Sun Kissed

by Catherine Anderson

  Doing a quick visual exam, Tucker saw that the horse’s legs were already covered with lacerations, some deep, others superficial, but the cuts were nothing compared to the injuries the horse might sustain if he was allowed to continue on this course. Something had to be done, and quickly; otherwise this episode could very well end with a euthanasia injection. Just the thought made Tucker’s stomach roll.

  “What brought this on?” Tucker yelled over his shoulder to no one in particular.

  “No idea!” a man yelled back.

  “Any other horses acting up?”

  “Nope, only this one,” the same man yelled back. “It came on fast. At six, when I gave him his hay out in the paddock, he seemed just fine. It wasn’t until I let him into his stall around ten and gave him his nightly ration of grain that he started going crazy.”

  “What kind of grain?” Tucker demanded.

  “Wet cob, actually, not grain. It’s the same stuff he gets every night right before lights-out. After giving each horse a measure, I went upstairs. I wasn’t inside more than twenty or thirty minutes before I heard Blue screaming.”

  Tucker’s brain had begun to race. Wet cob—ground corncobs with a little molasses mixed in. Horses and ruminants loved it. People in rural settings mixed wet cob with dry and fed it to herds of deer. It had a pleasurably sweet taste and was nourishing but harmless. Tucker felt certain wet cob had not caused this kind of behavior in the stallion.

  Only what had? He needed to get in close to examine the horse.

  “We’ll have to cross-rope him so I can sedate him,” he called out. “Two men out in the paddock and two in here.”

  Tucker had to say no more. Zach raced for the tack room to get the ropes.

  Frank Harrigan sauntered over to where Tucker crouched over his open satchel. “Even with lines to hold him, son, it won’t be easy to get a needle into that horse.”

  Tucker glanced up. “I’ll have to do it intramuscularly. Normally we prefer to inject sedatives directly into a vein. They’re faster-acting that way. But it won’t be possible with him.”

  “That’s for sure,” Frank agreed. “I’ve given a fair number of shots in my day, but never to a horse that loco.”

  Neither had Tucker, and that made him wonder yet again what had brought this on. That was a question he couldn’t possibly answer until he got a close look at the horse. Damn. He hated to administer a sedative before he knew what the problem was. He couldn’t be sure how it might affect the equine. But in this situation he had no choice.

  Zach returned with four coils of rope on his shoulder. Without a word he began handing the lassos out to the other men.

  Tucker bent back over his satchel to prepare the sedative. He estimated the stallion to be in the top weight bracket for his breed and decided to mix a xylazine-and-Dormosedan cocktail. Both drugs were fairly quick to take effect, even given intramuscularly, and the doses could be manipulated to have a short duration of action with few adverse side effects.

  As Tucker filled a syringe, the other men set them selves to the task of cross-roping the stallion. Tucker heard a lasso sing above his head, the sound unmistakable and one that he’d often heard as a boy. The next instant, all hell broke loose.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  A jet-haired young man flew past Tucker as if he’d just sprouted wings. Fortunately the fellow had wrapped the rope around his wrist. When he collided with the stall gate in a jarring body slam, he lost only his hat, not his grip on the lasso.

  Tucker half expected the man to crumple to the ground, holding his ribs, but this fellow was made of sturdy stuff. He bounced off the gate rails, regained his balance, and planted a boot against a cross-buck for leverage, thus managing to hold the stallion by himself until Frank could leap forward to help.

  “Get another loop over his head!” the younger man yelled to whoever had taken up position in the paddock. “Dad and I can’t hold him alone!”

  Tucker blocked out all the confusion and concentrated on doing his part. After filling the syringe with the appropriate mixture of drugs, he would need to swing up onto the gate and be ready to jump inside the stall the instant the horse was anchored in one spot. The window of opportunity to give the injection might be brief, possibly only a matter of seconds, depending upon the men’s ability to hold the lines.

  “I’ll do it,” a feminine voice said just as Tucker pushed to his feet.

  He’d almost forgotten Samantha’s presence. When he turned and saw her drawn, pale face, his heart caught.

  “Please,” she said tautly. “He’s my horse. As crazy as he is right now, I know he won’t hurt me.”

