With Carrot-top following us, we set off again, sidestepping a beautifully patterned tortoise munching on a lettuce leaf. The German Shepherd abandons his sniff and explore jaunt to instantly attach himself to Kane’s side.
It isn’t long before Kane halts outside a paddock where two painfully thin horses stand a few feet apart, grazing. I wince when I notice the jutting hip bones and prominent spines. Both sport dull, matted coats, one black, the other brown. A bandage covers the right back leg of the black horse.
The animals look up at our approach. I’m not an expert on horses, but I think they look scared. Their bodies are quivering and their ears are back.
I glance over at Kane. He’s resting his forearms on the top rail of a split-rail fence, staring at the horses through narrowed eyes, his jaw tight.
“They look bad,” I comment, unable to think of anything to say but the obvious.
“Yes,” he says flatly. So now we’re both going with obvious.
“Do you see this sort of thing a lot?”
“Unfortunately.”
An unhappy Saba whines and presses himself against Kane’s legs, as if sensing his feelings. Kane gives him a reassuring pat.
“Will they be okay?”
He doesn’t answer straight away. “I don’t know. This kind of starvation brings its own set of problems—kidney trouble, sore joints, heart murmurs.” He rubs the back of his neck. “With a carefully balanced diet and a course of vitamin injections, their coats will begin to shine again and they’ll flesh out. Z would’ve checked them out. If anyone can bring them back to health, it’ll be him.”
“It’s not only their physical health though, is it?” I ask.
“No,” he answers, his face reflecting surprise at my insight. “They’re broken animals. It’ll take some time to re-establish their trust in humans.”
Carrot-top takes that moment to bray a greeting to the two horses, but their only response is to press closer to one another as they stare fearfully at the brazen donkey.
“They’re not ready for you yet, boy,” Kane says to Carrot-top. He picks up a dirty ball and lobs it down the path. Carrot-top takes off eagerly after it. “That’ll keep him amused for a while.” He eyes out the stallions again and asks, “How’s your naming skills?”
“I’ve had some practice calling you a few names.”
His mouth quirks. “I would guess none of those names are suitable for horses.”
“You would guess right.”
“What about any companion animals? Pets?” Kane clarifies, when he catches my confused look. “Any of them you’ve named?”
“We never had any pets growing up.”
“Why not? Too afraid Daddy would eat them?”
I shoot him a look, but there’s no malice in his tone. “Couldn’t resist that one, could you?”
“A better man would have.” He tries for serious. “Sorry.”
I snort. “No, you’re not.”
“You’re right, I’m not,” he admits, and I hear the smile in his voice.
Absently, I say, “Petting farms, zoos, game farms, they weren’t part of my childhood. It was always art museums or the theater.” I step closer to the fence and study the two horses. “What about naming the black oneTrojanafter the wooden horse that helped the Greeks win the battle against Troy? It could be symbolic of the battle he’s fighting at the moment.”
There’s no reply. I glance over at Kane. He’s looking at me as though I’ve suddenly sprouted two heads. Or as though he’s seeing me for the first time.
“What?” I ask. “Were you expecting me to name oneArmani?”
Kane clears his throat. To my delight, color spreads across his cheekbones. “Something like that.” He continues staring at me, and I glimpse a hint of admiration in his eyes. Stupidly, I warm under it. “Trojan,” he repeats. “I like the name and what it represents.” He drums his fingers on the fence. “If we’re going with battle horses, thenCopenhagenwould suit the brown stallion. He was the Duke of Wellington’s favorite horse, carried him the entire time during the Battle of Waterloo. Seventeen hours.”
“Trojan and Copenhagen,” I murmur, testing out the names, an absurd feeling of pride running through me at the part I played.
