Page 28 of Unbroken

Shannon poured creamer into her cup and slid the container over to me, tapping the full coffee cup sitting right in front of me that I’d had yet to notice. One of them must have filled my cup before getting theirs. I ignored the creamer and grabbed my grumpy cup, taking a big sip of the scalding, bitter elixir. Any moment now, it would kick in. Any. Moment.

At the point I started feeling human again, I realized that my siblings had left as quietly as they’d arrived. I refilled my cup, adding creamer this time, then slid my feet into my boots and headed out to the barn to start my chores.

I was surprised to see Dr. Wilcox’s vehicle parked outside the barn. I knew that Josh and Shannon tended to use both Ruth Wilcox’s and Julia Lett’s veterinary services somewhat interchangeably, but lately, we’d been seeing more of Julia. Was she here to check on Belle’s pregnancy or was there a problem with one of the other horses?

“Is everything okay?” I blurted out, making the older woman jump in surprise.

“Good grief, Fiona. You about gave me a heart attack. I’m too old for that,” she chastised me and I grinned. Despite being in her seventies, Dr. Wilcox was as spry as anyone I knew, and she was usually near impossible to ruffle.

“Sorry, Doc. I’ve been concerned about Belle ever since Diesel hopped the fence, and seeing you here now…” I left the rest unsaid and her expression softened with understanding.

“I agree that Belle shouldn’t be pregnant at her age, but aborting the fetus in a mare of any age should only be done in case of extremecircumstances,” she told me, and I nodded in response. I remembered one of my mother’s horses spontaneously losing the fetus years ago. It had been awful. The placenta hadn’t gotten completely expelled, and the poor girl had ended up with endotoxemia from the influx of toxins in her system. My mom had refused to leave her side. Unfortunately, Doc Wilcox ended up having to put the mare down and my mom cried for weeks. I didn’t want Shannon to go through that.

“You’ll be happy to know that Belle is doing well. Bit of discomfort, but that’s normal at this stage. I’m here checking on the other mares to determine which ones are pregnant.”

Shannon preferred to breed her horses naturally instead of using AI—artificial insemination. It was how our mother and grandmother both chose to do it and even though there were alternatives now that had high conception rates and were considered in some ways safer for the mare than live cover breeding, my sister was still insistent on what she called “the Cafferty women’s way.”

There were pros and cons to both options and the health of the mares and their foals were always of top concern to Shannon. Before I could ask the doc which mares were pregnant, my sister strode out from the barn.

“Thanks for your help, Doc,” she said, handing her a check for the visit. We both watched the doc drive away.

“So? How many pregnant?” I asked Shannon.

“Three. Two more by Diesel and Winnie got knocked up by Hurricane, the stallion from Four Aces.” Shannon had been negotiating with some of the other ranches around here for stud fees with stallions that carried traits she was hoping to breed. Successful breeding programs was a mix of the right genetics, money, and luck. Shannon’s mares had genetics on their side, but we seemed to be lacking in luck,given how hard money was to come by. Especially in a market saturated with average horses.

“Can I help with anything?” I asked. Our next trail ride wasn’t until tomorrow and my regular chores could wait if my sister needed help.

“You sure you’re awake enough?” she teased me, elbowing my arm as she grinned. I chugged the last of my coffee, grimacing at the bitter bite.

“Put me to work, boss lady. I’m yours for at least the next hour or two.” I hooked my arm around my sister’s and we headed to the enclosed pasture where her mares hung out during the day. My steps felt lighter than they had earlier. I chalked it up to my relief that Belle was okay, but it was more than that. I was happy being here. Maybe happier than I’d been my last few months in Denver. But that didn’t make sense because I wasn’t planning on sticking around. I fully intended to return to Denver and rejoin the corporate world. So, then, why was I so excited to get dirty?

EIGHTEEN

ELI

Ihated having to spend time in town. Stepping foot anywhere around Poplar Springs had me feeling as if I were under the town’s magnifier. I couldn’t shake off the anxious sense that, any second now, the sun shining through that lens would burn me to a crisp. Admittedly, that might be blowing the situation out of proportion but if one more person looked in my shopping cart and made a comment, I would not be responsible for my actions.

“Someone sick?” a male voice asked and I only just managed to swallow down an angry retort when I realized the questioner was our local sheriff, Brian Thorne.

“Patrick,” I told him. My son had been sniffly most of yesterday and woke up in the middle of the night burning up with a fever. An internet search, plus advice from my mom, was how I came up with the shopping list: chicken broth, garlic, ginger, berries, bananas, carrots, celery, dinosaur shaped pasta, crackers, juice…. It was a lengthy list.

Brian nodded. “Yeah, something seems to be making the rounds. My nephew, Henry, came down with something last week. My sister-in-law, Amy, said he felt like shit for two to three days but was then back to normal. I think the mayor’s been sick too.”

“That’s good to hear about Henry’s recovery. I’ve no idea where Patrick could have gotten it from since he spends most of his days either with me or my mom and neither of us are sick.” As I said it, there was a ruckus and several people came through the main entrance in a cluster. They were all wearing polos with the name of my dad’s church over the breast and on the sleeve. One of them made a big show of grabbing boxes of facial tissue while someone else was carrying soda. “Or I guess he could have picked up something from my dad.” I shook my head watching the church members sniffling and touching things in the store while they shopped.

“On that note, I think I’m done shopping here for today,” Brian said. “I do not need to get sick.”

One of the group coughed, and that was it for me. “I think I am too.”

Brian clapped me on the back and laughed. “Let’s get out of here.”

We paid for our respective groceries. Once everything was loaded, I drove to my mom’s house. When I’d left there two hours ago, Patrick had been lying on the couch under a blanket, and watching cartoons. When I walked into her place—loaded down with bags, since I’d been determined to bring everything inside in one trip—Patrick was still in the same spot, but he was sound asleep. His breathing sounded raspy but he didn’t appear to be struggling.

“Did you get everything I asked for?” my mom called from the kitchen. I told her I did and unpacked everything. She had chicken simmering on the stove already and she grabbed some of the fresh items and prepped them to add to the chicken soup pot.

Growing up, my mom didn’t have a huge repertoire of meals that she would make. I had memories of her cooking more when I was younger—more adventuresome meals—but as I got older, the list ofoptions dwindled and our dinners became downright boring. Mondays was pot roast, Tuesdays was soup or stew, Wednesdays was spaghetti with canned sauce and some sort of meat added, Thursdays and Saturdays were leftovers, Fridays was some sort of frozen and breaded fish, and Sundays, we tended to nibble the leftover foods the parishioners brought. Even now, I could list out the different meals from memory.

Once Beatrice Carter left my father and moved into her own place, she shared that he had made disparaging comments about her cooking for most of their marriage and had pigeon-holed her into only making certain dishes. At the point she started cooking for herself, she’d returned to trying new things and had even taken a couple online cooking classes. It was in one of those classes that she’d picked up her recipe for “anti-inflammatory chicken soup,” which was laden with garlic, ginger, citrus, and a bunch of herbs. I hadn’t thought Patrick would like it since it was always a battle to get that kid to eat his vegetables, but he’d proved me wrong and he loved it when his grandma made it for him. Hence why she was currently leaning over a steaming pot on a Sunday morning and throwing ingredients into the biggest cooking pot I’d ever seen.

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