by J. R. Ward
Aqueduct, it had everything from operating rooms and full-service recovery suites to hydrotherapy pools and advanced imaging. And it was staffed with people who saw horses as more than profit-and-loss statements on four hooves.
In the OR, Manny read the X-rays of his girl's front leg, and wanted to be the one to go in and take care of business: He could clearly see the fissures in the radius, but that was not what worried him. There was a handful of chips that had broken off, the sharp flakes orbiting the bulbous end of her long bone like moons around a planet.
Just because she was another species didn't mean he couldn't handle the operation. As long as the anesthesiologist kept her under safely, he could handle the rest. Bone was bone.
But he wasn't going to be an asshole. "What do you think," he said.
"In my professional opinion," the head vet replied, "it's pretty grim. That's a multiple displaced fracture. The recovery time is going to be extensive, and there's no guarantee of even breeding soundness. "
Which was the shitkicker: Horses were meant to stand upright with their weight evenly distributed on four points. When a leg was broken, it wasn't so much the injury that was a bitch; it was the fact that they had to redistribute their poundage and disproportionally rely on the good side to stay on their feet. And that was how trouble came.
Based on what he was staring at, most owners would choose euthanasia. His girl was born to run, and this catastrophic injury was going to make that impossible, even on a recreational basis - if she survived. And as a doctor, he was quite familiar with the cruelty of medical "savior" jobs that ultimately left a patient in a condition worse than death - or did nothing but painfully prolong the inevitable.
"Dr. Manello? Did you hear what I said?"
"Yeah. I did. " But at least, this guy, unlike the pussy out at the track, looked as heartbroken as Manny felt.
Turning away, he went over to where they had laid her out and put his hand on the round drum of her cheek. Her black coat was shining under the bright lights, and in the midst of all the pale tile and stainless steel, she was like a shadow thrown out and left forgotten in the center of the room.
For a long moment, he watched her barreled rib cage expand and contract with her breath. Just seeing her on the slab with those beautiful legs lying like sticks and her tail hanging down onto the tile made him realize anew that animals like her were meant to be on their feet: This was utterly unnatural. And unfair.
Keeping her alive simply so he didn't have to face her death was not the right answer here.
Bracing himself, Manny opened his mouth -
The vibration inside the breast pocket of his suit cut him off. With a nasty curse, he took his BlackBerry out and checked in case it was the hospital. Hannah Whit? With an unknown number?
No one he knew, and he wasn't on call.
Probably a misdial by the operator.
"I want you to operate," he heard himself say as he put the thing back.
The short silence that followed gave him plenty of time to realize that not letting her go smacked of cowardice. But he couldn't dwell on that psychobabble bullshit or he'd lose it.
"I can't guarantee anything. " The vet went back to staring at the X-rays. "I can't tell you how this is going to go, but I will swear to you - I'll do my best. "
God, now he knew how those families felt when he spoke to them. "Thanks. Can I watch in here?"
"Absolutely. I'll get you something to put on, and you know the drill with scrubbing in, Doctor. "
Twenty minutes later, the operation started, and Manny watched from her head, stroking her forelock with his latex-gloved hand even though she was out cold. As the head vet worked, Manny had to approve of the guy's methodology and skills - which were just about the only things that had gone right since Glory had fallen. The procedure was over in under an hour, with the bone chips either removed or screwed into place. Then they rolled the leg up and moved her out of the OR and into a pool so she wouldn't break another leg coming out of sedation.
He stayed until she was awake and then followed the vet out into the hall.
"Her vitals are good and the operation went well," the vet said, "but the former can change quick. And it's going to take time until we know what we've got. "
Shit. That little speech was exactly what he said to next-of-kins and other relatives when it was time for folks to go home and rest up and wait to see how a patient's postop went.
"We'll call you," the vet said. "With updates. "
Manny snapped off his gloves and took out his business card. "In case you don't have it in her records. "
"We've got it. " The guy took the thing anyway. "If anything changes, you'll be the first to know, and I'll update you personally every twelve hours when I do rounds. "
Manny nodded and stuck out his hand. "Thank you. For taking care of her. "
"You're welcome. "
After they shook, Manny nodded back at the double doors. "Mind if I give her a see-ya-later?"
"Please. "
Back inside, he took a moment with his filly. God . . . this hurt.
"You hang on, there, girlie. " He had to whisper because he couldn't seem to draw a full breath.
When he straightened, the staff were staring at him with a sadness he knew was going to stick with him.
"We'll take excellent care of her," the vet said gravely.
He believed they would, and that was the only thing that got him back into the hall.
Tricounty's facilities were extensive, and it took him a while to change and then find his way out to where he'd parked by the front door. Up ahead, the sun had set, a rapidly fading peach glow lighting up the sky as if Manhattan were smoldering. The air was cool, but fragrant from spring's early efforts to bring life to winter's barren landscape, and he took so many deep breaths he got light-headed.
God, time had been running at a blur, but now, as the minutes drooled by, clearly the frantic pace had exhausted its energy source. Either that or it had slammed into a brick wall and passed the fuck out.
As he palmed up his car key, he felt older than God. His head was thumping and his arthritic hip was killing him, that flat-out race over the track to Glory's side way more than the damn thing could handle.
This was so not how he'd envisioned this day ending. He'd assumed he'd be buying drinks for the owners he'd beaten . . . and maybe in the flush of victory taking Ms. Hanson up on her generous oral suggestion.
Getting into his Porsche, he started the engine. Caldwell was about forty-five minutes north of Queens, and his car could practically drive the trip back to the Commodore itself. Good thing, too, because he was a goddamn zombie.
No radio. No iPod music. No phoning people, either.
As he got on the Northway, he just stared at the road ahead and fought the urge to turn around and . . . yeah, and do what? Sleep next to his horse?
The thing was, if he could manage to get home in one piece, help was on the way. He had a fresh bottle of Lagavulin waiting for him, and he might or might not slow down to use a glass: As far as the hospital was concerned, he was off until Monday a. m. at six o'clock, and he had plans to get drunk and stay that way.
Taking the leather-wrapped wheel with one hand, he burrowed into his silk shirt to find his Jesus piece. Gripping the gold cross, he sent up a prayer.
God . . . please let her be okay.
He couldn't stand losing another one of his girls. Not so soon. Jane Whitcomb had died a whole year ago, but that was just what the calendar told him. In grief time, it had been only about a minute and a half since it had happened.
He didn't want to go through that again.