Chapter 1 - Tucker
The kitchen smells like burnt toast and strawberry jam when I stumble in at 5:47 AM, and Emma's already at the table in her pink pajamas with the horses on them, swinging her legs and humming something that might be the theme song from that cartoon about magical cowboys she watches every Saturday morning.
"Morning, Bug," I say, heading straight for the coffee maker because nothing else is going to happen until I've had at least half a cup.
"Morning, Daddy." She doesn't look up from the picture she's coloring.
Another horse, because what else would it be, and her tongue is poking out the corner of her mouth the way it always does when she's concentrating hard on something. "Butterscotch didn't eat his breakfast yesterday."
My hand freezes halfway to the mug. "What?"
"Butterscotch." Now she looks up, and her hazel eyes, the same shade as mine, the only thing she got from me besides the stubborn streak, are worried. "I went to see him after school and his food was still there. All of it."
I pour the coffee, trying to think through the fog in my brain. Butterscotch is Emma's favorite horse, a fifteen-year-old quarter horse gelding with a temperament so gentle I'd trust him with a newborn. He's never missed a meal in the three years since Frank passed and left him to us along with everything else.
"Did you tell Boone?"
"He said maybe Butterscotch just wasn't hungry." Emma goes back to her coloring, but the strokes are harder now, more aggressive. "But horses are always hungry. You said so."
I did say that. Last month, when she asked why we had to feed them so much, I told her horses are basically stomachs with legs attached. Made her laugh so hard she snorted milk out her nose.
Not laughing now.
"I'll check on him after I get you on the bus," I say, sitting down across from her with my coffee. The chair creaks under my weight. Everything in this house creaks, groans, or threatens to fall apart, just like everything else on this ranch, and I take that first beautiful sip of coffee that makes the world slightly less blurry.
Emma's still attacking that picture, turning the horse's mane into angry brown scribbles.
"Emma."
She doesn't look up.
"Bug."
The crayon stills. When she finally meets my eyes, there are tears threatening in hers, and my heart does that thing it always does when she's upset. It drops straight through my chest and into my boots.
"What if he's really sick?" Her voice is so small. "What if he dies like Mr. Delaney?"
Jesus Christ.
I set down my coffee and reach across the table, covering her small hand with mine. "Frank was ninety-three years old, sweetheart. Butterscotch is only fifteen. That's not even old for a horse."
"But what if—"
"No what-ifs." I squeeze her hand gently. "I promise I'll check on him right after the bus comes, and if something's wrong, we'll call the vet. Okay?"
She sniffles, then nods, then picks up the crayon again. This time the strokes are softer. She's drawing a little girl next to the horse now, with pigtails and pink boots.
"Can I come with you?" she asks. "To check on him?"
"You've got school."
"But—"
"Emma Hayes." I use her full name, which means business, and she slumps in her chair with a dramatic sigh that would make her mother proud.
I can’t think about her. Not this early. Not ever. She abandoned us.
"Fine," Emma mutters, but she's smiling a little now, because she knows she almost had me. "But you have to tell me everything when I get home. Everything."
