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situation?
    And as far as Sid was concerned, “good-for-nothing lawyer” was a redundant term.
    “You know how I like my pizza,” Luis said, “and I don’t see why we have to sell the horses when we just moved here.”
    Sid was about to tell him that wasn’t his decision, but something in his eyes promised her a knock-down, drag-out, steel cage bout of pouting and sulking if she pulled rank on him in front of their guest.
    “We’ll talk about it later,” Sid said.
    “I’ll be the one taking care of them,” Luis said. “If they’re no inconvenience to you, I don’t see why you have to get rid of them.”
    Damnably logical, until one of the mastodons stepped on his foot, and Child Protective Services was out here, sniffing around and muttering about lack of supervision.
    “They’re not foster children, Luis, and playing the guilt card this early in an argument is a low shot, and bad strategy.”
    “They aren’t foster children,” Luis said, his chin coming up. “They don’t have a lawyer. Nobody is required to report when those horses are abandoned or treated badly. Nobody owes them food or shelter. They have nobody and nothing, no rights.”
    “I hate to interrupt,” Knightley said, getting to his feet, “but the feed store isn’t open all night. We can continue this over pizza, can’t we?”
    “Yes,” Sid said, grudgingly grateful to him for intervening. “As long as you’re willing to look after the horses, Luis, we can take our time about finding them another home.”
    “I’d leave it there,” Knightley said to Luis. “You’re too much of a gentleman to fight dirty in front of me, and Sidonie’s too stubborn to back down while I’m here. You’ll make more progress without a peanut gallery.”
    “She is stubborn,” Luis said, the corners of his mouth trying to turn up.
    “And you.” Knightley took Sid’s purse down from a hook near the door and passed it to her. “Don’t needle him over dinner. Let him spend a few days scrubbing water buckets, trudging in and out from the pasture in the pouring-down rain and wind and mud, spooning honey before and after school every day, and see if his position doesn’t shift closer to center.”
    The prospect of Luis seeing reason all on his own cheered Sid, as did the idea that they were only a few miles—only!—from some place that served pizza and Greek fare Knightley swore was worth the drive.
    “You two coming with me, or are we going to caravan?” Knightley asked.
    His face gave away nothing, not eagerness for their company, not distress at having to share his vehicle. Nothing.
    “We’ll follow you,” Sid said.
    “Then we’ll find the pizza place by way of the feed store. You should have a couple bags of senior feed on hand for your ponies, and probably pick up some joint supplement for them as well.”
    He climbed into his truck—a big blue thing that looked like it could pull house trailers—and fired it up.
    “Diesel,” Luis said, which was proof positive guys had different genes.
    Sid fished in her purse for the car keys. “You can tell that from listening to it?”
    “You can’t?”
    “You want to drive?” Sid asked, rather than admit her ignorance. Knightley’s wheels sounded like a truck. Like a big powerful truck.
    She tossed Luis the keys and buckled in. Fortunately, Knightley drove below the posted speed, no doubt making allowances for the fact that they were following. In the waning light, the countryside was pretty enough, with a few fields already bright green, and others not yet planted.
    “Do you know what the green stuff is?” Sid asked.
    “Winter wheat. There’s fields of it near the high school.”
    Where they’d registered him on Friday, because the Department of Social Services frowned on foster children having any time off from school, even when those children pulled straight A’s in merit classes. Sid had pushed it, giving Luis three days off before enrolling him, hoping social workers out