When the horse reaches the fence at the end of the yard, he wheels around and gallops toward us, his eyes wide with fear, his ears pinned back. He feels threatened. His gait is a little awkward. One of his hind legs must be bothering him.
The horse runs another lap, then slows down. His eyes relax. His ears come back to their normal, upright position. He’s feeling more comfortable.
Dr. Mac speaks softly. “David, go inside and bring out a big bucket of water. He needs a drink.”
“Out of the way, out of the way,” I tell the girls as I make my way to the sliding glass door. “Horse needs some water.”
Once inside, I cut through the kitchen to the clinic and grab a bucket out of the supply closet. I don’t want to miss a thing. I fill the bucket to the brim, then speed out the door again.
“Hey!” Zoe complains, as water from the bucket sloshes on her sneakers.
“Hay is for horses,” I say, pausing at the top of the steps.
“Shhhh!” warns Dr. Mac.
The horse is standing in the middle of the yard, breathing hard. I can see the sweat on his chest. His eyes and ears sweep across the yard, like he’s expecting something else to come along and scare him.
“Bring the water, David,” Mr. Quinn says, keeping his voice calm. “He’s settling down nicely.”
Slowly I walk down the steps. As I get to the bottom, the horse walks straight toward me.
“Don’t move,” Mr. Quinn tells me. If I hand the bucket to Mr. Quinn, it might startle the horse.
The horse does have a limp. It looks like it hurts him to put his full weight on his hind right foot. As he gets closer, I can see a dark red stream of blood and a cut about two inches long over his right hock.
“What’s his name?” I whisper.
“Trickster,” Mr. Quinn answers.
Trickster whinnies. The high-pitched sound makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, like I just touched an electric wire. He stops in front of me, his nostrils flaring, trying to smell me.
I shift the bucket to my left arm and hold out my right hand.
“Hi, Trickster. I’m David.”
Chapter Three
Trickster stretches his neck. His eyes are warm and friendly. The short hairs of his muzzle tickle as he moves his nose over my hand and up my arm to pick up my scent. I can smell him. Man, it is so good to smell a horse again! For a second, it reminds me of how Dad and I smelled after we came home from the barn. But Dad’s not here. It’s just me and this magnificent horse.
“Want some water?” I ask, taking the last step toward him.
He looks me straight in the eye. Trickster is smart—I can see that right away. His eyes twinkle for an instant, then he plunges his muzzle into the bucket. A wave of water soaks my shoes. I bet he did that on purpose.
He raises his muzzle out of the bucket, shakes his head once, and his long forelock flops over his eyes. I set the bucket on the ground and brush the hair to the center of his forehead. He shakes his head again so it flops back over his eyes. He likes his bangs in his eyes, just like me. I wonder if his mother ever gave him a hard time about getting a haircut.
“You goofball,” I say. He looks totally relaxed now. His ears are straight up, and he is breathing slower. His eyes scan the back of the house, taking in the clinic, the girls on the deck, and the fence line, but he doesn’t seem frightened.
Dr. Mac steps closer to Trickster so she can check him out. “Tell me about him,” she says to Mr. Quinn.
“He’s a chestnut gelding,” Mr. Quinn says.
A gelding is a male horse that has been neutered to prevent him from fathering any foals. Dad told me that.
“Five years old, fifteen hands high,” he replies, attaching a lead rope to Trickster’s halter.
The height of horses is measured in hands. One hand equals four inches. Fifteen hands means that he is sixty inches tall at the withers, where his neck meets his back.
“His previous owners described him as a smart horse, very playful. That’s why they named him Trickster. I don’t think they appreciated how fast he’s going to be. I got a good deal on him.”
“OK, buddy, can I examine you now?” Dr. Mac asks as she pats Trickster’s strong jaw. “Stay right there, David. He seems to like you.”
Dr. Mac uses her stethoscope to listen to Trickster’s lungs and heart. “Heart rate is forty-five beats per minute. Respiratory is thirty. A little high, but not scary. I’d say he’s still nervous about being hit in the trailer. Did he eat this morning?”
“A grain mix and hay. He doesn’t need a special diet. Good thing, too. I already have enough fussy eaters for one barn.”
