Carlo, who’d been petting Frey on the leg, which was as high as he could reach, turned to look at me. “Mommy cried.”
I knew I should have backed away. I had no business getting involved in someone else’s problems, but the little ones had been playing really close to the creek, hitting the water with a stick that meant they were only one missed step away from falling in. In my opinion, neither boy was old enough to be on his own. Could I live with walking away and leaving them to drown or get hurt in some other way with no one to call for help?
“Come on. Frey, my horse, and I will walk you home. Have you eaten?”
Both boys shook their heads. I figured that their head shakes were related to my question about food, since Carlo placed his hand in mine and looked perfectly ready to put his faith in me to solve all problems.
I hoped that their father would be there when we reached their house, a non-drunk and nonviolent version, of course.
On the way, Frances asked me lots of questions about Frey. He didn’t even know what horses ate, and he kept wanting to know if he could ride Frey. I wasn’t against letting him sit on top of the stallion, but I didn’t think I should do so without a parent’s permission.
“Daddy won’t mind. He never cares what we do,” Frances told me, matter-of-factly.
I hoped that wasn’t true, but what did I know about family relationships like theirs?
We arrived at their residence. To call it a shack would have been an insult to what I’d constructed from my old termite-invested lean-to, but I guessed that home was wherever you settled, and this was the place where the boys dwelt.