Helping Hands (4 page)

Chapter Seven

O
h no, what?” I ask.

“I don't know exactly,” David admits, “but he won't let me check his shoe. This leg is warm, and look”—he points—“it's a little swollen between his hoof and knee.”

“Is that why he was leaning on me?” I ask.

David nods. “I bet it hurts to put weight on that leg.” He checks the other hooves. “I'm an idiot,” he mutters.

“What did you just say?”

He stands up, shaking his head. “I should have checked their hooves this morning when we groomed them. I thought about it, but those kids, they wanted to ride, and I figured the ponies only had to walk around in circles a couple times.” He pauses and looks me in the eye. “And then we got so busy that I forgot.”

“It's not exactly your fault,” I say. “It's Gus's responsibility to take care of them.”

“Yeah, but obviously he's not doing that.” He sticks his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “I should have taken the time to do it right. I hate this feeling.”

“What feeling?” I ask.

“Like I want to punch myself in the face for being so stupid. You probably want to punch me, too; I gave you a hard time about slacking, and you were just trying to help Buster.”

“Um.” I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say. “If it will make you feel better, I can punch you in the face, but that's not going to help Buster. What do you think is wrong?”

“Could be a lot of things.” He pats Buster's shoulder and crouches in front of the bad leg again. “You should feel the heat coming off this part of his leg.”

“How do you know he won't kick you?” I ask, nervously eyeing the pony's sharp hooves.

David brushes his hair out of his eyes. “If I tell you, will you accuse me of showing off again?”

“I won't, I promise.”

“Cool,” he says. “Buster will tell you before he kicks. You just have to speak his language, his body language. First, he'll put his ears back and bare his teeth. If you don't pay attention to that, he'll turn his rear end toward you and lift a back leg. You see a back leg come up? Get the heck out of the way, because you're about to be kicked.”

I double-check; Buster's back feet are firmly planted on the ground.

“Do you want to feel the leg now?” David asks.

I'd rather rearrange the hammer display, but Buster looks up at me and it feels like he's saying I should try. He has a point. It's the only way I can learn how to help.

I swallow hard and kneel in the warm grass.

“Start with your hand on his shoulder and move it down slowly, so he understands what you're doing.”

“Okay.” I glance at those back hooves one more time and touch Buster's shoulder. His skin ripples a little, but he doesn't lay his ears back or act unhappy. As my hand slips below his knee—

“Oh my gosh!” I exclaim.

“I know, right? Huge difference,” David says. “Dr. Mac needs to check this out.”

“She's gone camping with the girls,” I say, standing slowly so I don't startle Buster.

“Darn, I forgot.” David stands up, too. “Do you have a cell phone on you?”

“No, but I can borrow my mom's.”

“I'll stay here with these guys. Call Dr. Gabe and tell him we need him. Tell him everything you noticed about the way Buster's been acting, plus that his leg is warm, he won't let me check his shoe, and we don't see any cracks, cuts, or puncture wounds. Tell him what a rotten person Gus is, too.”

“Got it!”

•  •  •  •  •

The size of the crowd in the store stops me in my tracks. We've never, ever had this many customers. Dad is grinning as he rings people up at the register. He winks at me as I walk by, but keeps talking to the man who is buying a post hole digger. Mom stands in the middle of the spring plants display, listening to a couple busy loading up a box with blue-and-white pansies. By the time I make it over there, the couple have gotten in line to pay for their flowers.

“There you are!” Mom has dirt on her forehead and nose, and her cheeks are red from heat or excitement, or a little of both. She looks happier than she's been since we moved here.

“How are the ponies?” she asks.

“Ah . . .” I don't want to worry her with all these customers around. “Great. We just finished.”

She smiles. “I was skeptical, but you and Jules were right: the ponies were a big draw today.”

I force a smile because I know she expects it. I'm super-glad business has been good, but I feel awful about Buster. “Can I use your cell? David has to call home.”

“Sorry, kiddo, it's dead,” she says. “I forgot to charge it again.”

A tall woman with a long white braid walks up to us carrying two kinds of poison ivy killer. “Excuse me,” she says to my mother.

“It's okay,” I assure her. “We'll use the upstairs phone.”

•  •  •  •  •

I take the stairs up to our apartment two at a time. Thankfully, Sophie and Jules are giggling in their bedroom. I use the kitchen phone and open the window so I can see and hear what's going on in the back lot.

