Fenced-In Felix

by Cheyenne Blue

  “Honestly, it’s better that you don’t.”

  I advanced a pace. “Oh? And why would that be?”

  “She’s difficult. You could get hurt. She’s mine, so it’s right that I take the risk.”

  She looked sincere. She sounded sincere. So why was I having trouble believing her? Some of my antagonism drained away, but the kernel of doubt remained, a nugget of worry in my chest.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Anger wouldn’t help. And she was, at this point in time, my friend. She didn’t know my inner doubts simply because I hadn’t voiced them.

  “Thing is, Josie, I’m struggling here. I’m battling to find a reason to believe you. I want to believe you, but it’s bloody difficult.”

  She cocked her head and regarded me steadily, but didn’t answer.

  “The first thing is, I don’t think Flame is your horse. I’m not sure whose horse she is, but I don’t think she’s yours. Why did she come without tack, grooming kit, haynet—any of the normal accoutrements of horse ownership?”

  “I told you. My friend sent her and she’s not a horsey person. She didn’t know—”

  “Please.” My voice held an edge of pleading. I wanted so badly to believe her. “Just hear me out. Don’t make it worse.”

  I dragged another deep breath. “She’s not seven, as you said. She’s more like five. If you look at her teeth, you’ll see.”

  Josie opened her mouth as if to deny that, or maybe say she didn’t know how to age a horse by its teeth, but she shut it again.

  “And you won’t ride her. Is it really because you’re nervous? Or is that the person who passed her to you to look after told you not to ride her? After all, a racehorse is a difficult ride. And if she got hurt, if she broke one of her fragile forelegs in the rough outback country that she’s not used to, then she’s suddenly not such a valuable commodity. Whoever went to the trouble of stealing this horse presumably wants her back in one piece.”

  Josie was pale under her tan, her fingers clenching and unclenching.

  “And the final piece? You’ve probably guessed that already. Her uncanny resemblance to Fiery Lights. Sure, she was a bit run-down when she arrived, but maybe that’s because she’d been shunted from pillar to post, being moved around the country until she ended up here in the outback where the odds of someone recognising her are greatly reduced.” I looked over at Flame in the next stall. She had her head over the bar, ears pricked, watching us. “So, Josie, what’s it going to be? Are you going to come clean, or do you have a good explanation for all of this—a proper explanation, one that makes sense of all these fragments.”

  My voice had risen as I spoke, and it had become loud and shrill. I stopped speaking and waited. Ben kicked the partition impatiently, and somewhere outside, a kookaburra laughed. I waited, but she didn’t say anything. Her silence was its own guilty verdict.

  “I want to believe you, Josie, I do.” I softened my voice. “I think I’m falling for you, but I can’t let myself do that if there’s some big secret you’re not telling me. If Flame is Fiery Lights—even that name is as if someone’s playing me for a fool—then I need to know.”

  “And if she is?” Her voice was hoarse, but she drew her shoulders back and looked me in the eye. “I’m not saying she is, but if she is, what then? Will you tie me up with baler twine and lock me in the amenities block while you call the cops?”

  “I would have to. If you’ve stolen her, or if you’re harbouring her for someone else, then I have to tell the police. It’s my land you’re keeping her on. That makes me an accomplice. I live here, Josie. I’ve never lived anywhere else. I can’t just up stumps and move to the next town as you do. My life is here.”

  Josie slumped against the wall, as if her bones had melted along with her feisty nature. “You’re very quick to think the worst of me. You piece together some circumstantial evidence and take the word of some stranger on the other side of the world whom you’ve never met but who happens to send you photos of a racehorse that looks a bit like Flame. Thanks for the trust.” Her voice morphed into bitterness. “Thanks for the friendship. Thanks for believing me.”

  “You have to give me something to work with.” I moved to stand next to her, close enough that I could see the golden colour of her eyes. Close enough to smell her scent, a tang of citrus soap, of shampoo, of fresh sweat from the hot day. Close enough to desire her once more, to make my legs tremble under the weight of my body, to make me want to say Forget all of this. Forget I said anything. Let’s go into the house and make love. But I couldn’t. “Tell me, Josie. Please.”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry, Felix, but you’re going to have to trust me.”

