more of this stuff?” She nodded at her mug.
Sid would let him fix her another hot chocolate, but not arrange free legal help. Usually, people were pestering Mac to take their cases, to “look over” the charging documents, or “talk to the cops” for them. His clients often wanted something for nothing and were happy to get it.
“I can make you more, Sidonie.”
“How about you show me how?”
Mac did, standing next to Sid at the stove, leaving her to stir the milk with the wooden spoon while he put away the nachos and dip and wiped off the table.
“What do you suppose Luis is up to?” he asked when she’d poured the hot chocolate into two mugs.
“Damned if I know. He’s in love with those horses, though, and that’s going to be a problem.”
“How?”
“We cannot afford them.”
A money problem, Mac could solve. A problem with Sid’s pride, only Sid could solve.
“What if the owner paid you to board them here,” Mac suggested. “Paid you what they’re costing you, plus something for their care?”
“That would be Luis’s idea of a prayer answered. He seems to spend more time out at that barn with each day.”
Whatever that quote was, about the outside of a horse being good for the inside of a man, it went double for kids, probably quadruple for foster kids.
“Have you seen what he’s done there?” Mac asked.
“I have not,” Sid said, passing him his hot chocolate. “I figure he’ll let me into the secret clubhouse when he wants me to see it.”
“Take a look. He’s working miracles. Now, about the horses.”
“And their imaginary owner, who has not, in the two weeks since we closed on this place, so much as picked up the phone to ask after his fair damsels. I asked the real estate agent to call the previous owner, but even his agent can’t find him. I don’t suppose you know who this paragon of pet-owning responsibility would be?”
Mac took a fortifying sip of his hot chocolate. “In a sense, I think that would be me.”
* * *
And here I was beginning to like him—or his hot chocolate.
“Mr. Knightley, I do not appreciate prevarication, mendacity, or manipulation,” Sid said. “Why would you leave your horses here, come on the scene as if you knew nothing, and now offer me some sort of confession?”
“I can explain.”
The road to hell should be paved with those three words. “You can keep your explanations,” Sid said. “I cannot abide people who trade in falsehoods. Ask Luis—on your way out the door.”
Sid had also respected this guy, respected his generosity and competence, his willingness to deal with Luis—but when had her judgment regarding guys ever been trustworthy?
“You asked me a question, Sidonie, at least let me answer it.” Mac sat back in his chair, reminding Sid she couldn’t bodily toss him anywhere.
“So answer, then beat it. Take the mastodons with you.” At least Sid had his hot chocolate recipe to keep.
“I didn’t leave them here. I never had title to them, and if you can’t listen with an open mind, why should I bother? I can walk out that door, and there isn’t a judge or a jury on this earth that would hold me responsible for those horses. I hold myself responsible. Why don’t you run your ad on Craigslist, and explain to Luis why his horses ended up in a freezer headed for Belgium?”
MacKenzie Knightley wasn’t the kind of guy whose fuse burned down quickly and loudly. His arguments were soft, reasonable, and nasty.
“You said they were yours. Now they’re Luis’s?”
He had blue eyes, and they reflected a world of frustration. A guy this size, this frustrated, whom Sid didn’t know well at all, ought to be intimidating.
And he was, but not scary. MacKenzie Knightley was formidable, but she would have bet her leather bomber jacket he was honorable. Surely any guy who scolded her about protein and grief while he made her sandwiches and hot chocolate had to have some honor?
“My father bred that pair,”
Sid would let him fix her another hot chocolate, but not arrange free legal help. Usually, people were pestering Mac to take their cases, to “look over” the charging documents, or “talk to the cops” for them. His clients often wanted something for nothing and were happy to get it.
“I can make you more, Sidonie.”
“How about you show me how?”
Mac did, standing next to Sid at the stove, leaving her to stir the milk with the wooden spoon while he put away the nachos and dip and wiped off the table.
“What do you suppose Luis is up to?” he asked when she’d poured the hot chocolate into two mugs.
“Damned if I know. He’s in love with those horses, though, and that’s going to be a problem.”
“How?”
“We cannot afford them.”
A money problem, Mac could solve. A problem with Sid’s pride, only Sid could solve.
“What if the owner paid you to board them here,” Mac suggested. “Paid you what they’re costing you, plus something for their care?”
“That would be Luis’s idea of a prayer answered. He seems to spend more time out at that barn with each day.”
Whatever that quote was, about the outside of a horse being good for the inside of a man, it went double for kids, probably quadruple for foster kids.
“Have you seen what he’s done there?” Mac asked.
“I have not,” Sid said, passing him his hot chocolate. “I figure he’ll let me into the secret clubhouse when he wants me to see it.”
“Take a look. He’s working miracles. Now, about the horses.”
“And their imaginary owner, who has not, in the two weeks since we closed on this place, so much as picked up the phone to ask after his fair damsels. I asked the real estate agent to call the previous owner, but even his agent can’t find him. I don’t suppose you know who this paragon of pet-owning responsibility would be?”
Mac took a fortifying sip of his hot chocolate. “In a sense, I think that would be me.”
* * *
And here I was beginning to like him—or his hot chocolate.
“Mr. Knightley, I do not appreciate prevarication, mendacity, or manipulation,” Sid said. “Why would you leave your horses here, come on the scene as if you knew nothing, and now offer me some sort of confession?”
“I can explain.”
The road to hell should be paved with those three words. “You can keep your explanations,” Sid said. “I cannot abide people who trade in falsehoods. Ask Luis—on your way out the door.”
Sid had also respected this guy, respected his generosity and competence, his willingness to deal with Luis—but when had her judgment regarding guys ever been trustworthy?
“You asked me a question, Sidonie, at least let me answer it.” Mac sat back in his chair, reminding Sid she couldn’t bodily toss him anywhere.
“So answer, then beat it. Take the mastodons with you.” At least Sid had his hot chocolate recipe to keep.
“I didn’t leave them here. I never had title to them, and if you can’t listen with an open mind, why should I bother? I can walk out that door, and there isn’t a judge or a jury on this earth that would hold me responsible for those horses. I hold myself responsible. Why don’t you run your ad on Craigslist, and explain to Luis why his horses ended up in a freezer headed for Belgium?”
MacKenzie Knightley wasn’t the kind of guy whose fuse burned down quickly and loudly. His arguments were soft, reasonable, and nasty.
“You said they were yours. Now they’re Luis’s?”
He had blue eyes, and they reflected a world of frustration. A guy this size, this frustrated, whom Sid didn’t know well at all, ought to be intimidating.
And he was, but not scary. MacKenzie Knightley was formidable, but she would have bet her leather bomber jacket he was honorable. Surely any guy who scolded her about protein and grief while he made her sandwiches and hot chocolate had to have some honor?
“My father bred that pair,”
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