Trickster (9 page)

“Can’t you take all of them to the hospital?” I ask. But I already know the answer. Mr. Quinn can’t afford to take all the horses to the equine hospital. Starfire and the other show horses would be the ones to go. It would be way too expensive to treat unproven horses like Trickster.

It feels like something is squeezing my chest. I look up into Mr. Quinn’s eyes. He looks like he feels the same way.

“I’m going to call Brenna’s father,” Dr. Mac says briskly. “He can take you all home.”

“Wait,” I say. “I can’t go home—I have to stay here and help.”

One of the horses in the barn whinnies.

Mr. Quinn runs his hand over his head. “Look, David, I appreciate your concern. You obviously care a lot about these horses. But I think you should go home.”

“Let me stay,” I plead. “The others can leave—they aren’t used to being around horses, not like me. How old was I the first time Dad brought me here—five? Six? I could clean the stalls for you, get rid of the hay. Anything, just let me stay.”

“David—” Dr. Mac begins.

Whump!

She’s cut short by a loud crash and heavy thump from inside the foaling barn.

“J.J.!” Dr. Gabe calls from the foaling barn. “It’s Starfire!”

Dr. Mac and Mr. Quinn get there before me, but not fast enough to keep me from seeing what happened.

The beautiful black stallion has collapsed in his stall. His head is stretched limply out on the straw, and his eyes are open and dull. Mr. Quinn kneels, touches the horse’s leg, and turns his face away from the rest of us.

Starfire is dead.

Mr. Quinn clears his throat a few times. “David, go home. This is no place for kids. Not tonight.”

M
idnight.

I can’t sleep. No way. And it’s not because of my brother’s snoring. I keep thinking of Trickster. Of the other horses, too, but mostly Trickster.

He was shaking when I left. He had a high fever and wouldn’t drink anything. Is he feeling better now? Is he sleeping? Awake? Is he even
alive
?

Brian jerks in his sleep and makes a sound like a surprised pig. He still smells like the popcorn in the movie theater. Maybe I could wake him up and get him to drive me back to the barn.

As if.
Turn over and go to sleep, Hutchinson
.
There’s nothing else you can do. You’re just a kid
.

I punch my pillow and roll over so I can see out the window.

If I were going to go back to the barn, which I’m not, I’d have to do something really crazy like ride my bike there. It’s got to be at least five miles. I do have a light, but that’s way too far.

I should go to sleep.

But I can’t.

What if Trickster is dying
?

It only takes a few minutes to get dressed and leave a note for Mom so she won’t freak out if she finds my bed empty. Rolling up the garage door quietly is tricky, but by midnight most people around here are fast asleep. I check the light on my bike and put on my helmet. It’s time to hit the road.

All the lights are on in the foaling barn, and I can hear people talking. Their voices sound tense. I set my helmet on the seat and silently lean the bike against the wall. My stomach clenches as I run across the gravel.

What do I do now? Walk in? Pretend like I’m supposed to be here?

I peek in the door, staying in the shadows so no one can see me.

The foaling barn looks like an emergency room, crowded with veterinary supplies and oxygen tanks on every surface. Claiborne and Gus are breathing through horse oxygen masks. Elsa is lying in her stall, breathing heavily. Gertie and Trickster are wired up to heart monitors.
Heart monitors
.

Trickster’s coat is shiny with sweat, and drool leaks from his mouth. His eyes blink slowly. I wish I could tell him I’m here, tell him everything is going to work out.

Suddenly, Gertie throws herself against the side of her stall. The noise startles Trickster and he flinches.

“Do something, J.J.!” Mr. Quinn says.

“I can’t give her any more pain medication, Lucas,” Dr. Mac says.

“I should have called the ambulance. I should have taken them all in, no matter what it cost,” Mr. Quinn says as he strokes Gertie’s neck.

“It wouldn’t help the horses if you put yourself out of business,” Dr. Mac points out.

Jared glances at his watch. “Um, Mr. Quinn, sir. Sorry, but I really have to go home. My folks
said I could only stay until midnight, and it’s past that. I have a Spanish test at eight o’clock.”

Mr. Quinn takes a deep breath and crosses his arms over his chest. “I understand. Linda, you should go home, too. Get some sleep.”

