Breakaway (A Gail McCarthy Mystery)

by Laura Crum

  "Hi," I said.

  Kris grinned. "So what are you up to?"

  "Hello, Gail." Warren White was cordial. "Out for a ride?"

  "That's right." I glanced curiously at the dark man.

  He was the type to make you glance. Of medium height and strongly built, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist, he had dark olive skin and dark hair and eyes. He wore the hair fairly long, and he had good bones and a sort of young, healthy animal vitality that contrasted pleasantly with a face so classic it looked as though it might have been etched on an old coin. He was younger than I was-I'd guess late twenties or early thirties-and I suspected, of southern European origin. Italian, Greek, Spanish maybe.

  Warren White followed my gaze and said, "George Corfios, Gail McCarthy. George works for me; Gail's my vet." Having placed both of us neatly in relationship to himself, he looked away.

  "George just moved out here." Kris said this with a look at George that was quite plainly interested, or so I thought. So this was her latest boy toy. Or potential boy toy, anyway.

  George himself said nothing, though his eyes went to me and he smiled briefly. It wasn't apparent whether he was aloof or merely shy.

  "Where are you living?" I asked him.

  "In Warren's barn." He looked directly at me as he spoke; I had a sense of strength reined in.

  "George is one of my carpenters," Warren said. "He has a horse and needed a place to live, and I had this apartment over the barn and could use a caretaker."

  Kris smiled at George again. "That's George's horse." She pointed to a gray gelding, plainly mostly Arab, trotting along the back fence, tail held high.

  George looked back at me. "Perhaps we will be getting to know each other, since you are a vet." His voice had just the slightest trace of accent; from his name I imagined that he was probably Greek.

  "Well, I hope not too soon," I said and smiled. "If you take my meaning."

  "I do." George smiled back. He was certainly handsome enough.

  "Nice to meet you, anyway," I said. "Good seeing you guys," to Kris and Warren.

  "Are you riding home?" Kris asked me.

  "Maybe. Right now I think I'll ride over to the Bishop Ranch."

  "Oh," she grinned. "Say hi to Clay for me."

  Warren and George absorbed this exchange without comment and I smiled back at Kris. "I will. Have fun." I turned Plumber and started back down the driveway.

  Five minutes more and I was across Harkins Valley Road and riding up the Bishop Ranch entry drive. Horses were everywhere, in wooden pens alongside the old barns, in portable metal corrals set up wherever there was space, in stalls with their heads hanging out over the bottom halves of Dutch doors. Clay had once told me that the Bishop Ranch boarded over a hundred horses.

  The place was popular, I believed, partly because it was relatively cheap. Unlike some of the fancier boarding and training stables in the area, the Bishop Ranch boasted no covered arenas or mechanical horse walkers or extra warm-up pens. One large central arena, and access to the network of trails that ran through Harkins Valley-that was it. And, a more subtle distinction, the place had no particular orientation.

  Many of the stables in the area were run by a trainer who had achieved a certain amount of recognition in a given field. There were dressage stables and jumping horse stables and cutting horse stables; there were stables that catered to the owners of Arabians who were into endurance riding. In contrast, the Bishop Ranch Boarding Stable was more generic, providing basic pens, stalls, and feeding at a reasonable rate to a motley collection of animals. Although Bart, the proprietor, did train horses, he had never competed much in any particular event; his expertise lay in breaking colts and retraining problem horses.

  That is, if he had much expertise, of which I was not entirely sure. Horse trainer is a self-proclaimed title. Those who have tested themselves in the show ring can be said to have proved their abilities to the world; trainers like Bart, on the other hand, have merely hung out a shingle, and some of them, I had reason to know, caused as many equine problems as they solved.

  I had no idea if Bart was in this category; I saw him occasionally when I was called out here to treat horses, and he always appeared reasonably competent; that was about all I knew. I had heard both good and bad about him through the client grapevine, but this was typical. No horse trainer can please everyone all the time, and as much bad-mouthing goes on in the horse business as in any other-some legitimate, some not.

