Forged (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (9 page)

"He must have been blinded by the headlights." Doug shook his head again. "He locked it up at the last second and slid half under the bumper; I felt him hit the truck, but not hard. Then he ran off.

"To make a long story short, he ran on all four legs as far as I could see in the headlights, so I figured he was all right. I've got a new baby at home and my wife is pretty stressed out, so I just threw the hay out and went back to do my duty as a dad. But when I came back this morning to check, Twister was three-legged."

Twister was, indeed, standing on three legs, holding his left hind leg so that the hoof didn't touch the ground. I palpated the leg gently; nothing obvious. Just a lot of swelling around the stifle.

"Lead him a few steps," I said.

The gray horse hobbled off obediently in response to Doug's tug on the leadrope. He did, I noticed hopefully, put a little weight on the bad leg. Not much, but a little.

"I'm not sure," I told Doug, "but it looks like he might have tom up his meniscus joint. I'll need to shoot some X rays, though."

Doug nodded. I knew he was expecting this. As I pulled our largest X-ray machine out of the back room and plugged it in, I asked Doug, "How old is this horse?"

"Seven this spring." Doug shook his head heavily. "And he was just starting to be really solid. I thought he was going to be my number-one horse this year. It'll be a shame if I have to chicken him."

I stared at the gelding, who stood patiently waiting despite the fact that he was undoubtedly in a lot of pain. Pretty-headed, with a large, kind, alert eye, Twister was in all ways an appealing horse. His dapple-gray coat was icing on the cake, a color scheme as lustrous and ineffable as watered silk, or shadowed light on a still pond.

"It would be a real shame," I agreed. "He's a gentle horse, isn't he? I used to see your kids riding him."

"That's right. Gentle as can be-you can put anyone on him. And a top-notch rope horse besides."

"It always happens to the good ones, doesn't it?" I propped the heavy X-ray plates in position and took the necessary shots, Twister standing for it all like the gentleman he was.

Ten minutes later, I'd developed the X rays and studied them. Returning to Doug and his horse, I said, "The good news is that the leg's not broken."

Doug's wide smile faded as I added, "But the joint is pretty thoroughly torn; that swelling is probably due to leaking synovial fluid. He may never be a sound horse again."

"The leg might just as well be broken, then."

"No, not really. Given enough time, it's possible he'll heal up from this. I'd say he has a fifty-fifty chance."

"How long is enough time?"

"In my experience, at least a year. I've only had a couple of horses in my career with a similar injury. One of them did recover to be a riding horse after a couple of years."

"But that's not rope-horse sound." Doug looked down at the ground.

We both knew that team roping was a demanding event; only a horse in top physical condition could do the job.

"No," I agreed. "It's unlikely that he'll ever be sound enough to be a head horse."

"Put him down, then," Doug said, sadly but firmly.

"You want to euthanize him?" I was stunned. "What about your kids?"

"There's plenty of nice horses in the world. If I'm going to keep one and feed it, it's going to be a rope horse."

I stared at the man in disbelief. Despite the fact that it was an entirely practical point of view, I'd never even considered the notion that Doug would refuse to give Twister a chance.

My eyes moved back to the horse. Head down, hind leg cocked so that only the toe of his hoof touched the ground, Twister stood quietly. His silver-white face was shadowed with charcoal shadings; a sooty gray forelock hung between the steady brown eyes.

Horses are all different. Like people, they're individuals, some chicken-hearted, some courageous, some cranky, some forgiving. Like people, you can often see a horse's true nature shining right out of his eyes, can feel his spirit and sense his intentions. As I grew older, I knew that I could read horses better than I could humans, and Twister struck me as truly noble, a horse with a great heart.

Despite my eight years as a veterinarian and the many horses I'd had to euthanize, I still felt a plummeting sense of shock and pain at the thought of killing this animal here and now.

"If he rests out of it, you could sell him as a riding horse," I said hopefully to Doug.

"But that's a year or more down the road. I've got to feed him and take care of him all that time when I could be feeding a useful one. And he may never be sound."

"That's true," I had to admit.

"I don't want him to suffer," Doug said. "Let's just put him down and get it over with."

I looked at the horse one more time. Doug's decision wasn't irresponsible. But, still ... Mr. Twister was special. I just knew it.

"Doug," I said, "would you give him to someone who'd give him a good home?"

"I guess so. But who'd want him under these conditions?"

"Me," I said slowly.

"You?"

"Yeah. I like this horse." I stroked Twister's patterned shoulder, wondering at my own choice.

"Sure." Doug smiled. "I'll give him to you. And I'll be real happy if I see you roping on him some day. That's great, Gail."

 
"Thanks," I said. "I'm not sure it's the smartest thing I ever did, but I've always been drawn to this guy."

Doug's grin spread right across his face as he handed me the leadrope. "He's all yours," he said. "I'll even throw in the halter. And it's a big load off my mind." He strode towards his truck as he spoke; I had the impression that he didn't want to give me time to change my mind. "All those X rays are on you, now," he said over his shoulder, "right?"

"Right," I agreed. "The whole call's on me. Thanks, Doug." But he was already gone.

Turning back to my new horse, I stroked his neck one more time. Despite the fact that I wasn't quite sure how I would manage the logistical problems arising from his presence out at my place, I felt a deep peace at the thought that I now owned him and he wouldn't have to die.

