by Laura Crum
Many minutes later I was turning onto the graveled drive that led to Sam Lawrence's training barn. A wooden sign overhead said REDWOOD RANCH.
It was an appropriate name. Tall, red-brown redwood trunks were everywhere, their dark green canopy shading the whole place. On a sunny spring morning, the light shafts slanting through were inviting, but cold, dank midwinter days at Redwood Ranch could look pretty damn dismal.
Sam was out at the barn, his short, slim figure unmistakable. Sam had red hair that curled flamboyantly back off his brow, a sharp, fine-featured face, eyes that flashed ready sparks, and a snappy, emphatic way of moving and talking. He was in no sense a restful personality.
Nevertheless, he was a good hand with a horse, and had, to my knowledge, retrained some very difficult problem animals, horses that I might have guessed to be unsalvageable. I wasn't crazy about his methods, though.
"Hi, Sam," I said as I climbed out of my truck.
"Gail." Sam sounded curt; he looked a good deal worse than that. He looked hungover, dead tired, and on the verge of some sort of nervous breakdown, all at once. His movements, as he brought a bay horse out of a stall, were jerkier and more haphazard than usual. I could have sworn his hands shook.
"Have a look at the off fore," Sam said. "I'm wondering if it's bowed."
Putting a hand on the gelding's shoulder, I ran my fingers down the leg in question.
"Whoa, Wilbur." Sam's voice was rough but not unkind; he laid a hand on the horse's neck.
Wilbur's right front was very swollen behind the cannon bone; most of the hair was scraped off as well. I thought I could feel the tendon, however, smooth and strong beneath the swelling.
"I think he's just injured the tendon sheath; it doesn't feel like he's bowed," I said, stepping back to look at the horse. He had scrapes and dings all over him, and what appeared to be rope bums on his legs. "How lame is he?" I asked.
"Not very."
Sam clucked to the bay and led him off at a trot. Wilbur did limp a little, but he looked mostly stiff and sore to me.
"What happened to him?" I asked.
Sam jerked a thumb at a blue plastic tarp lying in the nearby arena. "He was under that for a while."
"He was what?"
"Under that tarp."
"Why?"
"'Cause the bastard needed a lesson, that's why." Sam spat what I could only assume to be tobacco juice into the dust by his feet. "He's a high-priced western pleasure horse that wouldn't quit spooking at stuff, made him worthless as a show horse. Girl brought him to me, was at her wit's end. Told her I'd fix him."
"So you put a tarp over him?" I was horrified.
"Works every time. Tied his legs together, jerked him down, put the tarp over him, and left him there for an hour. I doubt this son of a bitch will spook at anything now."
I stared at Wilbur in dismay. A breedy-looking horse, with a delicate throatlatch and a refined face, Wilbur had a neat white star between his brown eyes and a morose expression. He stood with his head down as if he ached all over.
Which he probably did. "How old is this horse?" I asked.
"Three." Sam spat again.
"Jesus, Sam." I was genuinely angry. "That's criminal. I've heard about that tarp routine and that it sometimes works to cure a really vicious stud horse or something like that, but to do it to a three-year-old because he's a little too spooky to be a show horse ... I can't believe you'd do that."
"Gail, I've got to pay the bills. The woman who owns this horse wanted an instant de-spooking. Not six months of training."
"I don't give a damn what she wanted. That's cruel and you ought to know it." I turned my back on Sam Lawrence and poor Wilbur and marched towards my truck, as pissed as I can remember being. "Cold water and ice will help the leg. Give him absolute rest for a week and one gram of bute morning and evening for three days. I ought to turn you into the humane society," I said over my shoulder.
"You and my damn wife," Sam answered bitterly.
It was only then that I noticed Tracy Lawrence standing in the barn doorway. Tracy, in skin-tight blue jeans and a form-fitting pink T-shirt, her blond hair curling and frothing around a Barbie-doll face. Barbie-doll-featured face, anyway. Tracy's expression was not doll-like.
"You ought to call the SPCA on him, I agree." She glared at Sam even as she spoke to me.
"Somebody's got to pay the bills, Tracy, and it sure as shit ain't you."
"You're such an ass, Sam." Tracy turned her back on her husband and followed me out to my truck. "He is, you know," she said bitterly to me.
I was not in the mood for soothing rejoinders. "It's an asshole thing to do-tie a young horse up and leave him under a tarp just for spooking."
"I know it," Tracy snapped.
"I wouldn't have thought it of Sam."
"Oh, he's just pissed off all the time now. At everything. If I so much as speak to another man, he's jealous." She gave me a sideways look, like a wary filly. "I heard Dominic Castillo was shot out at your place."
I sighed. "That's right."
"He was alive when you found him; that's what I heard."
"That's right," I said again.
Tracy glanced over her shoulder; Sam was putting Wilbur back in his stall. "Did Dominic say anything to you?" she asked.
My ears pricked up at that. "Yeah, he did."
"Did he say who killed him?"
"No."
I watched Tracy closely and saw her shoulders slump, whether from relief or disappointment I wasn't sure.
"What did he say?" she asked.
"That the gun went off while he was cleaning it. That it was an accident."
Tracy's eyes widened in surprise; once again she looked over her shoulder, checking on Sam's whereabouts. "But," she said and then stopped.