  “Trust you? It doesn’t work like that. I did. But if you want me to keep trusting you, I need more. Is Flame your horse?”

  She took a step back. “No. She’s not. But I can’t tell you any more.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Please, Felix. I can’t just tell you everything.”

  “Then give me something to work with. Make me believe you.”

  “You said you were falling for me. Well, to me, that implies you must already believe me somewhat. Give me some time.”

  “What, so that you can arrange for Flame to be removed, so that you can walk out on your job and disappear? You talk the talk about wanting to settle down, but is that all it was? Just words?”

  I had to swallow hard against the acid in my throat. The more I said, the more Josie evaded my questions, the harder it was for me to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “Trust. It’s what friends have.” Her voice was low.

  “Seems to me that old line is used every time a person wants to avoid answering a question. Trust me. The ultimate manipulation.”

  “It’s not like that, Felix. It’s not.”

  I linked my hands behind my neck. “Then tell me what it is like.”

  “I can’t. Not yet.”

  The anger that had cycled through me spluttered into life again. “Then this conversation is over.”

  I pushed past her out of Ben’s stall, uncaring that I knocked her arm as I did. Patch’s bridle hung on a hook. I grabbed it and stalked down to where Flame hung her head over the bar. I slipped the reins over her neck and palmed the bit, slipping my thumb into her mouth so that she opened it. When the bridle was on, I led her out into the aisle.

  “What are you doing with my horse?” Josie’s anger and anxiety were palpable.

  I led Flame outside. Her ears pricked and she jogged along beside me. I shortened the reins so she couldn’t get away. Finally, the poor girl was going to have a rider.

  “Felix, stop! You can’t ride her.”

  I vaulted up. Flame’s muscles bunched beneath me and she trembled with excitement. From my position atop her back, I looked down at Josie. “She’s not your horse. You said so. And until you give me a better reason than that, I think it’s time this girl went out.” I nudged Flame with my knees as she sidled beneath me, her ears pricked so hard they nearly touched at the tips. She snorted.

  “Let’s see how fast this racehorse can go.”

  I squeezed with my calves, and she danced beneath me. It took all my skill to hold her to a curvetting sideways canter as we left the yard. One large circle in the paddock, and then I turned her head away from the yard and relaxed my fingers. Released, Flame sprang forwards. Her neck stretched, and she shook her head, snatching at the bit. As we swept past the barn, I saw Josie’s face, taut with worry.

  Flame’s stride lengthened as I let her go across the paddock, my anger evaporating with the thrill and speed of a good horse. Flame was a champion. She had to be. Her stride was smooth and flowing, and even without a saddle, I felt secure on her. She was sweating in the heat, her coat shiny beneath my jeans, her neck damp. But her ears were pricked, and her hooves thudded the dry ground in an even, four-beat rhythm.

  I should be feeling sadness, sorrow at the imminent failure of what could have been
a relationship with Josie. The anger that had precipitated my wild ride was gone, and there was only the exhilaration of the gallop. Flame was well named. She flickered across the red dirt like a bushfire.

  And then suddenly it wasn’t right. Flame’s effortless gallop became a struggle. Her head lowered, and I heard her wheeze to draw breath. I tried to ease her back, but she set her jaw, took the bit between her teeth and ploughed on. Yet, her sides heaved, and the rhythm of her hoofbeats became slower, uneven. She stumbled, and I nearly pitched over her head but regained my seat with a yank on her mane. Still she galloped on.

  I had to stop her. Obviously, the weeks of lazing around in the paddock had taken a far greater toll on her fitness than I would have expected. I sat back, tried to collect her between hands and legs so that I could slow her, but she wouldn’t have any of it. Her ears flattened, and her neck set like iron. I shortened one rein, drove her in a circle, gradually tightening the circle until she was forced to slow. She dropped back into a jarring trot and, finally, a walk. I drew her to a halt and slid to the ground.

