The Baby Race by Elysa Hendricks Page A

breeze from the open window helped cool her
skin.
    "Before we get to the front gate, I'll get
out and try and sneak around and look in the barn. You drive up to
the house and ask about the tractor he's advertised for sale.
That'll give you an excuse to go out to the barn. Maybe you'll see
the horse."
    "Do you really think he's going to believe
I'm interested in buying a tractor?"
    "Probably not, but what other reason could
you have?"
    "Doesn't he have a son away at college? I
could pretend to be a friend looking for him."
    "That might work, but how will that get you
into the barn?"
    "Just leave it to me."
    "Be careful. If you need me, blow the
horn."
    "Don't worry."
    How could he do anything but worry as he
watched her drive toward the house? Strange he'd never before
considered the possible danger involved in confronting someone who
could abuse an animal. He'd never worried about Cindy, War or even
Vicki being hurt when he took them out to farms where horses had
been starved or beaten.
    Swallowing his apprehension, he worked his
way around to the back of the old barn. He peeked through a window
to the dim dusty interior. Badly in need of paint and repair, the
structure listed. Rusty nails and broken boards posed a risk to the
lone horse inside, but the stall held fresh straw and clean water.
Though swaybacked and half-blind, the horse appeared healthy. No
abuse here, just age.
    Relief eased the tension inside Race. This
horse's owner might be uncaring of his barn, but the animal inside
while old seemed well cared for. A warning about the injury rusty
nails and broken boards could do to his animal might be enough.
    Keeping out of sight of the house, Race
walked back toward the road. The murmur of voices drifted on the
warm summer air. Claire's laughter caught his attention. He looked
and saw her standing on the front porch with Clarence Hoffman.
    Race vaguely remembered the man's older son,
Lawrence. For one year, they'd attended school together, until
Lawrence had graduated. Several years later, he'd been killed in an
accident and Clarence, already a long time widower and always a bit
of a recluse, had become anti-social. His younger son was away at
school and according to town gossip, had no intention of ever
returning.
    "Race."
    Race's head snapped up at Claire's shout.
Adrenaline shot through his veins. He ran toward the house.
    "Where's the fire, boy? You young people,
always in such a gall darned hurry." Clarence leaned heavily on his
cane and opened the door. He peered at Race. "I remember you.
Jackson Reed's oldest boy. You still a hell raiser? Well, come on
in now, if'n you want some of that there lemonade I promised. It's
hot as Hades out here. Youngsters. Harrumph. No respect for money.
Or their elders." His voice faded away into the interior of the
house.
    Heart thudding against his ribs, Race looked
up at Claire. "Are you all right?"
    Laughter lurked in her eyes as she smiled
down at him. "I'm fine. Mr. Hoffman has invited us in for lemonade.
How's the horse?"
    "Old." Race climbed the stairs. "But healthy
enough. Mr. Hoffman could spend a few hours on his barn
though."
    The laughter died out of Claire's eyes. "He
had a stroke last winter and can't farm anymore. His son didn't
even come home."
    "They don't get along too well."
    "He's his father. He's old and alone. He
needed...needs him."
    "You coming in or not? I can't afford to air
condition the outside," Mr. Hoffman yelled.
    "Our gracious host calls. Can't we just
leave? The man's never liked me. Threatened to fill my backside
with rock salt if I hung around." Race cast a longing look toward
the road.
    "You can go if you want. I'm staying."
    Race followed. Did she think he'd leave her
alone with that crazy old man?
    The house smelled of age and neglect. Dust
coated once well-polished furniture. Threadbare carpets covered
worn wood plank floors. They sat in the front parlor amid an old
man's faded memories.
    His gaze on Claire, Race sipped the tart,
lukewarm