Slowly, very slowly, I led him to a box stall and gave him some painkiller intravenously. As the stoic look faded from his eyes to be replaced with relief, I fed him a flake of alfalfa hay and filled a bucket with water.

"You're my horse now," I told him, and watched with satisfaction as he began to eat.

Somehow or other, I had been the right person in the right place and time to make this gesture. It all felt harmonious. Whatever came of it, I was glad to be here now with this horse.

A slow tear ran down my cheek; I brushed it away with the back of my hand and smoothed Mr. Twister's mane. What would it take to redeem all the suffering I routinely saw? The right person in the right place making the right gesture? I couldn't take them all home.

But still. "Compassion," I whispered to the horse. "It takes compassion. I think we'll get along just fine."

TEN

The rest of my day passed in a much more routine fashion. Saying good-bye to Mr. Twister at five o'clock, I went home to meet my new horseshoer and rearrange my corrals to accommodate a fourth horse.

Half an hour later, I was staring morosely at the only possible place to squeeze another pen into my barnyard and castigating myself as a soft-hearted idiot. I really didn't have room for a fourth horse. Nonetheless, I was bringing one home.

In the midst of these fruitless ruminations, Roey barked sharply. A black pickup truck pulled in my gate and bumped up the gravel drive. Tommie Harper, I hoped.

Sure enough. The truck parked itself in front of the barn and the distinctive form of Tommie Harper emerged from the driver's side.

Tommie was a big woman. At least six feet tall, by my reckoning. She had wide shoulders, wide hips, and a pretty good belly on her. Big-boned and strong-featured, with her blond hair cropped crew-cut short and a heavy leather belt encircling her jeans and boot-clad figure, Tommie looked about as butch as it was possible to appear.

I walked in her direction and got her wide, white, friendly smile. "Hello, Gail McCarthy."

"Hi, Tommie. Thanks for coming out."

We shook hands as Roey sniffed Tommie's heels. Tommie smiled again. "No problem. I'm happy to help you out of the mess Dominic left you in." Gesturing at the yellow crime scene tape, she asked, "Is that where he bought the farm?"

"Yes," I said, slightly shocked. Even for someone who was known to have disliked Dominic, it seemed a callous tone.

Tommie caught my look. "Sorry," she said, as she laid out her shoeing tools and lit her forge. "But I hated that bastard. I'm just plain glad that he's dead." She grinned at me. "Of course, I hope no one thinks I wanted it enough to shoot him. Especially that damn detective."

"Oh. Has Detective Johnson been on your case?"

"Got it in one. He was around this morning before I left for work, bothering Carla. But I think at this point he likes me better as a suspect." Her grin flashed again. "I've got a feeling Detective Johnson doesn't care for my kind."

I could imagine. "How's Carla taking it?" I asked.

"Well, she doesn't miss Dominic, that's for sure," Tommie snapped. "Dominic tormented poor Carla. He never got over the fact that she left him for me-another woman. God forbid. It was just too much for his poor, fragile male ego. He wouldn't leave Carla alone, he called her, he wrote her notes, he followed her; I swear he stalked her for years."

"He quit eventually, didn't he?" I asked. "After all, they've been divorced for a long time."

"Naw, he never really quit. Though he didn't hound us lately like he did in the beginning. But Carla still got the occasional note, or he'd come by the house when he knew I wasn't home. He never got over her." Once again the smile. "Of course, that I can understand."

I smiled back. I liked Tommie.

"Dominic hated me." She grinned cheerfully. "Now, if I was the one dead, you'd know where to look. He threatened to kill me a couple of times. I can't imagine how he resisted shooting me for all these years."

"That can't have been fun for you," I said.

"Oh, I wasn't afraid of Dominic. It was more the other way around. He'd go out of his way to avoid me; he couldn't stand to look at what Carla chose over him. And whatever trouble he was, Carla's more than worth it." Again the smile.

No doubt that Tommie was in love; to the impartial eye Carla Castillo was a plump woman in her late thirties with a flighty air, a girlish giggle, tiny, silver-rimmed spectacles, and a truly spectacular mane of long, black hair. Not someone I could imagine anyone falling in love with, though.

Probably Tommie wouldn't think much of Blue; I smiled to myself. At that moment, I saw his pickup coming through the gate. Looked like I would find out what they made of each other.

Blue parked his truck in its accustomed place and ambled in our direction, Freckles beside him. Tommie had finished her preparations and was studying Gunner's right hind foot. She paused, then turned to see who was approaching.

"Tommie, this is Blue Winter," I said. "Blue, this is Tommie Harper."

I watched as the two "guys" greeted each other. A pleasant handshake, a smile on both parts. I knew Blue well enough to be sure that he would see Tommie as an individual, and like or dislike her as such, not, as many men might have done, dismiss her because she was a lesbian.

Tommie, on the other hand, I was barely acquainted with. For all I knew, she might dismiss all men on general principles. Apparently not. Tommie smiled at Blue as readily as she did at me; her direct blue eyes were friendly.

"You must be Gail's boyfriend," she said.

"I am," Blue agreed. "You must be our new horseshoer."

"Yep. Come to finish the job the old one left undone. Pretty dramatic way of quitting in the middle, I'd say. Now Gail, tell me how you want this horse shod."

"We've been using an egg bar shoe and a wedge pad on him. Just like the other hind foot."

"Uhmm." Tommie studied Gunner another minute, then selected a shoe from the rack in the back of her truck. Using tongs, she set the shoe in her forge to heat up.