by Kit Ehrman
"Maybe they like the risk more than the profit," I said.
His gaze sharpened on my face. "What makes you say that?"
I shrugged. "Firsthand knowledge."
Greg shook his head. "Jesus."
I pulled the slices out of the toaster and dropped them on my plate. "So, what kind of profit are we talking about?"
"Well, let's say the bottom'd dropped out of the meat market, and all they were getting was fifty cents to the pound. For a thirteen-hundred pound horse, that would be about six-hundred-and-fifty bucks. Round up seven good-sized horses, and they'd end up with about forty-five hundred. That's not bad for something that didn't belong to them in the first place. As the price gets closer to a dollar a pound, it just plain gets more tempting."
"What's the price right now?"
Greg shrugged. "Haven't heard."
"How hard would they be to sell? They're some nice-looking horses. Wouldn't they stick out?"
"Put 'em in a crowded lot for a week or two, and they'd look like nags by the time they turned up on the auction block or, more likely, at a packing plant."
I spread some margarine across the toast. "Then they get slaughtered?"
"Yeah, but probably not in the states. Most of them are hauled to Canada first. Then the carcasses are shipped to Europe."
"Why there?"
"Because horse meat is a common . . . Well, people eat it."
I made a face. The idea seemed alien, like eating the family dog. "What about proof of ownership? Wouldn't they need that?"
"Some outfits aren't very careful with the paperwork end of it. And if the thieves have a connection somewhere, it would be easy."
I slid the plate down the counter and perched on the edge of a stool, hoping I didn't look as stiff as I felt.
Greg eyed me across the rim of his mug. "What goes wrong with people that they'd do something like that?" he said, and I knew he was no longer referring to the horses.
"Things don't go wrong, people do. It was their choice," I said and was surprised by the anger in my voice. "Nobody forced them."
Greg looked at me with an expression I couldn't read. Guess he hadn't expected Philosophy 101. Not from me anyway. He sighed. "I suppose you're right."
He glanced at his watch, then fished his wallet out of a pocket. "Here's my card. Pager number's on the bottom. If you need anything, let me know. The clinic's closed today, so we should be eating around seven. Why don't you come over? Susan would love to have you."
I almost smiled at his choice of words and tried to suppress my runaway imagination by blocking her out of my mind as best I could.
"Come on, Steve." He glanced around the loft—an actual hay loft that he'd converted into a spacious apartment for his teen-aged daughter before she'd decided at the last minute to attend college out of state. I'd considered myself lucky when Greg had offered to rent it to me. "It'll do you good to get out of here, have a home-cooked meal for a change."
"Some other time, thanks."
He downed the rest of his coffee and stood up. "You sure?"
I nodded, and Greg reached over and placed his hand on my shoulder. His palm pressed down on an area of bruising that was still tender. I flinched, and he dropped his hand to his side and stared at me.
"Nothing a Percodan won't fix," I said.
He shook his head and ambled over to the door. "That's strong stuff. Make sure you follow the directions."
"Yes, Mom."
He grinned as he pulled the door shut.
The sky had cleared, and the brood mares, heavy with foal, were grazing in the field where the deer had been. I walked back to the counter and fingered the toast. It was cold, and the margarine had congealed into an unappealing film. I decided I wasn't hungry after all.
* * *
Five days after the horse theft, I went back to work.
I nosed the pickup down the long gravel lane, swung the truck around into my spot, and switched off the engine. It was a quarter of seven, and as usual, I was the first one there. Except for a row of trailers parked along the fence bordering the southwest field, the lot was deserted. I listened to the pings and clicks as the engine cooled and tried to ignore the tension that had crept into my shoulders and settled at the base of my skull.
I climbed out of the truck and slammed the door. As I walked down the lane past the entry door by the pay phone, for a brief second, it was the middle of the night, and I was back inside and scared half to death. Scared half to death and hurting. Hell, I was hurting.