  Riding up the gravel road, I kept an eye out for Bart or Clay, but didn't see either. A blond woman came walking toward me, leading a paint horse.

  I smiled and asked her, "Are Bart and Clay around?"

  She gestured over her shoulder. "They're up at the big barn, mending a stall."

  "Thanks," I said. She smiled and kept walking. Pretty girl, I thought, probably in her twenties. The majority of the people who kept horses out here were women, ranging from teenage girls to grandmothers, and these provided a seemingly inexhaustible pool of dating material for brother Bart. Hard to blame him, I supposed.

  I'd reached the big barn, the largest structure on the ranch. Clay had told me it had once housed the dairy cattle. Since then the interior had been chopped up into several rows of box stalls. I dismounted and led Plumber inside.

  Clay and Bart were about halfway down the main aisle; it looked as though Clay was rebuilding the door of one of the stalls. Bart stood there talking to him.

  The two brothers didn't look much alike, I observed to myself. Clay was fairly tall and slim, of medium coloring; his brother Bart, on the other hand, was more short and stocky, with very dark hair, clear blue eyes, fair skin. Bart's chin was square and his nose was straight; he carried himself with his shoulders back and his spine a little rigid, whether because he wanted to look taller or had a bad back, I didn't know.

  They were both handsome man, but to me Bart had that faint and indefinable air of arrogance that is an instant turn-off. Not so Clay.

  "Hi," I said.

  Both men looked at me; Clay smiled instantly and put down his tools. "Hello, Gail."

  Bart's face registered neither pleasure nor dismay. He nodded in greeting.

  "Did you ride over here?" Clay stood up from his job and walked over to me, patted Plumber on the shoulder.

  "Yeah, I did. But not exactly on purpose. To put it bluntly, I got lost, and this is where I ended up."

  Clay laughed. "I've done that."

  "On top of which, I saw a mountain lion."

  Both brothers looked immediately interested; this was news.

  "Where?" Bart asked.

  I described the spot, and he shook his head. "Damn," he said, "that's too close."

  "Surely your horses aren't in any danger here, confined the way they are?"

  Bart shrugged.

  "I saw one not a month ago, riding through these hills," Clay said. "Jumped into the trail ahead of me and stood there for a minute. At first I thought it was a big yellow dog and then it dawned on me what I was seeing. Pretty spooky, when you're alone."

  "That's for sure," I agreed. "I turned around and went the other way, I can tell you."

  "Are you planning to ride back?" Clay asked. "I'll saddle Freddy and go with you."

  "Well," I looked at Plumber, who was snuffling his muzzle along the barn aisle, picking up bits of alfalfa hay, "I think my horse is pretty tired. I was wondering if I could beg a ride home in the stock trailer."

  "Of course." Clay glanced over at Bart. "It's all hitched up, isn't it?"

  "Yeah." Bart wasn't looking at Clay, he was looking at Plumber. "I wouldn't let him do that if I were you," he said to me.

  I stared at the man in surprise. Granted that many horsemen prefer their horses not to nibble on things when they're on the lead line, it still struck me as an odd thing for Bart to say.

  "I don't mind," I told him. "This horse is pretty well-mannered. I treat him like this because I like him to be relaxed." I tugged Plumber's head up; he comp
lied willingly enough. "He doesn't need to eat your hay if you don't want him to."

  Bart looked straight at me. "That's not the point. You need to teach that horse to pay attention to you."

  I shrugged. "I don't agree."

  Turning to Clay, I said, "You don't mind driving me home?"

  "Not at all," he said.

  "Great, I appreciate it." I turned my back to the two men and started to lead Plumber off. "I'll wait for you outside," I said.

  Jeez, what an asshole, was what I thought. Brother Bart, that is. To make the assumption that I was ignorant enough not to know the conventional rules of horse etiquette and the further assumption that I needed to be enlightened by the mighty trainer, argued a degree of arrogance that bordered on insolence, in my opinion. I was beginning to be sure I didn't care for Bart.