Darn it!
Gus has returned and is hollering at David, who is slowly walking the ponies from the grassy area to the parking lot.

Dr. Gabe picks up on the third ring. I explain everything about Buster as fast as I can. “Do you think it's serious?' I ask.

He chuckles. “I'm not that good, Josh. I actually need to see a patient before I can make a diagnosis. Ponies can go lame for lots of reasons. His shoe could be loose or, given what you told me about his owner, he's had those shoes too long. More serious issues would be laminitis, an abscess, a torn ligament or tendon, or even some kind of fracture.”

“A fracture! You mean he's walking around on a broken leg?”

“I was just listing possibilities,” Dr. Gabe says. “Most likely he slipped or took a funny step, kind of like the way you can twist your ankle playing soccer. If that's the case, all he needs is some rest.”

Out in the parking lot, Gus stomps his foot, his face beet-red. He loses his balance a little and takes a couple steps to the side before he catches himself and starts yelling again. David is still letting Buster set the pace. They're moving at snail speed.

“Dr. Gabe, can you take a look at Buster when you get back tonight?” I ask.

“Sure, as long as the owner agrees. I should be in Ambler by five.”

“Hang on.” I open the window. “Hey, Gus,” I shout. “Up here!”

The pony handler looks around blindly for a moment, and then he squints up at me.

“What do you want?”

“You see how Buster is limping? I've got a vet on the phone. He'll be here by five to check him out.”

“What?” Gus snatches the hat off his head and throws it to the ground. “No vet's gonna steal my money, no sir-eee. Ain't happening.”

David and the ponies are getting closer to the man. “His leg is really inflamed,” David explains.

“No vet,” Gus repeats loudly. “Get those ponies in my trailer.”

I close the window so I don't have to hear Gus yell. “He said no,” I tell Dr. Gabe.

“I heard,” Dr. Gabe says. “I'm really sorry, Josh, but I can't treat any animal if its owner doesn't want me to.”

“But he's neglecting them,” I say.

“You told me that the ponies gave rides for hours; if they were truly neglected and sick, they couldn't have done that. Yes, Buster is a little lame, but we don't know why.”

“They flinch when he yells at them,” I say. “He doesn't groom them, and their trailer is disgusting. David thinks they might not be getting enough food.”

“He doesn't sound very responsible, but neglect is usually a lot worse than what you're describing, sad to say. Tell Gus to soak Buster's foot in a warm Epsom salt bath a couple of times a day. That will help the pain and inflammation. How long is he going to be there?”

Gus opens the back gate of the horse trailer and lets the ramp drop with a crash. “Looks like he's in a hurry to leave,” I say.

“I'll swing by tonight, just in case. Maybe if I talk to him face-to-face—”

I drop the phone.

Gus is trying to pull the ponies' leads out of David's hands! Babe's ears are back, and she's whinnying and tossing her head. Buster has raised his sore foot and dropped his head as low as he can. David's holding on to the leads tight, but Gus is twice his size and made of nasty. David digs his heels in and wraps the leads around his hands again, but he looks as if he doesn't know what to do next.

I do.

I fly down the stairs, shouting as loudly as I can. “Dad!”

Chapter Eight

L
et them go!” I shout at Gus.

“Whadder you talking about?” Gus says. His voice sounds funny. “These are my ponies. Mine.”

“I think he's drunk,” David says.

“What's going on here?” shouts a loud, sharp, drill sergeant voice.

Everyone jumps—even me, and I was the one who asked for his help.

Dad rushes across the parking lot, quickly taking in the scene. “Let go of those ropes!” he orders Gus. “You're hurting David and the ponies.”

“What are you gonna do if I don't?” Gus sneers.

Dad takes a long, slow breath, puts his hand on Gus's shoulder, leans forward, and whispers something to Gus. The pony handler's eyes go wide, either from the pain of Dad squeezing his shoulder, or whatever promise my father just made. Dad steps back, and Gus releases the pony leads.

“That's better,” Dad says. His voice is friendly now, but his eyes are as intense as lasers. “You okay, David?”

David is rubbing the angry red marks left on his hands by tight lead ropes, but he says, “Yes, sir, thank you.”

Dad points at Gus. “You've been drinking.”

“Just had a couple beers,” Gus protests.

“It was more than that,” Dad says. “If you get behind the wheel, I'll have you arrested for driving under the influence. Now get off of my property and don't come back until you're in better shape.”