I shook my head and tried to lose the sensation as I unlocked the office door with the new set of keys Dave had dropped off at the loft the day before. I scooped up the scraps of paper in my bin and flipped through them--a list of horses to be medicated, a reminder to leave Mary Anne's gelding in so he'd be ready for an early morning lesson, a note from Mrs. Hill that Lori's mare had thrown her bar shoe again. She'd scrawled that one in red ink and had underlined "again" three times. I added the mare's name to Nick's list, jammed the slips of paper into my coat pocket, and walked down to barn B.
Overnight, it had warmed up to a balmy thirty degrees, and the barn was fragrant with the long familiar smells of horse, hay, and sawdust. Listening to the usual chorus of nickers and whinnies, I loaded medications and supplements into the feed cart and was halfway down the aisle, when I felt as if someone had kicked me in the gut. Fourth down the med list was a name I wouldn't need to worry about. "Gold Coast--vit. supp.," it read. Poor Shrimpy. He wasn't going to need a vitamin supplement anymore. Neither were six other horses.
I rubbed my face. I hadn't thought it would affect me like this. Hadn't prepared myself for any of it. I glanced at my watch when I heard a thump in the barn aisle across the way.
"Yo, Steve. That you?" Marty's voice.
"Yeah."
He cut through the small arena and strolled down the aisle toward me. "There's the man hisself. Our hero. Defender of horses everywhere."
"Give me a break."
He came closer and inspected my face. "Pretty."
I ignored him.
"You got a nice rainbow going--black, purple, green, yellow--kinda clashes with your blond hair, though."
I shoved the scoop into the grain, then emptied some of the pellets back into the cart until I could see the three-quart line. "How'd it go while I was out?"
"The usual circus. You shoulda been here Monday. Mrs. Gardner came back from some cruise Sunday night and found out about her horse secondhand," Marty said through a yawn. "She had a fit, and Sanders made a scene, like he actually gives a shit about his horse."
"We know better, don't we?" I said. "He doesn't get a horse, and fast, he won't be able to show off for his girlfriends."
"Man, oh man." Marty slapped his thigh. "That's right. You missed it. The Monday you were off, before the horses got pinched, Sanders brought this blonde to the barn. I swear, the girl had secretary printed on her forehead."
"Administrative Assistant."
"What?"
"Never mind."
"She was really hot, man. If her skirt'd been any shorter, I'd've been checkin' out her underwear, assumin' she was wearing any."
I snorted. "What in the hell do they see in him?"
"His money, what else? The guy's got no redeeming qualities. Anyway, I happened to be hayin' down at the far end of the aisle when she--"
"Happened to be? Yeah, right. You were scopin' her out, man."
"Hey. I had to hay down there eventually, didn't I? Anyway, they're lookin' in at that stud of Whitey's, and he's hangin' like he always does. Well, she just about pees her pants when she sees how big his dick is."
I chuckled.
"And get this," Marty said. "Sanders has the nerve to compare hisself. Like he's even close."
"What an asshole." I scooped out an ounce of biotin and dumped it on top of a helping of grain. "How'd the crew do for you?"
"Brian let things slide a bit, and I caught him smoking."
"Damn." I
rolled my shoulders. "Where?"
"Out behind barn A. Thought he was on vacation, you not being here and all."
"Yeah? Well, he'll earn himself a permanent vacation if I catch him at it."
Marty chuckled.
I dumped the grain through the opening in a stall front. The pellets slid down the bay's nose and clattered into the feed tub. "What's that sign about, at the corner of Rocky Ford and Stonebridge?"
"Farm got sold." Marty pushed the feed cart farther down the aisle. "Some big-time developer's gonna build a bunch of fucking mansions on puny two-acre lots."
"Oh, no," I said, but it wasn't a surprise. Everywhere you looked, what had once been prime farmland was now a housing development or shopping center or office complex.
It also wasn't a surprise, because the brothers who owned the farm were getting up there in age, and their kids wanted nothing to do with farming. Although I had been drawn into lengthy conversations with them on more occasions than I cared to remember, the old guys were good neighbors. They were as generous lending their equipment as they were dispensing free advice. And most astonishing of all, they had ignored the present-day free-for-all when it came to litigation and had given Foxdale's boarders permission to ride on their property.
