4Author's Note: Manhood is the defeat of childhood narcissism. – David Gilmore
Disclaimer: Owed, not owned.
"What do you want me to do, Vee? Do you want me to beat him with a broomstick? Is that what you want?"
Mother's voice was an indistinct murmur, unlike Father's, which had carried clear across the yard to where their appalled middle son, who suspected he was the subject of their talk, had been making his discontented way back to the house after finishing the extra chores he'd been assigned.
Suddenly, the unfairness of the extra work he'd had to do seemed less important in light of this new threat.
"He's too old for that, Vee. It's SELF-discipline he needs, not something imposed by you and me. Do you want to still be shaking your finger at him when he's thirty? When he's fifty?
Nick, standing outside on the verandah frankly eavesdropping now, took a deep breath. He was nearly a man. In a few short years no one would talk of beating him without getting Nick's fists back… but he knew Father and Mother were disappointed in him. Jarrod would be, too, he supposed, when he heard of it… if he heard of it.
He sighed and shook his head. God knew he was sorry. He just got so angry sometimes…
Father and Mother were still talking, but now both voices were merely indistinguishable murmurs, so Nick rounded the corner to the door. Sorry or not, he was hungry and wanted his supper.
The horse was purple. Not purple like the cushions a king sits on, but… a pale sort of purple gray that bordered on lavender. Or a storm cloud made of lilacs. Half-mourning, he remembered Mother calling a dress she had that was that color. An irregular blaze widened out to baldness past the gruella's cheekbones and down to his pink nose. The pale blue eyes regarded the lanky youth with disfavor.
"He's a beauty," Nick breathed. "Can I…" he didn't know even how to articulate his longing, and he knew he was still in disgrace with Father, and probably would be for some time. The answer to any request would be no. He cleared his throat. "I could bed him down for you," he offered tentatively, eyes on the ground, where the stallion's hoof scraped nervously at the gravel.
"Nicholas."
How many times would he have to say he was sorry? How many punishments would he have endure… patiently?
Father's voice was firm, but very quiet, giving the order. "Look at me, son." And order it was, undoubtedly.
As many as it took, until Father trusted him again. As ordered Nick's eyes rose to meet his father's.
Nick's eyes looked brown from a distance, but were really hazel: a dark green starburst overlay the dark matte brown of his irises, invisible unless you were right on top of him in a good light, just as Tom's own eyes, seemingly blue, yet contained nearly invisible snowflake traceries of brown and green.
"You will indeed bed him down," Tom told his son, "for he belongs to you."
Whatever lingering resentment or teenage sense of the unfairness of things Nick had been harboring was blown away in a wave of love so intense he felt tears prick his eyes. Father had forgiven him! He blinked and focused watering eyes on the purple dorsal stripe that ran down the stallion's back. He had not known horses came in that color. He was magnificent. Not a horse for a boy.
A fine stallion for man.
"Thank you, Father," he breathed, almost unbelieving.
"His name is Outlaw, Nicholas," his father told him seriously, "and the day you learn to ride this animal, you'll become a man." And I hope it's soon, Tom thought, but didn't say, before you drive your mother and myself insane.
A black gloved hand reached out to stroke the pink nose. Strong white teeth nipped at the leather-covered fingers.
"Be careful," Tom cautioned. "He owns no master either."
Nick Barkley stood still, looking at his beautiful stallion, fingers cautiously out of reach. Either?
But his mind wasn't really on his father's cryptic statement. Not with the pale blue eye of the wonderful stallion on him. "Come on, boy," he whispered, "let me show you your new home."
Boy and stallion headed for the stable.
Tom stood watching until they were out of sight and earshot.
"What have you done?"
"What you wanted," he told his wife.
"I didn't want this," she hissed from behind him. "That horse will kill him."
Tom Barkley turned to regard his missus. "Have you so little faith in our son?"
"Richard Snow told me about that horse, he—"
"Nick can handle him," Tom interrupted.
"He's a boy!"
One corner of her husband's mouth turned up in a wry, almost sad, smile. "He won't be for long."