  Tucker shook his head. “He’s beyond being able to differentiate between one person and another,” he informed her. “And it isn’t as easy as it looks to give an injection to an animal that won’t hold still.” When she parted her lips to protest, Tucker quickly added, “If you keep too firm a grip on the syringe, the needle can bend or break. The goal is to get the sedative into the horse on the first try. Right?”

  For an instant she stared worriedly at the stallion. Then her lashes fluttered closed, and she nodded. “Right,” she murmured.

  Tucker slipped the loaded syringe into his shirt pocket. Showtime. Ducking between the ropes, he sprinted to the gate, grasped the top rail, and swung up to straddle it. Once in position, he locked his knees to keep his seat and waited for all four lassos to be thrown.

  The instant each of the loops snapped taut around the stallion’s muscular neck, Tucker pushed off into the stall. “Easy, boy, easy.” Taking care to avoid the horse’s back hooves, which could be lethal even with the animal un able to rear up and strike, Tucker moved in. “Easy, easy.” The stallion’s entire body jerked when Tucker touched his neck. “It’s nothing bad, just a little stick to make you feel better.”

  For a fleeting instant Tucker thought giving the injection was going to be a piece of cake, after all. The horse responded to his voice and whickered plaintively, almost as if pleading for help. But then he went crazy again, kicking, jumping, and twisting in midair, frantically trying to escape the ropes. Tucker wasted no time. He picked his target, stepped in as close as he dared, and quickly inserted the needle. With one smooth push he depressed the plunger.

  “Nice job,” Frank said as Tucker landed on his feet outside the stall gate again. “Damned nice. Couldn’t have done better myself.”

  Tucker’s heart was pounding, and he was breathing as if he’d just run a mile. He put the capped syringe back in his pocket and wiped sweat from his brow. “He’ll calm down in a bit so I can have a look at him. Should work in about ten minutes.”

  Frank didn’t look happy to hear that, and Tucker understood why. Ten minutes of crazy horse were ten too many.

  As it happened, though, the men were able to hold pressure on the ropes until the chemical restraint began to take effect. In those final seconds before Tucker could enter the stall, Frank took advantage of the lull to make hurried introductions.

  “Tucker, this is my oldest boy, Clint.”

  Tucker inclined his head at the fellow who’d collided with the gate. “Good to meet you, Clint.”

  Clint, still holding tension on one of the lines, nodded and flashed a white-toothed grin. “Good to meet you, too!” he replied with undisguised enthusiasm. “Not many vets I know would’ve gone into that stall. Before you leave, be sure to give me one of your cards. I’ll definitely be in touch.”

  Tucker returned the man’s friendly smile. “I’ll appreciate any business you bring my way.”

  Zach, who was still holding the other rope, broke in with, “We can help with that.” He sent his father an amused look. “Dad isn’t merely a good contact; he’s the contact in quarter horse circles.”

  Frank gestured to the three men in the paddock. “Out yonder’s my other two boys, Parker and Quincy, and Sammy’s ranch foreman, Jerome.”

  Just as Tucker acknowledged the men outdoors with a wave, Samantha came to stand at
his elbow. “What do you think’s wrong with my horse?” she asked shakily.

  Tucker wished there were an easy answer, but in veterinary medicine there seldom was. “Hard to say until I examine him.”

  Tucker watched the stallion closely. The moment the horse began to hang his head and look a little wobbly, he collected his satchel, opened the stall gate, and went inside.

  When Tucker realized that Samantha was at his heels, he stopped dead in his tracks. “It might be safer if you stayed out of here,” he informed her. “The sedative will probably keep him calm, but there’s no guarantee.”

  “Blue won’t hurt me,” she insisted. “I never for a moment thought he might.”

  Tucker had no doubt that Samantha had a very special relationship with the stallion. As a general rule, horses were incredibly devoted and faithful creatures who responded reciprocally to love and gentleness. “I’m sure he wouldn’t intend to hurt you,” he compromised. “Right now, however, he may not be able to stop himself.”

  Despite the warning, Samantha remained at Tucker’s elbow. He decided to let it go. She’d been raised around horses, just as he had, and surely understood the risks. It wasn’t his place to lecture her.

