Page 2 of Love Bound

"Somebody has to," I say.

"Somebody has to," was my mother's mantra and she repeated it my entire life. All twenty-eight years. Even now, after she's gone, I still hear her voice in my ear.

"You're going to have your hands full enough with your new neighbor," he says with a side nod to The Inn.

This is a sore point. He can tell from my face I'm not ready to discuss it.

"George did the best he could," Brighty starts.

"I know. I know. It had to be sold."

"He did good by you kids."

I stuff my hands in my back pockets. "It just makes me sad."

The Inn at Echo Bay used to be majestic. At least I thought so when I was growing up. There were five of us: Chloe, me, Devon, Laurel, and Travis. When we were really little, Mom and Chloe ran The Inn, and I helped Dad with the animals at the practice. When Devon and Laurel were old enough, Devon helped out with housekeeping and maintenance. And little Laurel learned to make all kinds of scones by the time she was six. She was the only kid I knew with sand on her feet and flour up to her elbows. Then Travis came to us. He immediately turned his attention to animals. By the time I left for college, he was ready to help Dad out with the practice and take my place. It felt—I felt—like everything was set.

I was wrong.

We had to let The Inn go, and it's been wasting away for the last decade. And though the office and corral aren't attached, they're part of the same parcel, so whoever bought the place last week is going to be a very close neighbor. It makes me sick to my stomach. The thought of someone else in there. Someone else's family living in our home.

This is why Brighty could read my face.

The stern man shouts again and Brighty sighs before offering a quick hug. Then, I watch him walk back to the docks where the Little Lightning II rocks in her moors. It's the dinghy they use to bring in their catch. Little Lightning III rocks daintily, moored in Echo Bay. Brighty lost the original Little Lightning—and almost his life—when I was a teenager. Moving quickly, he steps into the dinghy and starts lifting crates of lobster.

Even after growing up here, I never did get my sea-legs. Brighty could probably balance a Champagne flute on his head during his haul and not spill a drop. I still have to take Dramamine for longer trips out to islands like Mohegan, Matinicus, or Metinic. Then there's Cat Ledge.

My stomach churns again.

I need to stop thinking about family and boats.

Ducking inside the small stable with three stalls, I start making mental notes of what I need to get at the feed store. Grain, a good curry comb, salt lick. I need new hoof trimmers anyway. I glance at the horse's feet. His hooves curve like evil, elven shoes. After rubbing some crap out of one of the stainless-steel watering dishes at the end of the stall, it's clear I'll have to flush the water pipes and get the automatic waterers back in working condition. Large animals hardly ever spend more than a night and I just haul water from the kitchen with a hose. But this horse will be with me for months. This guy—this rawboned, hacking, mustang mix with blistered lips and bowed tendons—will be here awhile. If he makes it.

I can't predict which charges will stick. It'll probably end up being insurance fraud and Ernie Tolbert will get some fine he can't pay. If found guilty on charges of animal abuse, he'll get fined five hundred bucks and have to do sixty hours of community service. I'll have to face him in court with the photos.

Some people deserve to be shot.

Not killed. Just shot through the knee or something. And I'm a pacifist.

Asshole.

He should get five to ten and have to work at a farm or ranch and deal with animals every single day.

The chocolate gelding comes up behind me and I turn around—too fast. He startles, which is actually a good sign, I remind myself and sidestep to the other end the corral.

He needs a name. But I don’t have it in me to give him one. Not yet. Not until I'm certain he's going to make it. I can’t take a risk on a name that might disappear. I've had way too much of that.

A truck pulls up in the front of The Inn. I can't see the entrance from the back of the property, but then it pulls around between the two buildings. By the time the door slams, whoever was driving is inside.

It’s a big, weather-beaten, hollow tin can of a truck. An old, gold, Ford half-ton pickup. There are rust patches and part of the front fender is twisted off. Probably some local guy from Belfast or Thomason. Maybe Cushing, here to get the inside cleaned up for the new buyer. But then I see Massachusetts plates—and I know.

This is the new buyer.

Doesn’t look like the kind of truck somebody who buys property with cash would drive. I expected a Lexus or BMW or a Mercedes. But there are tools in the back. So not the owner, the contractor. But if he knows the owner, maybe I could leverage something.

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer," my mother always said. She learned this from living in a small town.

I grit my teeth.