Dr. Mac murmurs to Trickster as she runs her hands over his back, feeling for swelling. He’s fine until she gets close to the cut over his right hock. Suddenly, his skin quivers and he snorts hard.
“That’s sore, isn’t it?” Dr. Mac asks him. She presses gently around the edges of the cut. “He’s bruised here. I can already feel the swelling. The cut isn’t anything to worry about. We’ll treat it with an antiseptic spray, and it will heal on its own.”
“Do you think he injured the hip bone?” Mr. Quinn asks.
“Let me feel the leg first.” Dr. Mac goes down on one knee and runs her hands down the lower part of Trickster’s leg. I hope it’s not anything serious. I can already imagine what it will feel like to ride him.
“I want to see him walk,” Dr. Mac says as she stands up. “David, take the lead rope and walk him away from us. Slowly, now.”
Mr. Quinn puts his big hand on mine as I reach for the lead rope. “She said slowly,” he says, giving me a serious look.
“Yes, sir,” I answer. I’m going to do exactly what I’m told around this horse, especially when Mr. Quinn is watching.
“Come on,” I tell Trickster as we walk away from the house. I walk on his left side by his head. The only sounds in the yard are the soft steps of Trickster’s hooves on the grass. It feels so great to be next to a horse again.
“OK, bring him back,” Dr. Mac calls.
When I stop, Trickster rubs his jaw against my hair. “Cut it out,” I laugh. We make a wide circle and head back. I look over my shoulder at Trickster’s hind legs. He’s still limping.
“What do you think?” I ask Dr. Mac as we arrive back.
“I’m pretty sure he hasn’t fractured anything, but I want to take some X rays to make sure. I’ll be right back. Brenna, I need you to help me carry some things.”
Dr. Mac returns from the clinic carrying a portable X-ray machine. The X-ray machine is the size of a toaster oven, with a long electrical cord that she plugs into an outlet on the deck.
Brenna brings out a box and sets it down on the deck. Dr. Mac pulls a heavy apron out of the box and hands it to Mr. Quinn.
“Here’s your apron, Lucas.”
“What does he need that for?” I ask.
“The apron is lined with lead,” Dr. Mac says. “Lucas is going to help me with the X rays. This will block the radiation from his body. Or mine.” She ties on a lead apron over her jeans.
“I can help,” I say.
Dr. Mac pauses briefly. I hope she’s not afraid I’ll screw up. “I’ll do whatever you say,” I add.
“All right,” she answers. “You’ll need to put on an apron, too.”
Dr. Mac holds Trickster’s rope while I wrestle with the apron. It is way heavier than it looks. Once it’s on, I take the rope back. “Don’t laugh at me,” I tell Trickster under my breath.
Trickster flares his nostrils and snorts once, blowing my bangs into my eyes.
Mr. Quinn slips on giant mittens that go all the way up to his elbow. “These are lined with lead, too,” he explains to me.
Dr. Mac takes a thin metal case the size of a big book and slides it into a slightly bigger wooden box. “The X-ray film is in here,” she says, handing the box to Mr. Quinn. “I want you to hold it by the edges and place it right behind Trickster’s sore hock.”
Mr. Quinn pats Trickster’s rump to let the horse know he’s there—horses do not like surprises. Then he bends over and holds the X-ray box behind the sore joint in Trickster’s back leg. “Is this where you want it?” he asks Dr. Mac.
“Perfect,” Dr. Mac says as she picks up the X-ray machine. “Stay still.” She aims the lens at the hock and pushes a button. The machine beeps once.
“Done,” Dr. Mac says. She takes out the first X-ray film and puts another in the box. “Different angle this time,” she says as she and Mr. Quinn move around.
Trickster twists his head around to see what’s going on.
“Relax,” I tell him. “They’re just taking pictures.”
When Dr. Mac has taken four different X rays, each from a different angle, she takes the film into the clinic to process it. When she comes out of the clinic a few minutes later, she looks relieved.
“No breaks, no fractures,” she says. “I suspect that when the trailer was hit, it threw Trickster against the far wall. He hit his hock, which accounts for the bruising and cut. He must have lost his balance and twisted his hock a bit.” She points to the injured joint.
