Breakaway (A Gail McCarthy Mystery)

by Laura Crum

  I warmed him up gradually-lots of walking, trotting, and slow loping-before I moved on to anything more ambitious. Daisy, the cow, watched us from one corner of the arena, her eyes alert. She knew what I was up to.

  I'd acquired Daisy from my friend, rancher Glen Bennett; he'd used her for several years as a roping cow. The red-and-white Corriente heifer had proved adaptable, as some cattle are; she'd learned the roping routine and seemed perfectly amenable to going through the motions. However, after two or three years she'd gotten very large, which had caused Glen to get rid of her.

  "Best damn cow on the whole place," he told me. "She'll lope right out there, let you rope her, over and over again. You can lead her off; she won't drag. But those guys all think she's a problem because she's so big."

  Staring at the red-and-white heifer, who probably weighed well over six hundred pounds, I could see why a roper might object if she was loaded into the chute. If such an animal did decide to resist and hang back on the rope, it would be brutal for the head horse who had to pull it.

  "She won't drag, though," Glen said, sensing my thought. "I guarantee it. She'll do just what you want her to. We've had her around so long she's got a name. We call her Daisy."

  I'd bought Daisy and hauled her home, and she had, indeed, proved to be just what I needed. I had decided to teach Plumber, my younger horse, how to be a rope horse; what was required was a cow that would allow me to rope it over and over and over again and not give up. Daisy was perfect.

  Loping Plumber in circles, I planned the training routine for today. Nothing too strenuous. Just a little breakaway roping, enough to keep the horse progressing. Plumber loped underneath me with an easy rocking motion; he was short-strided but smooth. His mane fell neatly on the left side of his neck, his cocoa-colored coat was naturally slick and shiny. Even though I kept him turned out and didn't blanket him, Plumber, a former show horse, always looked glossy and tidy; it was just his natural way of being.

  Once Plumber was thoroughly warmed up I picked up my breakaway rope-a lariat fastened with a bit of slim wire that would come apart when pulled upon-and began to swing it. Plumber's ears went quickly back as the rope whirled around his head; he wasn't crazy about this. But I'd done it before, and he'd accepted it. After a minute, I could feel the tension seeping out of his body. Kicking him up to a lope, still whirling the rope, I headed for Daisy. The cow took one knowledgeable look at us and then headed off across the arena. Plumber followed her.

  This part, on Plumber, was a no-brainer; he knew how to follow cattle. Plumber had been a hackamore horse when I acquired him; in the course of his training he'd been taught to "watch" a cow. He followed Daisy automatically; I swung my rope and tried to help him find the right position.

  What I wanted the horse to do was "track" the cow-assume a position just to the left of her left hip and stay there. This Plumber was learning; in his former experience as a cowhorse, he'd been taught to go to the head and turn the cow.

  Round the pen we went, following Daisy wherever she went, staying on her hip as she doubled back and spurted ahead. I spun my loop until my arm got tired.

  Taking a deep breath, I waited until the cow was lined out and going straight, and threw. The loop settled around her horns, I pulled to take up the slack, dallied the rope around the saddle horn, and stopped Plumber.

  He melted easily into the ground; he was a good stopper. For a brief second I felt Daisy's weight hit the end of the rope, felt Plumber brace himself, and then the breakaway rope gave way and the cow was free. She trotted off; I coiled the rope back up and patted Plumber's neck. "Good boy," I told him.

  Looking up, I saw Plumber's brown ears pricked forward at the departing cow and realized that in this moment I was not depressed. Somehow the action, the motion, the interaction with horse and cow, had wiped my mind clean. Though I knew it wouldn't last, I felt a deep sense of relief that the darkness could lift, even if temporarily.

  I roped Daisy another half dozen times and then put Plumber up. Giving him and Gunner a pat, I looked wistfully at the sky, which was already turning gray again. The fog was creeping back in.

  I should mow the grass, I thought. The idea roused no enthusiasm. Maybe I would go inside and lie down for a while. It couldn't do me any harm to take a brief nap. Uneasily aware that I was sleeping more than I used to, I headed toward the house. I'd almost reached the porch when my pager went off.