  Flame looked in a bad way. Her head hung low, and her wheezing breath sounded loud in the stillness. Her flanks heaved like bellows, and she braced her forelegs as she sucked in air.

  “Easy, girl,” I crooned to her. “Easy, sweetheart.” My hand made long sliding strokes trying to calm her. Her eyes rolled white. I stood with her in the blazing sun, waiting for her to recover. Still she laboured. I frowned; this seemed more than an unfit horse. This was a distressed horse.

  I took the reins over her head and encouraged her to move. We were a few hundred metres from the barn. It took a little coaxing, but Flame started to move. At first she was slow, but as we walked, she recovered, and by the time we reached the barn, she was nearly back to normal.

  Josie was not in sight. I led Flame inside, topped up the water bucket, and watched as she drank deep. Her extreme reaction to the exercise was both a confirmation and a rebuttal of my suspicions. She was obviously a racehorse. But was there something wrong with the mare, more than simple lack of fitness? And if there was, it had to be recent. Fiery Lights had won the prestigious Jackson Plate only a few weeks ago. Alternatively, if she had a chronic condition, then she couldn’t possibly be Fiery Lights the racehorse. She must be simply Flame, the ex-racehorse from South Australia.

  Once I was sure Flame was going to be okay, I left the barn in search of Josie.

  CHAPTER 14

  Josie’s old car was parked in the campground, so she still had to be around. I figured she’d find me, so I returned to the house and booted up the computer.

  I brought up images of Fiery Lights. Similar to Flame in some, a spitting image in the others. It was impossible to tell from the photos alone.

  There was movement on the veranda, and then Josie entered.

  “I’ve put Flame in the paddock,” she said without preamble. “I don’t know what you did to her, but she doesn’t look too happy.”

  I glanced at Josie. Worry for the horse darkened her eyes. And the doubts thrown up had made me unsure. Abruptly, I decided I’d level with Josie. But before I could say anything, she came over to the desk.

  Her palms rested flat on the timber, and she leant forwards. “Felix, I know I’m being evasive here. I know it looks bad. But while you’re right in some respects—Flame isn’t my horse—I think you’re wrong in others. I was told not to ride her, but I wasn’t told why. And I know I’m going to ask a lot here, but I’m asking you to trust me for one more week. I’m going to contact her owner and see what I can find out. Hopefully, we’ll be laughing about this next week, and Flame will still be grazing in your paddock. Can you do this? For me?”

  I was silent, then I gave her a nod, a slow up and down. “Okay. But I—we—need answers here. Real ones. I rode her, Josie, and she was as fast as the wind. At first, I could see her streaking past the post to win the Jackson Plate, she was that fast, that flowing, that strong. But then she started labouring, her breathing was difficult, and she was in trouble. That’s when I pulled her up and led her home.”

  Josie was silent, but her gaze never left my face.

  “Did you know that would happen?”

  She shook her head. “No. But then, of course, I’ve never ridden her. Does she need a vet?”

  “I don’t think so. Not at the moment. But I’ll keep an eye on her. If I think she needs a vet, I’ll call one.”

  “Thank you.” Her words were slow and sincere. “You probably don’t believe me, but it’s that concern for your horses that led me to bring Flame here in the first place.” She straightened. “I’m going back to Worrindi. I’m not running away. I don’t want to run from you, Felix. And I don’t want to leave Flame.”

  I nodded and switched my gaze back to the computer screen. It seemed safer that way. If I kept looking at Josie, maybe I’d tell her too much. Maybe I’d spill the beans about microchips and how I could find out for sure if Flame was Fiery Lights. I didn’t want to tell her that, not yet, anyway. I wanted her to tell me the truth, and I’d already said more than I should.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her turn and leave. I stayed at the computer, and thirty minutes later, I heard her car head back to the road. Only then did I stand and stretch, then dropped my head into my hands.