Gus scowls, but he's smart enough to keep his mouth shut and leave. As soon as he disappears around the side of the building, both ponies relax. Babe nuzzles against Buster and rubs her head on his neck, nickering softly.

I laugh out loud. “That was awesome, Dad!”

“You like that?” He cracks a smile. “When you came down the stairs hollering at the top of your lungs, I wasn't quite sure what you wanted.”

“Is everything okay out there?” Mom calls from the back door.

“We're fine,” Dad answers. “I'll be right in.” He turns to me. “Can you give me the short version of what's going on?”

David tells most of the story, and I fill in the rest, ending with Dr. Gabe's advice about soaking Buster's leg, and his promise to stop by to check on the pony around dinnertime.

“We sell Epsom salts in the store,” Dad says. “Why don't you grab a box of it and a bucket? Poor little guy looks like he needs all the help he can get.”

“They're hungry, too,” David points out. “We gave them some hay and alfalfa pellets a couple hours ago, but . . .”

Dad tilts his head to the side. “Am I correct in guessing that the food came from the store, too?”

“Yes, sir,” I admit nervously. “And the two buckets we used for their water.”

Dad nodded. “Anything else?”

“Ah, yeah,” I admit. “Babe, the healthy one, she ate most of the flowers and herbs Mom put in the planters yesterday.”

“All of the plants,” David corrects.

“All of them?” Dad asks.

I nod my head, miserable and sure I'm about to be grounded for the rest of my life.

Dad smiles, then chuckles. “This pony ate your mother's flowers. Right there on Main Street.” He chuckles again, harder. “Where the entire world could watch!” He bursts into laughter. “No wonder business has been so good today—you've been entertaining the entire town.” He laughs long and hard, tries to say something else, then cracks up some more.

David looks at my dad, his eyes wide and eyebrows raised. I shrug; I don't know what's going on, either.

Finally, Dad says, “Wooh!” and wipes a tear out of the corner of your eye. “Thanks, boys, I needed that. Although I'd love to see your mom's face if we showed her the planters, let's not tell her about it yet, okay?”

“Are you giving me permission to lie?” I ask.

“No,” Dad says. “I'm asking you to help keep peace in the house until I figure this one out.” He ruffles my hair. “Quite a day, huh? I better get inside. I'll leave the back door open. If Gus turns up again, you come and get me right away. It doesn't matter if the president himself is in the checkout line. Promise me?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“Okay. Come with me, David,” Dad says. “I'll show you where the Epsom salts are.”

It takes us three tries.

The first time, we fill the bucket with warm water, add the Epsom salts, and then try to convince Buster to put his sore foot in the bucket. He uses his good foot to kick the bucket halfway across the parking lot, soaking me for the second time that day.

When David stops laughing, he convinces Buster to put the sore foot in an empty bucket, and then he fills it with warm water. But he adds the water too quickly, and Buster shies away, kicks the bucket, and soaks David.

After we both stop laughing, I fetch more Epsom salts, alfalfa pellets, and carrots from the store (pausing to thank my father 10 million times), and we finally get it right. We move a few sections of the corral into the shade where it's cooler and tie Babe close to Buster, because having her near calms him down. While I feed them, David convinces Buster to put his bad foot in the empty bucket again. Then we slowly, very slowly, pour the warm water and Epsom salts in the bucket.

Victory!

“That's it, there you go,” David soothes.

I scratch Babe's back right at the bottom of her neck, and she closes her eyes in enjoyment.

It's cool in the shadows, but the heat of the day is still coming off the blacktop, making the temperature perfect. Both horses look like they're dozing. Even David is quiet, absently patting Buster's side and keeping an eye on his sore leg. After such an insanely busy day, this is a welcome break.

“Do you think Gus really cares about these guys?” I ask.

“Not at all,” David says.

“What if we could find a better place for them, maybe find someone who could buy them from Gus and give them a better life?”

“In a perfect world, right?” His voice is bitter, which surprises me.

“What about Quinn's stables? The owner is a friend of your dad, right? He must have a ton of money and plenty of space.”

“He doesn't have either,” David says. “He puts all of his profits back into the stables: upgrading the barn, fencing, all kinds of things. Most of the horses there are boarders; their owners pay to have Mr. Quinn take care of them. Some of the owners are months behind on their payments because of the stupid economy. Mr. Quinn can't take any charity cases, and even if he could, he doesn't have the room.”

“But—”

Before I can get the next question out, Gus comes around the corner, this time with reinforcements.