“If he’s hurt, then how could he run the way he did when he first got out of the trailer?” I ask.
“You have to understand a horse’s personality before you make any medical diagnosis,” Dr. Mac says. “This fellow strikes me as high-spirited. Would you say that’s right, Lucas?”
Mr. Quinn pets Trickster’s neck. “He’s young, doesn’t know his limits. Horses like this can injure themselves by pushing too hard. We have to make sure they don’t do that.” He turns to Dr. Mac. “How do you want to treat the leg?”
“Rest, cold packs, and some anti-inflammatory medicine,” Dr. Mac answers. “I don’t think you should coop him up in a stall. He’ll go nuts. A moderate amount of gentle exercise—walking—will help.”
“How are you going to get him back in the trailer?” I ask. “He didn’t like it very much.”
“I’ll give him a mild sedative,” Dr. Mac says. “That ought to calm him down.”
“I could ride in the trailer with him,” I offer.
Mr. Quinn grins. “No, I don’t think so. The two of you locked in a small place like that, something is bound to happen. Wouldn’t be safe.”
“Still want us to follow you in the van?” Dr. Mac asks.
Mr. Quinn checks his watch. “It’s already pretty late,” he says. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Bring the kids out early, and we’ll put everyone to work then.”
Trickster shifts his weight and bumps his shoulder against me. He likes me. I know I’m not making this up.
“Mr. Quinn, can I help you with Trickster?” I ask. “I mean, with the exercising Dr. Mac was talking about.”
Trickster snorts, and my bangs are in my eyes again.
“Well,” Mr. Quinn says slowly. “That’s quite a bit of horse there.” He rubs his hand over his buzz cut. “Let me think about it. We’ll talk when you come out tomorrow.”
Chapter Four
The next morning, Dr. Mac turns the van past the wooden sign that reads “Quinn’s Stables,” and we bounce down the dirt road toward the barns.
I’m back!
Green pastures stretch out on both sides of the road, surrounded by white fences and filled with horses of every color and size—a jet-black Thoroughbred, spotted Appaloosas, a pair of matching Clydesdales, and many others. We ooh and aah at the beautiful animals grazing in the fields.
I feel like jumping out of the van and running the rest of the way. No, better not. Dr. Mac wouldn’t like that. I’m working hard to stay on everyone’s good side.
At the top of a long hill, we can finally see the stables—a collection of smaller buildings and sheds around a large, modern barn. The Quinns’ house, a two-story stone building, sits off to the east. There is a pond beside it with a loud family of ducks splashing in the water.
Nothing has changed since the last time I was here. As I get out of the van, I take a deep breath. It even smells the same. Hay and horses, the best smells in the world.
A tanned woman wearing jeans and a white T-shirt walks toward us. She shakes hands with Dr. Mac.
“Good to see you again, Doc,” she says.
“You, too,” Dr. Mac replies. “I’ve brought your new stable hands.”
“Pleasure to meet you all. I’m Linda,” she says. “I’ve only been helping out here a few months, so I know what it feels like to be new.”
“My name is David,” I say, stepping forward. “This is Maggie, Brenna, Sunita, and Zoe. They’ve never been around horses before. But I have lots of experience.”
“Excuse me?” Zoe says, stepping next to me. “I know how to ride. Mother sent me to horse camp in Connecticut last summer. I won first place in my age group.”
“You?” I ask. “You never told me that.”
“I don’t like to brag about it,” Zoe says.
“Oh, brother,” Maggie mumbles.
“I’ve never been on a horse,” Sunita tells Linda.
“Don’t worry,” Linda answers. “We have more than forty horses here, and one will be just right for you. Now, I’m going to take you on a tour, show you around a bit, then we’ll put you to work.”
Dr. Mac takes a plastic equipment case out of the van. “Lucas wants me to look at a sore leg and a hoof crack,” she says. “I’ll check in with you later.”
As soon as she disappears into the barn, I nod to Linda. “I don’t need the tour. I used to come here all the time. I’ll help Mr. Quinn with Trickster while you get them started.”