  Blue was swaying on his feet now. When Tucker touched the stallion’s neck, the animal showed no sign of agitation. Taking care not to move too quickly, Tucker deposited his satchel on the floor of the stall.

  “Good boy,” he intoned softly. To the men holding the ropes, he called out, “You can cut him some slack now!” The instant the lines relaxed, Tucker drew them off over the horse’s head. “Now let’s see if we can figure out what’s wrong with you, fella.”

  The first thing Tucker always did when he examined a sick horse was check for colic. After withdrawing the stethoscope from the satchel, he pressed the chest piece to the animal’s belly. In cases of severe colic, all intestinal activity often ceased, the result being an ominous and deadly silence.

  Acutely aware of Samantha’s anxious gaze following his every movement, he said, “The belly sounds good.”

  He stepped around to the horse’s head. The stallion’s pupils were dilated, but given the sedation, that was to be expected. Tucker folded back the equine’s lip. “Good capillary refill response. Two seconds on the dot.”

  Tucker placed the stethoscope on the right side of the stallion’s chest to get a pulse reading. “That’s odd,” he murmured, and then immediately wished he’d kept the thought to himself when Samantha asked, “What’s odd?”

  “His pulse rate is forty. With all the sedatives in his system, I expected it to be a little slow, not at the high end of normal.”

  “Is that a bad sign?” Her voice trembled as she posed the question.

  Tucker frowned as he checked the stallion’s respiratory rate, which was also normal. Then he bent to rifle through his bag for a large animal thermometer. “I don’t think it’s a bad sign, necessarily,” he told Samantha as he took the equine’s temperature. “The normal range is from thirty-six to forty-two. It’s just unusual for it to be that fast under sedation.”

  The stallion’s temp proved to be normal as well. After returning the thermometer to the satchel, Tucker moved to the corner of the stall where a black rubber dish sat. “Is this the grain dish?”

  “Yes.” An older man with graying brown hair and dark eyes entered the stall from the paddock where he’d been manning one of the ropes. He was a good-looking fellow for his age, trim yet well muscled, as most ranchers and horsemen tended to be. “If you’re wanting to see what he ate, I can fetch you a little of the cob.”

  “There are traces still in the dish.” As Tucker bent to collect the bowl, he noticed a deep gash on the older man’s forehead. “Ouch. The horse do that to you?”

  “Did it to myself by staying when I should’ve went,” the man replied with a humorless smile. “Can’t blame the horse for my own stupidity.” He thrust out a hand. “Name’s Jerome Hudson. I’m the ranch foreman.”

  While shaking the foreman’s hand, Tucker said, “Looks to me like a trip to the ER is in order. You’ll be needing a few stitches.”

  The older man nodded. “I’ll drive to town and get it taken care of in a bit.”

  “Hell you will,” Frank said from the gate. “I’ll take you in.”

  Tucker returned his attention to the bowl and what remained of the wet cob. A white, barely visible powdery substance clung to the corn particles. “Do you mix vitamins in with his cob?”

  “We give vitamin powder in the morning with the bran and grain,” the foreman replied.

  “Do you rinse out the dishes between feedings?” Tucker asked, thinking some of the powder might have clung to the bowl.

  “Rinse and dry them both,” Jerome assured him.

  Tucker moistened his fingertip to collect a bit of the powder. “There’s something on this cob.”

  The foreman stepped over to have a look. “That’s not vitamin powder. Ours is yellowish brown.”

  “Did you notice any powder on the cob when you measured it out?” Tucker asked.

  “I didn’t measure it. We have the day-shift people do that before they leave. The filled dishes are put on a shelf, which is numbered according to stall order. Saves me work late at night.” The foreman shook his head and glanced apologetically at Samantha. “I didn’t notice any white powder on Blue’s cob, but I didn’t really examine it, either.”

  Samantha pressed close to examine the dish’s contents. Then she lifted a frightened gaze to Tucker’s. “What do you think it is?”

  “I’m not sure.” Tucker handed the dish to Hudson. “Can you put this someplace safe? We may need to have that powder analyzed.”

  “Analyzed?” Samantha echoed.

