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and strained for a glimpse of the General.
    Christian parked near the main doors of the barn. He got out, shrugged off his suit jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and left everything in the truck along with his tie.
    On his way into the stable he skirted a wheelbarrow full of steaming horse manure. In the soft, late-afternoon air he caught its pungent scent. To true horse people, even that strong aroma was like perfume and Christian had been used to it since his early teens, when he started riding. Nearby, as he passed the indoor arena, he glimpsed several girls, also boarders, on their horses, but Rafe wasn’t there to give a lesson. He must have left work for the day.
    So much for asking him to exercise the General more. Christian himself hadn’t been on the horse in almost a year.
    Halfway down the aisle he halted, hearing the occasional stamp of a hoof, a sudden snort from other stalls, the far-off munching of grain. He inhaled the smells that had once made his heart glad. Fine leather and saddle soap. He’d loved each one, separate or mingled, since his first time on a horse. Still, the barn reminded him with crystal clarity of that fateful day.
    So many times he’d come here with Owen, bringing carrots and gummy bears. He heard a familiar whicker and his spirit warmed in spite of what had happened and the lingering regret for his harsh words to Emma the other night, his harsh thoughts.
    Still, for another second, he hesitated. He stood outside the General’s stall, his pulse beating harder, his hand lingering over the brass nameplate beside the door. It had come just to the level of Owen’s head then. He could still see in his mind’s eye the mounting stool lying in the aisle, the half-open stall door his child had slipped through, intent upon feeding gummy bears up close—too close, it turned out—to Christian’s horse.
    Now the General stood at the open window of his stall, gazing out toward the pastures, as if ever hopeful of seeing the mare from the next farm, but at his approach the gelding swung his head around.
    Was Christian imagining things? Or had the General glanced down, as if hoping to see Owen there? All at once he could hardly see the beautiful black-and-white horse for the sudden blur in his vision.
    Emma hated the General. With good reason, but Christian had owned him for years, ridden him too long. Grace had, too, until she started college and married Rafe. They knew the General didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He’d always taken care of Owen...until that last time.
    It was this place, not his horse, that Christian found hard to face.
    His throat tightened. “Hey, boy.” The General ambled over to the stall door and, making the snuffling sound Christian viewed as his personal greeting, stretched his neck out to accept a pat on the sleek column of warm muscle.
    Christian offered him a carrot from the bag he kept in his truck. The horse chewed, steadily sucking its length into his mouth like an efficient vacuum cleaner. His dark brown eyes seemed to glow with pleasure.
    â€œGlutton.”
    What was it Emma had said? That horse is just standing around in his stall, eating up money. After what he did to my family.
    Christian grabbed a brush from his trunk in the tack room, unlatched the stall door, stepped inside and nudged the General back. The horse had gained a few pounds, which only made Christian feel more guilty for neglecting him.
    â€œOkay, fatso. I want this coat to shine like a mirror.”
    As he worked, he heard giggles coming from the indoor ring, and he felt a part of this place again. As if he really could turn back time. Those girls were novices, but they acted as if they were preparing for a big show in Madison Square Garden.
    He envisioned the General not that long ago, getting ready to strut his stuff in some local ring, lifting each leg high in the “big lick” that was the Walking Horse’s learned signature