Miracle Beach by Erin Celello Read Free Book Online Page B

fence lines of the back pastures, which, luckily, was where most of her more docile horses spent their days. And that was where she and Jack had focused all their efforts and energy. Now she and Jack stood far from and slightly above the barn and the paddocks in the rearmost pasture, which was shaped like a lopsided “L” that ran from the barn alongside all the other pastures in a long corridor, opening up into square acreage of treeless, rolling hills. They were currently standing at the back edge of that square, looking across the expanse with her matchbox of a barn at the opposite end. She could hear the metronomic waves crashing onto the beach just beyond the tree line to her right. This was Macy’s favorite pasture, the one that Gounda’s dam had called home, the first pasture that Gounda had bucked and played in alongside his mama. It was the pasture that the mare would be grazing in right now, a little sister or brother to Gounda cantering stiff-legged beside her, or nestling in to nurse from the mare while she chomped lazily along, if only—Macy couldn’t finish the thought, though she could see the mare and that foal in front of her like a mirage, like a pair of ghosts come to life. Her breath caught. Pressure built behind her eyes. She turned her energy to the board Jack held, waiting for her.
    Like a bald angry man, the sun had climbed high into the pale blue sky and, without cover of clouds to deflect its rays, beat down hard on Macy’s back, neck, and arms. Gone was the island’s typical refreshing sea breezes. Macy could feel heat stinging her forearms—thousands of tiny electrical pricks, flirting with that thin line between discomfort and pain. She could feel her back working itself into tightly strung cords of muscles with each swing of the hammer, with each bend and each straightening. She could feel the strength steadily draining from her shoulders. And it all felt so painfully good.
    Once in a while, a glimmer of wind would stir, replacing the sweet, wheaty smell of manure with whiffs of the ocean. Down near the rocky beach, the ocean’s scent sat heavy in the air, almost intrusive. But up here, in the back pastures, the aroma was lighter, refreshing—like that of a just-ended thunderstorm. Macy breathed in deeply. The Oceanus bath salts and lotions, of which her mother-in-law was so fond, smelled nothing at all like the real thing, and in Macy’s opinion, they were the worse for it.
    “Ready for a break?” Macy asked Jack. She could feel sweat beading in tiny clusters across her forehead and even on her upper arms—a place she always forgot could sweat until days like today.
    “Lunch?” he asked.
    “Yeah,” she said. “Let’s.”
    She waved Jack toward her, and he made one last check of the wire fencing, pulling at it to test the tightness, before following Macy across the field to the battered old farm truck she used precisely for tasks like this—mending fences, hauling feed and hay out to the broodmares who lived in the back pastures, bringing shavings into the barn. The truck, once red but now a nice shade of rust, waited under a cluster of trees with its tailgate already down. Macy hoisted herself onto it and dug into the cooler, pulling out a bottle of water she had frozen to help keep their food cool. It had melted almost completely, but still felt cold to the touch. Macy offered the bottle to Jack, who snapped it up like a hungry dog offered a piece of meat.
    “Whoo-ee. Needed that,” Jack said, finishing off a long gulp. “The Sahara has nothing on my innards right now. I thought this place was supposed to have nice, mild summers?”
    “It does—most times. But every single year since I can remember we have two unbearably hot weeks here.”
    “When is that, usually?”
    “Whenever I put up hay or fix the fence.”
    Jack laughed.
    “Honestly. It never fails. I could do it in May or August, and it’s always like this.” Macy jabbed a finger at the still-cloudless