  Tucker avoided her worried gaze as he returned to the horse and drew a blood sample. The situation baffled him, and he didn’t want to do too much of his thinking out loud. The traces of powder on the cob indicated possible poisoning, but the horse exhibited none of the usual symptoms.

  When the vial of blood had been filled and marked, Tucker deposited the sample in his bag and went back to studying the horse. “Has he had any diarrhea?” he asked, directing the question to no one in particular.

  “Nope,” Jerome replied, stepping over to the gate to hand off the dish to Clint for safekeeping. “Far as I know, he’s been fit as a fiddle until tonight.”

  “Another horse did have diarrhea, though,” Samantha interjected. “Tabasco, a four-year-old stallion. It was the worst case I’ve ever seen, and we called out a vet.” She glanced at Jerome. “What was it, a week ago?”

  “Last Sunday morning. He hasn’t perked back up the way we’d like to see, either, and we’ve been worried.” The foreman met Tucker’s gaze. “We planned to call someone out in the morning to give us a second opinion.”

  “What was the first opinion?” Tucker asked.

  “That it was nothing more than a little stomach upset,” Samantha replied, her soft mouth thinning with disgust. “The vet was Doc Washburn’s new partner. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

  Tucker had heard stories about the new veterinarian, and none thus far had been favorable.

  Samantha gestured limply with a hand. “I wasn’t impressed, and needless to say, I won’t use him again.”

  “I’d like to have a look at Tabasco later,” Tucker told her. “First, though, I need to treat this stallion’s lacerations.”

  Blue suddenly threw up his head and looked at them with white-ringed eyes. Only a little time had passed since the sedative had been administered, and Tucker was taken by surprise.

  “The sedative’s wearing off,” he noted out loud.

  “So soon?” Samantha sent him a bewildered look. “Doesn’t it normally last longer than this?”

  Tucker was too busy filling another syringe to reply. But he wasn’t quick enough. The stallion shrieked and wheeled. Frank slapped the gate closed so the animal couldn’t escape, and Tucker looped an arm around Samantha’s waist to swing
her out of the way.

  “Get out of here,” he ordered as he released his hold on her.

  Jerome grabbed Samantha’s arm to propel her toward the gate.

  “Whoa, boy, whoa,” Tucker soothed.

  The stallion quieted, and the moment he did Tucker stepped in close to give him another injection. Then he, too, vacated the stall.

  This time the horse didn’t get quite so excited, and the injection worked a little more quickly because there was still some sedative in his system. Tucker’s brain had begun to race with all the possible causes of excitement that could be controlled with sedatives for only short periods of time. One of those possibilities truly alarmed him.

  When the stallion was standing calmly again, Tucker left the stall to find some privacy and whipped his cell phone from his belt to call Isaiah, his twin brother and partner.

  Isaiah answered in a hoarse, sleep-slurred voice. “Coulter residence.”

  “Hey, bro,” Tucker said. “I need your help.”

  “Tucker?” Isaiah yawned loudly. Tucker heard his sister-in-law Laura murmur sleepily in the background. “What do you mean, my help? It’s…what…midnight?”

  “A few minutes after. I’m sorry for waking you up, but this is an emergency. I’ve got a loco horse on my hands.”

  Tucker began relating the particulars, only to have his brother say, “Whoa, slow down. Give me a minute, here. I’m still half-asleep.” Isaiah sighed and yawned again. Then, “Okay, all right. What kind of cocktail did you say you mixed?”

  “Xylazine and Dormosedan. It only kept him calm for a little over twenty minutes. Then he started going ape again.”

  “That soon?” Isaiah was starting to sound more alert. “Xylazine is short-action, but with the Dormosedan on board, it should have worked longer than that.”

  “What if the horse has ingested an opiate?” Tucker suggested.

  “An opiate?”

  “You heard me. That’s all that makes sense. A sedative might only counteract the effects of an opiate for twenty minutes or less. That’s essentially what I’m seeing, a horse that’s chemically restrained, but not reacting normally to the sedative. His pulse is forty, at the high end of normal range, and his respiration is normal as well. By all rights, both should be a little slow—unless there’s a stimulant in his system to counteract the sedatives.”