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be caving in and she’d be praising the good Lord for rain. The day they buried Grandpops, she was stricken with grief, but she commented several times about what a pretty day it was for December. Wouldn’t get many more of these, she predicted, until spring. Then she blew her nose and wiped her red eyes and lived another four years before she joined Grandpops in heaven.
    Those beautiful horses had been on their way to a slaughterhouse. Katie cringed to think what would have happened if she hadn’t come along when she did.
    She sat and started snapping green beans. Rules and regulations — the world was full of them. She snapped a bean and tossed it into the pot. What harm would it do to take the four surviving horses and nurse them back to health? Once the animals’ health was restored — if it could be restored, local children could come to the house and ride on Sunday afternoons — no, think clearly, Katie. You run enough risk by giving private riding lessons. You can’t invite more outsiders here because of the women, but you could nurse the horses back to health and place them in a rehabilitation farm.
    Another bean hit the pot. There were compassionate farms that would care for the horses until someone was found to adopt them. Katie’s earlier call to the humane society had proved a dead end. They had no knowledge of the horses and suggested they were owned by a private party. She’d called Ben back, and he assured her that he was putting a trace on the vehicle. He’d promised to get back to her by noon. When she’d asked where the injured horses were, he’d said they were being taken care of. She didn’t want to think what that might mean. She went back over their earlier, brief conversation.
    â€œCall me the minute you hear anything, Ben. Promise me?”
    â€œKatie, don’t get your hopes up on a bunch of injured horses. American horses are killed every day so their meat can satisfy the palates of overseas European diners. And Premarin sure isn’t helping the cause. Horses are abused every day to harvest artificial hormones for women. As far as I’m concerned, women have too many hormones the way it is.”
    â€œThese horses aren’t going be somebody’s dinner if I can help it.”
    â€œWhere would you put them? Your barn can’t hold more than five or six animals.”
    â€œThe four surviving horses and my Appaloosa make five, so I’m okay. I also have ten acres, you know.”
    â€œYour ten acres are full to overflowing with strays, and you’re constantly telling me you’re broke.”
    â€œI am constantly broke, but I’ve learned to live with it, and I can take care of those horses until they’re ready to be moved. They don’t need to end up in a slaughterhouse.”
    â€œThat’s all you need. A big feed bill.”
    â€œYou just help me get the horses, and I’ll worry about feeding them.”
    â€œWhat time is it, anyway?”
    Katie dropped a bean in the pot and glanced up to see Clara Townsend framed in the doorway. The politician focused on her. Smoke rolled from the cigarette dangling from the right corner of her crimson lips. Katie stared — aware that staring was rude. But this woman’s face was plastered on the television in commercials hourly — or a replica of this woman touting Townsend for Congress! The smooth talking, baby-kissing politician that belted out welfare reform, lower taxes, and revamping Medicare looked nothing like this — person.
    Katie’s gaze dropped to her watch. “10:15.”
    Clara stared back through a trail of roiling smoke. “a.m.?”
    Katie nodded, still puzzled by the politician’s radical change of appearance. She’d let her new guest sleep in this morning. By the time she picked her up at the airport, argued over luggage and the lack of a private bathroom, and returned home, it was late. Tottie had