"Well," I said, "at least we still have the park land."
"Yeah. In a couple years, it's gonna be the only place where there won't be houses standing eyeball to eyeball." Marty stretched and yanked off his hat. His black hair stood up from his scalp, full of static electricity. He smoothed it down with his palms. "Want me to finish graining, Steve?"
"No. This is easier than haying. I'll leave that to you guys this morning."
Marty grunted. "Why'd you come back so soon? Mrs. Hill would've let you take more time."
"If I'd stayed in the loft another day, they'd be hauling me out of there in a straight jacket."
Marty rolled his eyes and headed for the door, muttering under his breath. Though he kicked butt when he was at work, he would have taken full advantage of a shot at some time off, most of which he would have willingly spent in the sack. And he wouldn't have been lonely, of that I had no doubt. Marty had inherited his father's height and his mother's Latin American looks, and this time of year, he made the rest of us look anemic.
At twenty-two, he was a year older than me, and he made me feel old.
Chapter 3
By nine o'clock, I'd had my fill of similar comments from both crew and boarders alike. I went outside and stood in the alleyway between the barns. All morning long, geese had been flying so low that the beating of their wings was clearly audible, their distinct voices urgent. I walked up to the office, put my hand on the doorknob, and paused. Sanders was standing in front of Mrs. Hill's desk with his back to the door. His posture was rigid with tension as he stabbed a finger in the air, and I could hear him easily through the glass. I stepped inside and clicked the door shut.
"I can't believe you let this happen," he was saying. "You're all incompetent. Why didn't--" Sanders must have sensed someone behind him, because he whirled around. When he saw me, he clamped his mouth shut.
Although he was in his late forties, his skin was unnaturally smooth and moist-looking, like he'd just splashed after-shave lotion on his face. With what I hoped was an impassive expression, I watched a muscle in his jaw twitch as the silence in the room lengthened.
Mrs. Hill cleared her throat. "As I was saying, Stephen tried to stop the thieves but couldn't. He wound up in the hospital for his troubles. He's lucky to be alive."
She was pushing it a bit, but it seemed that my timing and appearance couldn't have been better. Mr. Sanders, Steel's owner, or should I say ex-owner, snatched a paper off Mrs. Hill's desk and almost bumped into me when I didn't move fast enough. He slammed the door on his way out.
What an arrogant s.o.b. I wouldn't miss him if he didn't replace his horse, but I could sympathize with him. I was sad and angry, too, every time I thought about the horses.
"Stephen, my poor boy." Mrs. Hill clambered to her feet. "You look absolutely horrid. How do you feel, dear? You should have stayed home longer."
I turned toward her as she hurried around the corner of her desk. "I'm fine, Mrs. Hill."
"Good, dear." She patted my arm.
The level of her distress took me by surprise, and that, in and of itself, was a sad commentary on my life. I tried to keep from fidgeting under her gaze.
Mrs. Hill patted my arm one last time and returned to her desk. She straightened the hem of her blouse before she lowered herself into the chair--a kind of symbolic redefining of boundaries. She would have been thrilled if I'd been more willing to accept her as a motherly substitute. God surely intended her to be one, unlike my own mother who was more adept at managing fund-raisers and organizing charities for strangers than caring for her family.
"What did Mr. Sanders want?" I said.
"Oh." She flapped her hand. "He needed insurance papers signed."
We discussed the daily operations of the farm, and when she finished bringing me up to speed, I said, "Any word on the horses?"
"No. We've sent their descriptions to all the rendering plants and auction houses we could think of, but we haven't heard anything."
"How are the owners holding up?"
