by Kit Ehrman
* * *
Saturday afternoon, when the last batch of private turnouts were in their paddocks, I went into the feed room and lifted my clipboard off the shelf above the workbench. I leafed through the pages until I came to the medications list. There were no wounds to clean, medicate, and bandage, no eyes to apply ointment to, no injections to give. I was caught up until it was time to grain. I replaced the clipboard and walked up to the office.
The last lessons of the day were winding up, but the farm was busy as usual. I grabbed a magic marker off Mrs. Hill's desk, pulled some paper out of the printer, and printed in bold black letters: NOTICE. A white or light-colored dualie and an older dark-colored, six-horse gooseneck were used in the horse theft at Foxdale Farm on February 24th. If you have any information regarding the identity of the rig's owner, or know anything about the theft, contact Steve Cline. I added Foxdale's phone number and my home number in the lower right-hand corner and made a couple of copies. I thumbtacked a sheet to the bulletin board in the office and walked into the lounge.
I tacked a copy squarely in the center of the cork board by the soda machine. Across the room, Maryanne, Sheila, and Mrs. Curry had pigeonholed Mrs. Hill by the coffee machine. Because of the horse theft, they were planning another boarder meeting. I left before they drew me into what I knew from experience would be a long conversation and headed back to barn A. I stopped at the cork board in the aisle near the wash rack, rearranged some advertisements, and pulled off several outdated announcements. I pinned up my notice.
"Cline, tack up Bethany for me."
I turned around as Whitcombe, one of Foxdale's trainers, looked over my shoulder. As his gaze flicked over the wording, I noticed a momentary tightening around his eyes. His thick, curly red hair, which he had the good sense to keep cut short, was damp with sweat from his last ride, and his freckled, weather-wrinkled skin reminded me of a prune.
"Fall off a horse?" he said, referring to the faded bruising under my right eye.
"No." I edged past him and started down the aisle toward the tack room.
"I'll be in the lounge," he called after me. "And, Cline?"
I stopped and pivoted around. "Sir?"
"I want a dropped nose band and a Dr. Bristol bit, and this time get it right."
Get it right? Who was he kidding? I turned away from him and wondered when he'd grow tired of his stupid little control game and give it up, always asking for one thing, then telling me I'd gotten it wrong when I hadn't. Trying to make me look stupid. Maybe he wouldn't stop until I reacted. Got myself in trouble.
"Cline?"
I slid my hands into my pockets and turned around. Movement behind him caught my eye. Marty. Marty bouncing into the aisle, swinging a lead rope in his hand.
"I didn't hear you," Whitcombe said.
I refocused my gaze on Whitcombe's ugly face. "Yes . . . sir."
He smiled as he spun around and headed for the exit. Marty suddenly became interested in the floor. As soon as Whitcombe passed him, Marty looked up at me and grinned, and I could have killed him. He caught up with me, glanced over his shoulder, and whispered, "The asshole likes to ride more than horses, don't he?"
"Marty, don't." I cradled my arm along my ribs and tried not to laugh. "It hurts too much."
"Awh, Stevie, don't cry."
"Damn it, Marty, stop." I walked into the tack room and heard his footsteps behind me. "Don't you have something to do?" I said over my shoulder.
"No."
I spun the combination on the supply locker.
"I can see it now," Marty said. "One day you're gonna let 'im have it and get your ass fired."
"Won't happen. He's not worth it." I creaked the door open and stared at the pile of brushes, curry combs, rub rags, and cans of hoof oil. "Help me out, Marty. Grooming's a pain right now."
"Sure."
"Hope Bethany's not too dirty."
"She's turned out."
"Oh, shit. I forgot."
"I'll go get her," Marty said.
"Thanks. Bet that's why he wanted to ride her in the first place, 'cause he knew getting her ready would be more work."
"The guy's a genuine, fu—" Marty glanced at me and shut his mouth. "Be back in a sec."
He ended up doing most of the grooming and all the tacking up. When he was finished, I led Bethany into the indoor and waited for Whitcombe. I could see him in the office, talking to Mrs. Hill and one of the boarders. He saw me but pretended he hadn't—typical Whitcombe. I was ready to walk over and tap on the glass, when he pushed out of his chair and walked around to meet us.
He carried a crop in his right hand and absentmindedly slapped it against his boot. Bethany moved away at his approach, subliminally voicing her opinion of who was preparing to climb on her back. I steadied the mare while he checked the girth and stirrups, gathered up the reins, and stood next to the horse with his knee bent, waiting for a leg-up.
Damn. The guy weighed a good one-eighty, and—
"Give me a leg-up, Cline."
"I can't . . . sir."
"What do you mean, you can't?"
"I, eh . . . hurt my ribs," I said, trying to keep the distaste I felt for him from showing and conscious I wasn't succeeding.
"You're stinking useless. Here." He jerked on the mare's mouth. "Hold her by the bleachers."
Whitcombe stepped onto the plank. I held Bethany in position, put pressure on the stirrup so the saddle wouldn't slip, and wished he'd get on with it. The ribs were hurting more than I cared to admit. Whitcombe grunted as he hauled himself into the saddle. He swung his leg over the mare's back and almost kicked me in the face.
I glared at him as I stepped back. He wisely didn't look at me, but busied himself with getting organized. He'd done it on purpose; although, to anyone watching, it would have looked like a careless accident.
I left before I said or did something I'd regret.