can’t borrow a tyre for the horsebox, I’ll sell the van.”
“Dex lent us a tyre, but that’s not what I mean. Not really, anyway. There’s always a burst tyre, Joe. Or a broken fence, or a vet bill. When does it end? Mum’s worried we’ll lose some of the older horses if we can’t pay for their care.”
The thought of my wonderful mum—and Emma—worrying about losing our horses made me sick to my stomach. “We’ll find a way. We always do.”
“No, we don’t. We just beat back the flames until the next inferno, and we’re running out of water.”
I snorted. “That’s the worst metaphor I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s not a metaphor, dickhead. And even if it was, I’m still right. We’re doomed unless we come up with something to bring more cash in.”
I couldn’t figure out why she was telling me this now, when it had been the case ever since our grandpa had died three years ago. The farm had been his, and the running of it a mystery to all but him. It was only after his funeral that we’d realised it had been in the red for decades. He’d left it to me, and it weighed heavily on my shoulders that things had got even worse ever since. “I don’t have any bright ideas.”
“I know. Which is why I’ve accepted an Airbnb booking for Grandpa’s old room.”
“What?” I swung the van into the yard with a screech. “How? And what the hell is an Airbnb?”
“It’s an app where you can rent rooms out. We talked about this.”
“Yeah, we talked about it, but I never agreed to anything. All Grandpa’s stuff is still in there.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be,” Emma said. “And he wouldn’t want his room sitting there untouched while the farm goes down the toilet.”
“Oh, and you think having a bunch of scuzzy tourists tramping through our house is going to save us, do you?”
Emma gave me the finger and got out of the van. I followed suit and trailed after as she stalked into the house. Our mum—Sal—was in the kitchen making sandwiches for the motley crew of locals who worked on the farm—Toby, Jemima, and Lacey, they filed in, eyeing me and Emma like we were unexploded bombs.
I couldn’t blame them. Emma and I were chalk and cheese but cut from the same stubborn Carter cloth. Our rows were legendary. She threw things, I punched walls, and Sal cried until one of us saw sense. Usually Emma. Sense wasn’t my strong point when my temper burned.