  I led Plumber out of the barn, tied him to the hitching rail, and leaned against it. It was late afternoon and the sun was resting on top of the western ridge. In another fifteen minutes it would be out of sight, and I could feel the chill of incipient fog in the air. I was glad I'd asked Clay to drive us home.

  Watching as the two brothers checked out the dually pickup and stock trailer, it struck me that Bart was constantly posturing dominance in his body language and speech, always trying to be in charge. Clay seemed inured to this, or at least he didn't react to it. Yet I didn't have the impression he was submissive, merely indifferent.

  Everything being pronounced in working order, Clay pulled the rig up in front of the barn.

  Bart opened the stock trailer door. "Want me to load him for you?"

  "That's all right. I'll load him," I said.

  I led Plumber into the stock trailer, and he followed without hesitation; he'd been hauled many miles in his lifetime. Tying him in the front, I walked back out. Bart shut the door behind me and latched it. "If you ever want to take any lessons on that horse, just let me know," he said.

  "If I do, I will," I said, hoping that I didn't sound as curt as I felt. I had no wish to antagonize this man, but he was really getting on my nerves. That reflexive, defensive need to prove himself superior-it was a trait I'd run into in other men, and it was not a quality I was particularly patient with. "Thanks for your help," I added, trying to be polite.

  "No problem." Bart looked to me as though he sensed my antipathy and returned it. Oh well.

  I climbed in the passenger side of the truck and let out a small sigh of relief as Clay pulled out of the Bishop Ranch driveway and on to Harkins Valley Road.

  We passed Nicole Devereaux's house; I saw the black mare in her corral under the apple tree. Then we were winding up the canyon toward Kris's place. Clay was good at hauling a horse trailer, I was pleased to find. He didn't take the curves too fast, and Plumber was riding quietly.

  "Thanks for doing this," I said. "I really didn't want to ride home."

  "I know how you feel," Clay said. "I've gotten myself lost back there before."

  "What did you do?"

  "Wandered around until I found my way back out." Clay smiled. "It's not that big of an area; it's pretty much impossible to get really lost."

  "That's what I was telling myself," I said.

  Clay smiled again. "When I'm exploring trails back there it always reminds me of gathering cattle with the rancher I bought Freddy from. He runs a lot of cattle up near Winnemuca and I used to go out there in the fall and help him gather. We'd be pushing some group of steers along and a few of them would break away and take off, headed for somewhere else. I'd always get all excited and think I had to take off after them, but that old man would never turn a hair. He never got out of the trot, either. He'd just look at me kind of tolerantly and say, 'Relax, son. They got the Pacific Ocean on the left and the Atlantic Ocean on the right. Where they gonna go?'

  "So that's what I tell myself as I wander around in the woods. You got the Pacific Ocean on the left and the Atlantic on the right. How the hell are you gonna get lost?"

  I laughed. "I'll remember that," I told him.

  Clay pulled the rig up my driveway and I unloaded Plumber and put him back in his corral. It was late enough that I fed both horses and the cow. Clay stood there, looking indecisive. I'd already thanked him for bringing me home; now I wondered if I should invite him in for a beer. I didn't really want to; I wanted to flop down on the couch with a glass of wine and relax. But maybe politeness demanded I be more hospitable.

  I was about to open my mouth when the phone rang, making my mind up for me. "Thanks again," I said hastily to Clay. "Got to get that. See you later."

  Dashing up the hill and through the door, I managed to grab the phone before the answering machine picked up. "Hello," I said breathlessly.

  "Hi, babe," said a voice both friendly and familiar. Lonny.

  "Hi." I sat down on the couch and began unlacing my boots, holding the phone between my shoulder and my ear.

  "I just called to say hello, see how you were doing." Lonny sounded cheerfully upbeat, his usual tone.

  "I'm doing okay," I said. "How about you?"

  "Not too bad. I finished building the house last week. Good to have the construction crew off the place at last."

