The Mill River Recluse Read Free Page B

and that many of his son’s classmates, some from the most respected families in New England, were avid equestrians. To Stephen, horses were dirty, unpredictable, and more trouble than they were worth. Certainly, a horse could never compete with any car in his personal collection.
    Still, he had never denied his son anything and was not about to deny him the thing that he seemed to love most. When Patrick arrived home after his senior year, Stephen had surprised him on a drive just outside Rutland. Stephen had purchased several acres of pasture. The contractors he hired had just put the finishing touches on a stable on the property. All that they needed were some horses. Patrick would select them, of course. He had told his father that first he wanted a Morgan and a Thoroughbred. They would select the Morgan this morning.
    “Look, there it is,” Stephen said, pointing. Ahead was a small sign by the side of the road that read, “ Samuel E. Hayes. Morgans .” An arrow on the sign indicated that they should turn right, and he swung the black car onto a narrow dirt road. After a mile or so, the road opened into a clearing surrounded by sugar maples. An old pickup truck was parked beside an enormous weathered red barn. Acres of pasture enclosed by a split-rail fence stretched beyond the barn. A footpath faded up a hill toward a small farmhouse.
    Stephen and Patrick stepped out of the car, frowning. “What a dump,” Patrick muttered as they looked around at the run-down farm. A small herd of horses grazed at the far end of the pasture, and a short whinny echoed from the barn, but any human inhabitants of the farm were nowhere in sight.
    “Well, we’re here, anyway,” Stephen said. “When I called yesterday, Hayes said it’d be fine if we came by this morning. Wait here. I’ll go up to the house.” He put on his hat and snapped his suit jacket to straighten it, then started up the footpath. He looked rather out of place, a man dressed in a fine three-piece suit and wingtips walking up a dirt path toward what was little more than a shack.
    Patrick walked over to the fence and crossed his arms over the top rail. A gate in the fence was padlocked. The barn door was open and inside he could see long rows of stalls. He looked up at his father, picking his way along the path to the house, and grew impatient. He was eager to see if there were actually any decent horses in such a shoddy structure, and it was a simple matter to climb over the fence.
    Patrick stepped tentatively into the barn. The familiar smell of horse manure and hay hung in the air. It was dark, especially coming in from the bright morning sun. Still, Patrick could see the rafters and the loft stocked with bales of hay. An occasional creaking came from above his head, and Patrick grew nervous at the thought of the old roof collapsing. A pitchfork and wheelbarrow leaned against another stack of straw bales at the end of the barn. The wooden walls and beams were rough and unfinished. The ancient barn was hardly the neatly painted stable at Harvard, but at least the smell was the same, and it reassured him.
    Two bright blue eyes watched him from a small crack between the straw bales at the end of the barn.
    There was a tack room immediately to his left. The three saddles inside were well-oiled, but worn. An assortment of bridles and halters hung from pegs on the walls, and several brushes and curry combs rested on a shelf.
    Across from the tack room was a large area filled with bags of feed and bales of hay. A large Mason jar containing sugar cubes was nestled on top of an open bag of oats. Patrick unscrewed the lid and shook a few cubes into his hand.
    The stalls at the front of the barn were empty, but he could see several horses in stalls toward the rear of the barn. As he walked down the aisle, he heard a low nicker. A horse in a stall immediately to his left pushed its head over the door of a stall, perked up its ears, and snorted. The horse was young, maybe