  "Damn." Even though I knew that I was on call this weekend, I always hoped (optimistically) to have my two-day window of free time uninterrupted. It almost never happened, though.

  Crossing my fingers that this call wouldn't be some ignorant yahoo at the far end of the county who couldn't tell a real emergency from an absolutely normal horse, I marched into the house and called the answering service.

  "A Mike O'Hara has a colicked horse," the woman told me. "He'd like you to come out."

  Immediate relief. I knew Mike O'Hara. He was reasonably knowledgeable; if he said his horse was colicked, it no doubt was. Also, Mike lived in the Lushmeadows subdivision; he was only fifteen minutes away, if that. I would have plenty of time to take care of this call and get home and get ready for dinner with Clay.

  Letting Roey out of her pen, I held the truck door open so that she could jump in and hop on the seat next to me. She'd spent enough of the day incarcerated.

  Not very many minutes later, I was back in Harkins Valley. I cast a mildly curious glance at the Bishop Ranch as I drove past it, wondering if Clay was home. Then I turned between the big stone pillars with the ostentatious sign, and I was in the midst of suburban glitz.

  Let's face it, I'm prejudiced. I hate subdivisions of any kind. My childhood home, a small apple ranch in the hills north of here, had been bulldozed out of all recognition by a developer, and was now covered with cheek-by-jowl stucco houses. The development I was driving through, though far more pricey and upscale, was, to my eyes anyway, equally ugly. These big lots had bigger spec houses on them, that was all.

  Mike O'Hara's property was not one of the more deluxe. He had a two-acre parcel, neatly fenced, with a classic ranch-style home plunked down in the middle of it. The barn and corrals were out back. The whole place was relatively characterless, but it was neat and tidy and well tended.

  Mike was waiting for me at the barn. A vigorous man in his fifties, Mike had graying hair, a strong chin, and a body that was still trim and hard. He shook my hand firmly when I got out of the truck-old-fashioned manners were part of Mike's personality.

  "Hello, Gail. Thanks for coming so quickly."

  "No problem. So, how's the horse?"

  Mike was leading me toward the barn as we spoke. "He's not doing too bad," he said.

  Mike owned an older gelding, a retired ranch horse. Sonny, a bay with a striped face, was tied to the hitching rail behind the barn. As I watched, he started pawing the ground.

  "He's been like that for a few hours," Mike said. "Not bad, but he doesn't quit doing it. I thought maybe a shot and some oil would put him right."

  "Looks like it might," I said. The horse wasn't sweating, and he appeared calm. In all likelihood, he wasn't very seriously colicked.

  Colic was, in reality, a generic term for any sort of digestive disorder in a horse. Since horses can't vomit, an upset stomach is a potentially lethal problem, with complications ranging from twisted intestines to ruptured guts. However, many colics, and this appeared to be one, are fairly mild bouts of gas, easily treated and cured. Taking Sonny's pulse and respiration, I ascertained that both were only slightly elevated.

  "I think you're right, Mike," I said. "I'll give him a shot of painkiller, and oil him up. I think he'll be fine."

  Mike nodded and patted the horse's neck. He wasn't a talkative man, or particularly friendly, but he always seemed fond of his horse.

  Once I'd given Sonny a shot of banamine, and pumped mineral oil down his throat to speed the passage of whatever was in his gut at the moment, I took my leave, telling Mike to call
me if the horse showed any further signs of colic. With any luck at all, I thought, the combination of pain relief and subsequent relaxation, and the laxative effect of the oil, would fix this guy right up. I was halfway to my truck when Hannah, Mike's wife, called to me from the door of the house.

  "Gail, would you like a cup of tea?"

  "Sure," I said without thinking. It was always my impulse to respond affirmatively to offers of hospitality, even when, as in the present case, I really wanted to get going.

  Instead, I followed Mike through the back door of the house and sat down at the kitchen table while Hannah made tea. She was a chatty, outgoing woman, a good example of that well known type, the church lady. Hannah and Mike were both very involved members of the local Bible Church, and Hannah was one of those people who took her religion seriously. She didn't preach or push, but I was aware that she made an effort, in all she did, to follow the tenets of her church and set an example.