“Oh, no,” Linda says with a smile. “Mr. Quinn was very specific. You’re supposed to stay with the group and run a shovel this morning.”
“What?” This is not what I had planned.
“He said something about you learning how to follow directions,” Linda adds.
That sounds like something my mother would say.
“What does ‘run a shovel’ mean?” Sunita asks.
“You don’t want to know,” I say.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Linda says. “Come on, let’s get started.” She leads us into the largest barn. “This is the newest building here. Mr. Quinn had it built five years ago.”
“Does Mr. Quinn own all of the horses?” Zoe asks.
“He owns about half of them,” Linda answers. “Six are his prizewinners, the horses he races or shows. The most famous one is Quinn’s Starfire. He’s won every prize there is to be won for a show horse on the East Coast.”
“He probably cost more than my house,” I add. “You wouldn’t believe how expensive some of these horses are.”
“The rest of Mr. Quinn’s horses are the animals we use for lessons. The other twenty are boarders. They are owned by other people who pay us to take care of them.”
“Were those the horses we saw when we drove in?” Sunita asks.
“Yep,” Linda says. “We turn them out to the pastures in the morning while we clean the barn and get their feed ready. Then we bring them in for breakfast.”
We follow Linda down the concrete aisle in the middle of the barn. Stalls line both sides of the aisle. Each stall is about twelve feet wide and ten feet deep, and each has a barred window that looks outside. Horses like to be able to see what’s going on around them. Since all the horses are out grazing, the stalls are all empty.
We pass a teenage boy pushing a heavy wheelbarrow filled with straw and manure.
“Hi,” he says briefly.
“That’s Jared,” Linda says. “I wish we had more like him. We can always use some extra hands to keep things clean, but we’re desperate right now. It was really nice of you guys to offer to help.”
Another stable hand comes toward us leading two old friends of mine, a tan-colored pony named Gus and an old gray spotted mare named Gertie.
“Gertie!” I say as I walk up to her and pet the side of her shaggy face. “How you doing, girl?” I turn around and introduce her to the others.
“Gertie was my favorite horse when I was a little kid.”
“She’s still a favorite around here,” Linda says, shooing us to the side so Gertie and Gus can pass. “Follow me.”
We stop again in the center of the barn, where a shorter hall crosses the long hall. Linda points up the shorter hall. “That’s where you’ll find the wash blocks—those are shower stalls for horses—the grooming stalls, feed room, cleaning supplies, and the office.” She points to a wooden staircase. “The tack room, where we store saddle and riding equipment, is upstairs.”
“What’s down here?” Brenna asks, pointing to the other end of the short hall.
“That leads to the exercise ring,” Linda says. “That’s where your first lesson will start. Quinn told me that’s the deal. You guys are getting riding lessons in exchange for helping out, right?”
Maggie and Zoe nod happily. Sunita and Brenna don’t look as excited. They’ll learn. I’ll make sure they have a good time.
“OK, let’s get you guys some shovels. Quinn wants you to clean out those dirty stalls we passed on the way in.” She steps into the supply room and conies out with five shovels. “Manure-shoveling time!”
We troop back to the stalls at the far end of the barn.
“Every stall needs to be cleaned out,” Linda says. “You’ll notice that some of these stalls are pretty filthy. There’s a couple of days’ worth of mess in here. Dr. Mac says you guys are all hard workers, and this is where you get to prove it. David, since you have so much experience, why don’t you show the others how it’s done?”
This is not the topic I would have picked for show-and-tell, but I’m trying to do everything right today, even the gross stuff. I carry a shovel into the stall. The girls crowd around the door to watch.
“This is how you run a shovel,” I say as I push manure and dirty straw to the front of the stall. I go back and scrape the rest of the floor clean until there is a heap of manure and straw at the stall door. “It’s simple.”
“You are very good at this, David,” Sunita says with a straight face.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to be dignified. “You have to clean the muck out of each stall and push it into the center aisle. Then somebody comes along and dumps it into a wheelbarrow. Pushing the wheelbarrow out to the manure pile is the worst job. Is Jared going to do that?” I ask Linda.
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