"As well as expected, I suppose. Jill Gardner's taking it especially hard." Mrs. Hill stretched across her desk and plunged her thick fingers into a Foxdale mug filled with candy. "She was in here yesterday, saying she'd never buy another horse. You know how some people are when they lose a favorite pet and think they'll never get a replacement. Well, I told her she would eventually, and she thought I was saying that just so I could talk her into bringing it here when she did. Anyway, she started screeching like she does when she's upset."
Mrs. Gardner I wouldn't miss, either.
As barn manager, I'd been on the receiving end of her screeching more times than I cared to remember, but Muffy was a nice old mare. Never gave us a bit of trouble, even when she'd developed a rare blood infection and had needed antibiotic injections twice a day for a month.
Mrs. Hill absentmindedly unwrapped the plastic from a butterscotch candy and popped it into her mouth. "She said we'd never see her business again and that she was going to sue us for not keeping her precious Muffy safe." She held up the mug. "Want some?"
Trying to keep a straight face at her rendition of the story, I mumbled "No thanks" and said, "Do you think she has a case?"
She rolled the candy from one side of her mouth to the other and frowned. "Don't know. It's not my concern. Not unless I get dragged into some silly court proceeding."
Mrs. Hill might have been the farm's manager, but she didn't have final say when it came to finances. The purse strings were controlled by the farm's owner--a Baltimore-based millionaire who, as far as I knew, had never set foot on the place. And that was half the problem. Foxdale had been on a downhill slide ever since the last nail had been driven home. Only in the past year had things turned around.
"Is there anything else?" I said.
"No, dear, carry on." She slid a stack of mail across her coffee-stained blotter and flicked on the computer.
When I found the crew, they'd already begun mucking out barn A. Cliff was perched on the John Deere 960, twisted around in the seat as he inched the tractor down the aisle. A skinny sixteen-year-old, Cliff was hopelessly undereducated, hardworking, and so enthusiastic I sometimes wondered if he was on something. He wore his blond hair spiked--effortlessly achieving the just-stuck-my-finger-in-an-outlet-look--and he liked his jeans baggy. I figured it was only a matter of time before one of us found him hanging from the tractor with his pant leg snagged on the gear shift, not to mention the fact that the color and style of his underwear had become a running joke with the crew. Checking had become reflexive. Today's choice: purple jockeys with a black waistband.
He'd just about gotten the manure wagon lined up with the next group of stalls when he caught sight of me. "Hiya, Steve."
"Where's Brian?" I said.
"Takin' a leak."
I nodded and turned, ready to retrace my steps back toward the lounge, when Cliff said, "Wrong way. He's out back."
I clamped down on my response and started around the tractor when Cliff looked beyond me and did a double take. I turned to see what he was looking at. Not what, but whom. Mrs. Elsa Timbrook had cut through the wash rack, which was surprising, considering the elegant knee-high suede boots and fur jacket she was wearing.
She walked up to me and stood so close, I figured she'd never heard about personal space. The musky scent of her perfume overpowered the pervading odors of diesel fumes, sawdust, and horse.
"Steve, I need Lite brought in for a training session with Anne."
"Yes, ma'am," I said. "Cliff, go get him for Mrs. Timbrook."
Cliff's grin widened. "Sure thing." He switched off the engine, swung his leg over the steering wheel, and jumped to the ground with a degree of agility I wouldn't have thought possible with those jeans.
Mrs. Timbrook frowned as Cliff skirted past us.
"Excuse me," I said. I squeezed between the wagon and a jumble of pitch forks and rakes that leaned against a stall front. As I approached the doorway, Brian sauntered into the aisle. He stopped abruptly when he saw me.
"Go back outside," I said. I pulled the doors closed and turned to face him. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Takin' a piss, man. Whataya think?"
"What I think is that we have restroom facilities for a reason. One of the boarders walks out here and sees you, I don't think she'd be too impressed with Foxdale's professionalism."
"Depends on which one," he said with a smirk that pissed me off.
"And another thing—"
"Oh, let me guess," Brian said. "Marty ratted me out."
"You get caught smoking on the premises again, and that's it. You can find a job somewhere else."
"Is that all?" His voice was sullen.
"Yeah."