Reading books romantic stories you will plunge into the world of feelings and love. Most of the time the story ends happily. Very interesting and informative to read books historical romance novels to feel the atmosphere of that time.The Forgotten Child by Lorhainne Eckhart (latest ebook reader .TXT) đź“–
- Author: Lorhainne Eckhart
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Book online «The Forgotten Child by Lorhainne Eckhart (latest ebook reader .TXT) 📖». Author Lorhainne Eckhart
When he faced Emily, he wouldn’t look right at her. He stared off to the side, but she didn’t miss the sheen of tears that glossed over his eyes. “The vet’s on vacation, and the closest vet available is on a call in Olympia and can’t get here for three hours. I’m going to have to put him down myself.”
Emily didn’t know what that meant, but she figured Smoky did. He yanked again, this time getting away, almost dragging Emily with him. He flanked Rusty’s side once again, rubbing his nuzzle up and down Rusty’s neck, as if to comfort him.
Brad stepped away from Rusty. He took off Smoky’s lead rope so he wouldn’t trip. “Let him say goodbye.”
This time when Brad stepped closer, she could see the agony of what he needed to do. She’d heard stories of putting your animals down, but never experienced such a loss. “Brad, are you sure, can’t his leg heal? Can’t you just wait till the vet gets here? Can’t we do something for him?”
Brad shoved his hand through his hair and tightened his lips to a thin line. Then put his black cowboy hat back on his head. “No Emily, there’s nothing I can do. His rear leg’s broken, just above the hock, and that gash is a branch that poked right through him. If he was a young horse, maybe surgery could be done. He’s too old. It wouldn’t be fair to him and he’s lost too much blood. It’d be cruel to make him suffer.” Brad started around Emily. “I’m going to need you to hold Smoky back when I put him down.”
“Where are you going?” Brad didn’t turn around.
“To get my gun.”
How did one respond to the reality of what was about to happen? Emily climbed onto the tractor while Brad hurried back to the house. The horses knew something. Smoky was nose to nose, then side to side with Rusty, as if holding him up. And Rusty’s head drooped, as if he knew his time was almost up. The other horses lingered close, about a dozen surrounded Rusty and Smoky, forming a circle of protection. It was magnificent, mesmerizing and heartbreaking to watch this procession. They called out to one another, whinnying and snorting. But she’d no idea what they were thinking.
When Brad hurried back, Cliff trailed behind him, his ratty felt hat pulled down low over his eyes, and his plaid jacket buttoned up. He put the lead rope back on Smoky. The horse fought Cliff as he led him away from Rusty.
“Emily, don’t look.” Brad yelled.
Emily ducked her head and shut her eyes, tears streamed down. She jumped from the shot’s blast, covered her mouth, but couldn’t hold back a whimper. She gazed through a film of tears at Brad standing over Rusty, his beloved horse, lying in a heap in the brush. Smoky reared up and nickered, in the most agonizing way. The other horses swung their tails but did nothing else; a few of them pulled out a mouthful of straw from the loader. But it was the silence in the trees, in the brush and the meadow, as if the land was guiding home a gentle spirit and mourning the loss of such a kind and loyal soul.
Brad lowered his gun, allowing it to dangle from his side. He fisted his other hand and brought it to his mouth. His lips trembled, as he swiped away a stray tear with his coat sleeve.
Emily climbed down from the loader. And then Brad was right behind her. His face filled with immeasurable sorrow. “I need you to help Cliff after I put the hay in the feeder. Hold the horses back while I dig a hole to bury Rusty.”
Her throat tightened, she couldn’t get anything out. She could only nod. Brad climbed up and started the tractor, the loud diesel drowned out everything. Emily backed away while Brad drove the thirty feet to the feeder and dropped in the round of hay. He backed away. The horses were so used to the tractor; they walked around it to the feeder. Except for Smoky, a bay mare, and a white Percheron; they hovered over Rusty.
“Emily, hold Smoky while I grab these other two!” Brad shouted, just as Mac dashed through the gate.