  "How's everything going otherwise?" I asked him.

  "Real well. I've been going roping a lot." Lonny's voice was friendly and familiar all right, and at the same time distancing, the pleasant voice of an old acquaintance, all intimate undertones gone.

  "What's going on in your life?" he asked.

  "Not too much. Work. I've been riding Plumber some," I said guardedly.

  "You doing okay?"

  "More or less. I've been a little down, I guess. How about you? Seeing anybody new?"

  "Oh, there's a woman around here I go out with from time to time. Nothing serious. And you?"

  "The same." I pictured Lonny's rough-featured face as I spoke, remembered how this older man had been a rock of strength and comfort for me.

  "I miss you." I said spontaneously.

  "Me, too." Lonny sounded sincere, but still quite cheerful. It was not his nature to let much of anything get him down.

  "Actually," I said cautiously, "I have been pretty down lately. I think I'm going through a real depression." If I couldn't tell Lonny, who could I tell?

  "Don't do that, Gail. Your life is good. Don't let yourself get depressed."

  "It's not something I'm choosing," I snapped. "Depression's not like that. It's something that's happening to me."

  "Hogwash. Tell yourself you're happy and you'll be happy."

  I said nothing. Lonny meant to help me, I knew. I also knew he took his own advice, and to be fair, it worked for him. No doubt Lonny had never been depressed a day in his life. He had no understanding of the way I felt.

  "How are your horses doing?" he asked cheerfully.

  "They're fine. How's Burt and Chester and Pistol?"

  "Doing good. Pistol's lame, of course, but he's happy, out in the pasture."

  More conversation followed, along pleasant, innocuous lines. I made no more attempts to talk about my problems. Lonny and I had never dealt with these kinds of issues very well when we were together; why had I imagined it would be different now?

  I managed to end the conversation on a positive note, sincerely wishing Lonny well, and promising to call soon. I hung up the phone knowing how fond of him I still was, and sure that he'd always be a part of my life. At the same time, another part of my mind acknowledged how much I had wished this call was from Blue Winter. And yet another part just plain didn't care much at all, about anything.

  I finished pulling my boots and socks off and got up and poured myself a glass of wine. Sitting back down on the couch, I thought sadly that it was true that I missed Lonny. I missed the security and comfort of my life with him, and in many ways I still loved him. But there was no going back.

  NINE

  I drove to work the next morning on automatic pilot, trying to put my thoughts and emotions on hold and devote all my energy to getting done
what needed to be done. It was a struggle. But my heart did lift a little when I drove into the office parking lot.

  There it was, the new sign that had been put up only a month ago. SANTA CRUZ EQUINE PRACTICE. DR. JIM LEONARD AND DR. GAIL MCCARTHY. My boss had made me a partner in the firm. I was on the sign, after working here for almost seven years.

  It was a good feeling, in the midst of a lot of difficult ones. Jim was not an easy man to work for, but I'd achieved a decent professional relationship with him, and along the way, earned his respect, or so I thought. Given his demanding, perfectionist tendencies and the short history most of his junior vets had enjoyed, I was proud of what I'd done.

  I was less proud five minutes later as I stood in Jim's office discussing Linda Howard's mare. Knowing Jim's habit of coming into work an hour early, the woman had called him at seven o'clock sharp, and he had, in the ensuing hour, been out to see her mare and come back.

  "That mare had a fractured splint bone, not a bowed tendon, Gail. And she needs surgery to remove a bone chip."

  I stared at Jim wearily. He was, no doubt, right. Jim was a virtual wizard with equine lamenesses, what those in the trade called a "good leg man." His knowledge was almost intuitive; Jim could look at a lame horse and know instinctively what was wrong with it, though sometimes it was difficult for him to explain exactly how he knew. Long years of experience in treating horses had created a backlog of useful mental images that Jim could access at will. Having many fewer practicing years under my belt, I was at a distinct disadvantage when it came to diagnosing more obscure problems, or correctly interpreting delicate nuances.