“No way,” Linda protests. “I’m staying here.”

“You wore yourself out cleaning up all that hay, and in a few hours, thirty-five horses are going to want breakfast. Go home and get some sleep. You’re no good to me or the horses if you’re exhausted.”

Dr. Mac nods. “He’s right, Linda. Go on. We’ll manage.”

“Just remember to bring us doughnuts when you come back,” adds Dr. Gabe.

I hide around the side of the barn while Linda and Jared leave. This was a really dumb idea. I should go home and get back in bed. If Mom catches me, she’ll ground me until I’m fifty.

“Watch out!” Dr. Gabe shouts.

I look back in the barn.

Trickster has gone totally stiff. He falls to the ground, shaking violently.

“He’s seizing!” Dr. Mac says.

“Trickster!” I shout. Without thinking, I run into the foaling barn. “Trickster, no!”

I slide to the floor and brush his forelock out of his eyes. He’s still shaking. “Hang in there, buddy.”

“Where did you come from?” Dr. Mac asks.

I look up at her. “Can’t you do anything?” I ask, my voice cracking. “He’s dying!”

Mr. Quinn sits next to me. He puts one hand on Trickster’s chest and the other around my shoulders. “We’re doing everything we can, David. We just have to hope he’s strong enough.”

“He is,” I say fiercely. “I know he is. Come on, Trickster. You can do it. Don’t give up!”

Trickster twitches again and snorts. His nostrils flare and his eyelids flutter. I reach out my hand so he can smell me. “I’m here,” I say, quieter now. “I came back for you. I won’t leave until you’re better. I promise.”

Dr. Mac leans over with her stethoscope.

“His heart rate is slowing a bit. Good. The seizure is over. He’s OK, for now.”

Mr. Quinn squeezes my shoulder.

“You won’t make me leave, will you, Mr. Quinn? I promise not to get in the way.”

He nods once. “You can stay. We need the help.” He stands up and brushes off his jeans.
“But let me call your mother. She doesn’t know you’re here, does she?”

“I didn’t want to wake her up.”

“Let me see if I can take care of it,” Mr. Quinn says.

It might be that I’m tired, or maybe it’s the dim light in the barn, but I swear it almost looks like he’s smiling.

I don’t know what Mr. Quinn said to my mom, but when he returns, he’s carrying a six-pack of soda and good news.

“Your mother said you could stay,” he tells me.

“Really?” I take a soda. “You’re kidding. How angry is she?”

“Not as angry as you’d think. It’s been a while since I talked with her. Not since your dad left, in fact. She was mostly worried about you.” He pauses. “She knows this is important to you.”

“David, can you get the wheelbarrow?” Dr. Mac asks. “It’s getting a little too smelly in here even for my nose. Let’s muck out the mess.”

“Right away, Dr. Mac.”

Once I’ve cleaned the stalls, Dr. Gabe sends me
for fresh water. After that, we bring in more supplies from Dr. Mac’s van. The moon climbs into the sky and crosses over the hill while I do all kinds of little chores so the docs can concentrate on the big stuff. The heart monitors beep, the oxygen canisters hiss, and the horses cough and whinny. Dr. Mac and Dr. Gabe take turns monitoring the vital signs of our patients. Mr. Quinn watches everything. Sometimes he watches me.

Around three o’clock, Dr. Gabe goes into Mr. Quinn’s office to sleep for a few hours. He’s in charge of the clinic tomorrow—wait, that would be today. He’s going to need a clear head to deal with the cats and dogs that are scheduled.

Mr. Quinn brings out some old horse blankets. I wrap myself in one and sit next to Trickster. His heart rate has slowed to fifty-five beats per minute, much healthier. He seems to be more comfortable. The pain medicine must be making his stomach feel better. And his leg, too. I almost forgot about that in all this confusion.

I pull the blanket up over my shoulders. Mr. Quinn and Dr. Mac sit at the other end of the foaling barn watching Claiborne and drinking coffee. They’re talking about Starfire.”

“You only get a horse like that once in your life,” Mr. Quinn says quietly. “He was the finest animal I ever met.”

“You were a good pair,” Dr. Mac says. She blows on her coffee. “He needed someone like you around to teach him. If I remember, he was a little flighty when he was young.”

