Satan's Pony Read Online Free

Tom’s place a little after eight. He was sitting on the screen porch nursing a beer when I pulled up. Registering no surprise, he continued to sit while I dismounted. He had been expecting me. As I came up the steps, he rose and headed for the fridge.
    â€œMake mine a soda. I’m on call tonight,” I said.
    Tom’s porch ran east to west along one side of the house. You could catch the sunrise or sunset by just turning in your chair. He’d planned it that way when he built the house. It was a simple frame house, with two large rooms, a kitchen, and a bath. When I’d first met him, he had told me modestly that he was a carpenter. But he was really an architect. He made his living rehabbing old houses in south Jersey—breathing new life into them.
    He brought me a frosty Coke. I took the other chair. There were only two—both wicker rockers badly in need of paint. We sipped and rocked and watched the sun go down. By this time of day it had run out of steam and was taking its quiet leave with pale streaks of pink and gold. The fields darkened quickly. It was hard to tell where the fields ended and the sky began—until the stars popped out.
    I told Tom about the trial, Nick, and Maggie.
    â€œPoor Mag,” he said. He had gone through high school with Nick, was a close friend of the family, and knew the whole sad story.
    Then I told him about the bikers.
    â€œOhmygod!” he slapped his forehead. “You’d better move in with me.” He had been prodding me to do this for some time now. I wasn’t ready.
    â€œIt’s not that bad,” I said.
    â€œThanks.” He feigned insult.
    Again we fell silent and I felt his gaze on me in the dark—as if it had form, texture, and warmth.

    â€œWhat about this foot cure of yours?” I spoke lightly.
    â€œI thought you’d never ask.” Setting down his beer, he knelt at my feet. He removed my boots and both socks. “Up we go!” He pulled me up and led me to a corner of the porch. This was where he kept his bed in summer, a mattress and a pillow, covered with a patchwork quilt. The quilt was the genuine article, made by his great-great-grandmother, he’d told me. Folding it carefully, he hung it on the back of one of the chairs. He fluffed the pillow once and said, “Lie down.”
    I lay down.
    Gently he began to message my right foot.
    â€œBut you’re the one with the itchy feet,” I protested feebly.
    â€œIt may seem strange, but it helps my feet to massage yours,” he said. “It’s a new treatment, called ‘pedlepathy.’”
    â€œNever heard of it.” I closed my eyes.
    He switched to the left foot. “Did you know,” he said in a low, confidential tone, “that the nerve endings of the feet can affect every part of the body?”
    â€œReflexology … .” I was drifting off.
    â€œBut eventually,” he continued, “you have to leave the feet—and move on.”
    â€œUmm … what’s that called?”
    â€œNever mind.” Slowly his hands moved up my ankles, over my calves, grazed my thighs, and paused at my waist. He was searching for the snap on my jeans when my cell phone rang.
    â€œDamn.” I sat up.
    â€œDon’t answer it,” he said.
    â€œI have to. I’m on call.” I dug out my cell and listened to the message. “An accident—at Possum Hollow and Gum Tree roads,” I repeated the message. As I scrambled for my socks and boots, I said, “I’m sorry.” And I was.
    From the porch he watched me mount my bike. When I started the motor he shouted over the roar, “Next time I’m falling for a librarian!”

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    Every now and then I wished I were a librarian. Someone with regular hours who could count on time for herself. But I also liked the rush of the emergency call. The sudden jerking alive. The surge of adrenaline. The risk and the challenge.