  She put a plate of homemade cookies and a cup of tea in front of me; I felt unexpectedly grateful. I'd forgotten to eat today, something that was happening to me more and more often. My appetite seemed to be gone; sometimes the first clue I would get that I was hungry was a feeling of unexpected weakness.

  Tea and cookies were comforting, and filled the hole I had just noticed in my stomach. Mike and Hannah sat at the table with me and chatted. She talked about baking; he talked about riding his horse on the trails that rambled through Harkins Valley. I listened and ate cookies. I'd known these people ever since I'd first started practicing as a veterinarian. They were, if not friends, old acquaintances.

  Suddenly Mike shifted the subject. "I hear you're going out with Clay Bishop."

  "Once in a while." I looked at Mike in surprise. It wasn't like this dignified older man to make a personal comment.

  "Would you accept a fatherly warning?" Mike leaned forward in his chair.

  "I don't know," I said. "You can try me, I guess."

  "Just be careful," Mike said. "I've known Clay and Bart quite a while. They're neighbors. I don't think either one of those boys is trustworthy. "

  Hannah sighed. "They have a very fast lifestyle, Gail. Mike and I have noticed."

  "Well, okay." I wasn't sure what to say. Clay's brother, Bart, was known as something of a womanizer. But a fast lifestyle, to people like the O'Haras, might mean that beer was openly drunk on the porch, or that women were known to stay the night.

  "You're a nice girl, Gail. I wouldn't want to see you get hurt," Mike said.

  "Well, thanks." Once again, I sounded awkward. I had no idea how to receive this unlooked-for advice.

  "I hope you won't be offended."

  "No, I'm not offended. Thanks for thinking of me." I ate one more cookie and stood up. "I need all the help I can get. And thanks for the cookies and tea. Let me know if Sonny gets worse."

  Mike stood up. "I will."

  Hannah gave me a concerned smile. "Take care of yourself, Gail. You look a little tired."

  I wondered if this innocuous woman, almost a stereotype with her short gray hair, flowered dress, and too-plump body, had some God-given gift to divine what was in people's minds.

  "I will," I said again. "And thanks."

  Mike walked me politely out to my truck. As I climbed in he said, "You won't forget what I told you, now."

  I stared at him, trying to decide what to make of this. In the end, I gave a mental shrug. I just didn't have the energy. "No," I said. "See you later."

  I started the truck and rolled out the driveway, watching Mike in the rearview mirror. He stood erect, shoulders back, in front of his barn, reminding me somewhat of an Old Testament prophet of doom. What in the world did Mike O'Hara have against Clay?

  I regarded the Bishop Ranch even more curiously as I drove out the gates of Lushmeadows. The entire ranch property was now a mere five acres or so, and all the old barns and sheds that had once been part of a turn-of-the-century dairy had been reorganized as a boarding stable. This was run by Clay's brother, Bart, who lived in the big ranch house with his mother. Clay had a small house at the other side of the property. I couldn't see his truck in its driveway. Various people could be seen here and there, riding or leading horses; however, I couldn't pick out Clay or Bart. It was a cheerful scene despite the fog; all the old buildings and houses were painted barn-red. The big outdoor arena was full of riders, exercising their boarded horses, no doubt.

  I drove on past, thinking of what Mike O'Hara had said. Granted that Bart, who was the horse trainer of the family, was known as a flirt and usually had some pretty client in her twenties on his arm, it still seemed odd to me that the normally reticent Mike would go to the trouble to warn me off.

  Passing Nicole Devereaux's place, I could see the black mare in her corral; instantly my mind went back to this morning's call. Kids, I told myself. Seventeen-year-old boys, no doubt.

  Only the roofline of Nicole's house was visible behind the dense hedge of rambling roses. I could see a curl of smoke coming out of the chimney. I pictured Nicole at work in her big room, a fire in the fireplace, perhaps some music on. Maybe jazz.

  Kris's house was just ahead; I contemplated stopping by for the second time in one day, but gave up the idea. Afternoon was creeping toward evening; I needed to go home and get ready.

  I had a hot date. With the slightly ominous, or vastly desirable Clay Bishop, depending on your point of view.