Mr. Quinn shakes his head with a little laugh. “And stubborn! But he learned. So did I.” He looks out the window and doesn’t say anything more.

It’s going to be a long time before Mr. Quinn gets over this.

Trickster snorts in his sleep. I pet his muzzle.

What would Dad say if he saw me here? I wish he could. I miss him more than I want to think about—way more than I want to talk about. Some things don’t fit into words.

The blanket is warm. I lean against the post to get comfortable, keeping one hand on Trickster. I can feel his pulse, strong and steady. We’re going to ride. We’re going to ride like the wind. I can just see us flying up the hill …

A bird twitters overhead, and another answers from across the field. A sliver of the morning sun climbs over the hill. A rooster crows.

“What happened?” I say, waking up with a jolt. “Trickster! How’s Trickster?”

“Relax,” laughs Dr. Mac. “See for yourself.”

I look up.

Trickster is standing over me. He bobs his head and nickers.

“Is he feeling as good as he looks?” I ask, scrambling to my feet.

Dr. Mac stands and stretches her back. “Not quite. But he made it through the night. They all did. They’ll need some extra attention for a few weeks, but I think things are looking rather positive.”

I grin. “You are the best veterinarian in the entire universe.”

“Thanks,” Dr. Mac says. “Maybe I should put that on my sign. What do you think?”

Mr. Quinn walks in the foaling barn. “I think it’s time for breakfast, that’s what I think. I’ve got a stack of pancakes in the kitchen with your name on them, J.J. Some for you, too, David. My father used to say the best way to keep good
stable hands was to feed them well. Do you still like sausage?”

I can’t stop grinning. “Yeah. I can’t believe you remember that.”

Dr. Mac studies the two of us. “I’ll go ahead and wash up. Meet you at the house.”

I give Trickster a few more pats, then turn to leave.

“Wait a minute, David,” Mr. Quinn says, holding up his hand. His face has turned serious. Was he just acting friendly in front of Dr. Mac? “We have to talk. I’ve been thinking.”

Uh-oh. Here it comes. Thanks for your help, but you’re too young. You mess up. You cause trouble.

And I thought everything was going to work out for once.

“You and I haven’t always seen eye to eye on things,” he starts.

I know where this is going. I should get on my bike and head home.

“I don’t have any kids of my own. Even though I watched you grow up, I could never figure you out.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I understand.”
I swallow hard. “I won’t come back, don’t worry.”

“Wait a minute, boy. You’re not listening to me! Just like your father—always jumping to conclusions, not taking the time to listen. Now sit down.”

Great. Now I’m really going to get it. I sit on an overturned half-barrel.

Mr. Quinn clears his throat. “What I’m trying to say is
thank you
.”

“What?”

“Thank you. Thank you for caring about these horses, Trickster and the others. I was glad you came back last night. Having you around made a big difference—to the docs, to me—and I know it helped Trickster. I think having you here helped him pull through. And you worked hard, too. Didn’t complain once, did everything you were told and then some. You made a place for yourself. I’m really proud of you. I know your dad would be, too.”

I have to shake my head a little to make sure I’m hearing right.

“You’re not firing me?”

“Firing you? Heck, boy, I want to hire you! Anytime you get free, you bike over and I’ll put
you to work. I’ll pay you in cash or in lessons, whichever you want. Of course, if you take the lessons, I’d prefer it if you could ride Trickster. He looks like he’s going to need someone who understands mischief.”

Mr. Quinn sticks out his hand to shake mine. “Do we have a deal? Let’s shake and eat breakfast, then.”

I reach for his hand, then pull back.

“Um, there’s something I have to do first,” I say. “Before any deals or pancakes.”

“What’s that?” Mr. Quinn asks, puzzled.

“There’s a pile of manure behind your tool-shed,” I admit. “You don’t want to know how it got there. Just let me clean it up before I do anything else. I’ll feel a lot better. And then I’ll eat pancakes. And all the sausage you’ve got.”

Mr. Quinn’s laugh is so loud that it wakes up the rest of the horses in the barn. They poke their heads over the stall doors to see the commotion. I start to grin again. Trickster, the chestnut with the fudge-colored forelock, bobs his head up and down, his forelock falling into his eyes.

Someday, we’re going to ride.