Smoky yanked on his lead. Emily led him further away. Cliff had halters and lead ropes on the other two horses and moved them back. Brad moved in and used the front of the loader to dig a hole beside Rusty. Mac took the Percheron. Blood covered the ground where the horse lay unmoving. Emily buried her face in Smoky’s neck who now stood calmly beside her. It was horrible, watching Brad slide the horse into the hole and then bury him. She knew this was life on a farm with animals, but she’d never experienced such loss in her life. How could ranchers and farmers deal with this so calmly? She’d always bought her meat at the supermarket wrapped in plastic. You didn’t see the cow or chicken still walking around before slaughter.
Brad touched her arm. “Emily, thanks for your help. Go on back to the house. We’re done here.”
He took the halter off Smoky. The horse wandered over to the grave, and stood. The other horses would eat, and then wander over and stand by the grave. Brad jumped back in the tractor, yelling orders at Cliff. Emily ran out the gate, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t stop until she reached the house. Life moved on; they had no time to grieve. Emily stood on the back step and looked back. The tractor, Cliff, Mac and Brad had already moved on.
“Eyes looking, Trevor.” Emily gestured her hand to the child-size chair in front of the kid table set up in the new therapy room upstairs, in the larger, fifth, bedroom at the far end of the hall.
When Trevor didn’t respond, but continued to flit around the room barefoot, muttering under his breath some recent line to a Barney cartoon, Emily gently touched his arm and guided him to the chair. “Sit down.” And he did sit, but then began to rock side to side tipping the chair, which fortunately rapped on thick carpeting, cushioning the noise.
Trevor was out of sorts, and had been since his appointment this morning with Jane, the speech and language pathologist, a short curly-haired red head. From the moment she walked in the living room and sat down on the dark leather sofa, Trevor had performed his monkey routine, climbing on the furniture, the chairs, to the floor on all fours and hooting like an elephant, or was it a dog today? She wasn’t sure.
Two others, a man and woman, had accompanied Jane, all part of the diagnostic team to officially diagnose Trevor. One was an intern; a dark haired man with a trimmed beard, which she supposed was to make him appear older and more distinguished, but failed miserably. Instead, he looked like a wet-behind-the-ears twenty-year-old. The other woman was an occupational therapist, scrawny with prematurely gray short-cropped hair. She too, was observing. Right after introductions were made and Brad and Emily sat in opposite corners of the living room; it all fell apart. The occupational therapist had accepted the coffee Emily offered and sat quietly, appearing shy and a little nervous, on the couch. Trevor jumped from behind the couch onto her shoulders, and then rolled beside her and tried to crawl onto her lap. Her coffee flew out of her hands, landing on the coffee table, which was covered with pamphlets and papers on autism, now coffee-soaked. The good thing was, at least the mug didn’t break. Emily dashed into the kitchen and grabbed a dishtowel beside the sink, and hurried back to wipe up the puddle now dripping from the table onto the floor. Brad, his hardened face flushed pink, stepped in and yanked Trevor off.
Trevor whined and kicked his heels at Brad. Brad smashed his lips together so tight they formed a fine white line. Emily’s stomach turned into one hard knot as she picked up on Brad’s obvious stress.
Jane perched on the edge of the leather sofa. Her back ramrod straight, she dropped her bag on the floor beside her feet, and rested both hands on her jean-clad knees. “Put Trevor down, he wasn’t harming anyone, and maybe Dad should step out so we can assess him without interference.”
Brad froze, and Emily’s mouth fell open, as she crouched on her knees holding the soggy towel, now dripping on her faded blue jeans. Now, to Brad’s credit, he said nothing. But the fire sparking in his magnetic, stormy eyes said it all to Emily. He was going to blow. Emily struggled to her feet. She needed to say something, anything in his defense.
He looked at her with the same steel hardness he leveled on Jane. “Don’t” And of course her heart ached from his hurtful rebuff. She understood now the boundaries she’d crossed, he wouldn’t be defended by a woman. He put Trevor down beside
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