  FIVE

  Twenty minutes later, I stared at my naked body in the mirror, thinking morosely that this was all a big mistake. I'd showered and washed my hair, which hung lank and wet and dark around my face. All my physical flaws were glaringly apparent. Too much extra flesh on my waist and hips and thighs, increasing lines around the eyes, and worst of all, a dispirited expression in the sag of my mouth. Shit.

  I straightened my spine, put my shoulders back, lifted my chin. Sucking my stomach in, I cocked one hip slightly and smiled at the mirror. Better. My breasts hadn't sagged yet, and posed this way, my body looked strong and curvy. With a smile pasted on it my face wasn't so bad-well-shaped, nearly blue eyes under dark brows, high cheekbones, wide mouth. The wrinkles were smile lines, I assured myself.

  A moment of this and I rolled my eyes and let my body sag. This sort of classic feminine posturing only went so far with me. It was time to get down to reality.

  Still, I watched myself out of the corner of my eye as I dressed. I liked looking at myself and the room, reflected in the slightly flawed glass of the antique mirror over the old dresser. This dresser and the matching bed, with their baroque, scrolling lines and deep mahogany-red wood, lent a certain dignity and gravitas to my otherwise very plain bedroom.

  It was a simple room, a small, square box with one window, the walls painted soft white, the floor a grayed-white Berber-weave carpet. But the old bed with its carved headboard and footboard and the ornate dresser seemed, if anything, more resonant than they had ever been against the gentle, even cream. Picking up on the idea, I'd purchased undyed linen sheets and a cotton comforter in warm white, and let the furniture, which I'd inherited from my parents, speak for itself.

  My mother's jewelry box, a beautifully crafted bit of rosewood with brass fittings, sat on the dresser. I opened it and took out a string of turquoise and lapis beads, transported back in a flash to a small girl who had loved to play with her mother's jewelry.

  Fastening the beads around my neck, I paused. How often had I watched my mother do this, looking into the same mirror? I could see her vividly, as she had been shortly before she died, her neatly cropped brown hair just showing gray, her functional glasses perched on the end of her nose. For a woman who, in most ways, was a hardheaded, pragmatic sort, she'd loved personal adornment-clothes, makeup, jewelry. And despite my somewhat humble lifestyle, I felt I'd inherited a bit of this from her.

  I stared at myself. It had been a long time since the image of my mother had come to me so powerfully. She, and my father, had died in a car crash in my eighteenth
year. Suddenly I missed her. If she were alive, would I feel quite so lost?

  My eyes filled with tears. I blinked them away and sat down on the bed, overwhelmed by the need for some sort of unconditional love and acceptance.

  I have to get some help with this; the words repeated themselves in my head. The bit of paper Kris had given me was on the dresser where I'd unceremoniously tossed it. I stood, picked the scrap up, unfolded it. Dr. Alan Todd, it said. And a phone number. I put it back.

  You haven't got time for another maudlin wallow in self pity, Gail. Get dressed. Five minutes later I surveyed myself with a glimmer of satisfaction.

  The amethyst-colored knit dress clung and flowed in all the right places; the scooped neck and scalloped edging on hem, neckline, and cap sleeves were subtly flattering. This dress, and the little black wool sweater that went with it, had cost a fortune by my standards, but I had to admit, I felt better about myself every time I wore it.

  Black stockings against the fog's chill, comfortable black suede flats, and a slight application of eyeliner, lip gloss, and blush, and I was ready. My hair, mostly dried by now, waved and curled about my face. I ran my fingers through it and let it alone. Kris had encouraged me to wear it this way. "It looks sexy," she said. I seldom did so, but I was going to follow her advice tonight.

  Roey's excited yaps alerted me to Clay's truck pulling up my driveway. Grabbing my favorite jacket, a woven silk blazer in a soft charcoal-black, I headed for the door.

  Clay Bishop was getting out of his pickup in a slow, deliberate fashion, which was typical of him. He smiled at the leaping, barking Roey, ran his eyes over the house and garden, glanced down the hill at the horses. He'd seen all this before, of course, but it was like Clay to look at everything in this quietly appraising way. The more I got to know the man, the more I was aware of the level thoughtfulness hidden behind a serene exterior. Clay Bishop was a force to be reckoned with.