  I jammed my hat back on my head and went to check on Flame. She was lying down in the paddock. I crouched next to her. She didn’t look distressed, just tired. I stroked her neck. If she had a microchip, the tiny chip, no bigger than a grain of rice, would be implanted at the crest of her neck, under her mane. I could call Alain and beg his microchip reader, or I could call the police and tell them my suspicions.

  Flame turned her head and nibbled one of the buttons on my shirt. “You sweet thing,” I murmured, rubbing her forehead. “I’ll hate to see you go.”

  Not just the money, but Flame, the horse. The darling of the paddock.

  I wouldn’t call the police yet. All I had was suspicion, circumstantial evidence, and an unwell horse. Hardly enough to make them rush out and arrest anyone. Arrest Josie, a voice whispered in the back of my head.

  I straightened and went back to the house to call Alain.

  He answered on the second ring. “Felix,” he said, his cheerful voice booming down the line. “Nice to hear from you. Narelle tells me you’re getting a lot of enquiries for your cabins. Good onya!”

  “Thanks. Narelle’s been great. I think she refuses to let tourists out of the post office until they take a brochure. A lot of my guests say they learnt about Jayboro from her.”

  “My darling wife is a pushy one.”

  “And you love her for it.”

  “I won’t trade her in anytime soon.” There was a smile in his voice. “Now, did you call for me or for Narelle?”

  “You, actually, Alain. I’m wondering if you have a microchip reader?”

  “I do. It normally collects dust in the clinic, and now you’re the second person who’s asked me that in a week.”

  Was someone else suspicious about Flame? “Oh?” I asked. I tried to keep my voice neutral.

  “There’s a dog hanging around town, not a wild one, a stray. Gentle thing. Bazza at the garage wondered if she was with some tourists and got lost. Or dumped. So he had me take a look at her. No microchip.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “Anyway, why do you want it, Felix? Are you buying a horse and want to check it?”

  He’d given me the perfect reason. “Something like that.”

  “When do you need it? I’m coming past your door in a couple of days. If that’s soon enough, I could drop it off. Or do you want me to take a look at the animal with you?”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll be okay.” I hesitated. “I did want to ask you about a horse, though. Not one of mine, which is probably a good thing.”

  “Fire away.”

  “A thoroughbred. Ex-racehorse.”

  “Aren’t they all. Racing industry needs to look after the animal
s they let go. But anyway, you were saying?”

  “Horse looks fine. Not currently in top condition, but should have some residual fitness. Anyway, I galloped her. She went like the wind at the start, then started labouring. Wheezing. Had to walk her home. Didn’t seem like purely an unfit horse to me. Is there something chronic that would cause that?”

  “Plenty of things. Recurrent airway obstruction, but I’d expect that to have shown in milder symptoms before then. How old is the horse?”

  “Fiveish. Sevenish. Don’t know exactly.”

  “If it’s only hard exercise, my money would be on some sort of myocardial disease. Heart disease, y’know. Probably following on from a chronic infection. If that’s the horse you’d considering buying, I’d run far, far away.”

  “Different horse. Would something like that have come on instantly after just one burst of hard exercise?”

  “Highly unlikely. Chances are if it’s that severe, the horse has had it a while. Maybe it only shows up with a long gallop, but it’s likely to get worse, not better.”

  “Thanks, Alain.” I shifted the phone to my other ear. “That’s been really helpful.”

  “Still need that microchip reader, or have I talked you out of the horse?”

  “Still need it, if you don’t mind. But I have to go into Worrindi anyway. I’m out of milk, eggs and practically everything edible. Can I come by tomorrow and pick it up?”

  “Of course. Narelle can take it to the post office, if that’s easier.”

  “Thanks. Tell her I’ll come at lunchtime. I owe her beer and lunch for all the tourists she’s sent my way.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Too late, I remembered that Josie worked in the only pub in Worrindi. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be working then.

  I said goodbye to Alain and hung up.

  I was in Worrindi by noon the next day. True to his word, Alain had left the microchip reader with Narelle. The post office was quiet, so she pulled it out of its pouch and gave me a quick rundown on how to use it. It was as simple as a supermarket barcode scanner, which it basically was.