Sam was staring at us from the stall doorway, his expression not pleasant at all. Tracy clamped her mouth firmly shut. Giving me a quick smile and a wave, she turned and marched back in the direction of the house.
I got in my truck and drove-leaving Redwood Ranch as quickly as was decently possible. Whew. I was not game, I decided, to ask Sam Lawrence whether Detective Johnson had been questioning him. I had never seen Sam look so ragged and tense with strain, had never heard him go at it with Tracy like that. And Tracy-her behavior was certainly strange.
Reminding myself that I had thirteen more calls to get through before the day was done, I resolved to find a way to bring Sam's name to Detective Johnson's attention, and tried to put the whole business out of my mind. In another minute I was pulling in the next driveway, ready to look at an old horse who wouldn't put on weight. Then it was a mare who had gone suddenly lame in the left front-this turned out to be a stone bruise-followed by a Shetland pony who had foundered on a lush pasture. I was on my way to see a case of strangles when Nancy called on my cell phone.
"Gail. Carla Castillo has a mare who's foaling and she thinks there's something wrong. The foal's not coming out."
"I'll be right there," I said. "I'm only five minutes away."
Horses tend to have their babies very quickly; any delay can be fatal. Fortunately Carla, and Tommie, lived only a few miles from the Shetland pony I'd just finished treating. Their Summit Morgan Ranch was just down the road from Sam Lawrence.
I hurried. When I pulled into the barnyard, Carla emerged from a box stall, literally wringing her hands. "Come quick, Gail."
I dashed into the stall to find the Morgan mare down on her side, straining to give birth. Lying down next to her, I encased my hand and arm in a latex glove and reached inside.
Nose, head, one front foot-where was the other foot? I reached up, up, my arm squeezed as though in a vise, until I could feel the round knob of a knee. Gently I eased the leg forward.
Even as I took hold of the two tiny hooves, paired together now, the mare gave a huge heave. In one motion, or so it seemed, the wet, dark foal slid out onto the straw. He was breathing.
"Thank God," Carla said.
Carefully I cleaned the mucus out of the foal's nostrils and checked his pulse and respiration. All seemed normal. As Carla and I watched, the mare reached around to nose him and then began to lick him clean.
Carla smiled. "She's an experienced mama," she said. "She'll take care of him. He'll be fine now. Thanks so much, Gail."
"Lucky I was close," I said.
"It sure was. This is my best broodmare."
Carla Castillo raised Morgan horses and corgi dogs. As we backed out of the box stall, we were met by the whole canine crew. Half a dozen tan-and-white corgis sniffed my ankles in a friendly fashion, impeding my progress.
Carla shooed them out of my way, her long black mane swirling as freely as the equally long wine-colored skirt that she wore. The tiny silver-rimmed spectacles remained firmly perched on her nose as she giggled, all her curves jiggling with the motion.
"Silly dogs. I thought I locked you in the house. Cody here"-she pointed at one dog, indistinguishable, as far as I was concerned, from the others-"can open the door. Clever beast."
Carla giggled again, her normal lighthearted demeanor back in place. We both leaned on the box stall door and watched Mama give Baby his first bath. All seemed entirely well.
"I saw Tommie the other night," I said.
"So she said. How sad, Gail, that poor Dominic was killed out at your place."
"Yes, it is sad," I agreed, somewhat surprised that this was the tack that Carla was taking. "Tommie told me that Dominic had been stalking you," I added, curious.
Carla looked startled. "Tommie exaggerates," she said. "Dominic never stalked me."
"Oh."
Carla was definitely flustered. "I had nothing against Dominic. Nothing at all. Neither did Tommie."
"Of course not," I agreed.
"I hope no one's said anything to make you think differently."
"No," I said. We both watched as the foal made his first effort to stand, long legs splaying wildly. Up for a second, then down in the straw again.
"He's doing fine, isn't he?" Carla smiled.
"Yep. In just a few minutes he'll be standing there nursing. I'd better go," I added. "I've got a lot of calls today."
"Thanks again, Gail." Carla barely took her eyes off the new baby as I made my exit. Still, something in her body language, an unfamiliar tension, made me wonder if she was upset.
Upset by what, I wondered. By the idea that Dominic had been stalking her? By the fact that Tommie had said this to me? I couldn't be sure.
Reminding myself once again that I was a vet, not a sleuth, I pointed my truck in the direction of the horse with strangles, and tried to concentrate on my work. Just ten more calls to go.
THIRTEEN
It turned out to be eleven. As I was finishing up with my last patient, a routine shots-and-worming, I got the call. "Gail, Tracy Lawrence has an emergency. A horse has literally cut his throat open. She can see the jugular vein. Can you go?"
"Yes," I said wearily. I was only ten minutes from my place in Corralitos. Summit Road was, once again, a good hour away. It was six-thirty and I longed to go home. But I had no choice. I was a vet. This was my life.
Calling Blue, I asked him to feed the animals and take care of the evening chores. Then I resolutely headed back out on the freeway, trying to keep my frustration at bay.
I had hoped to bring Mr. Twister home this evening; that certainly wasn't going to happen. At the very least, I had hoped to be home by seven, with my feet up and a glass of wine in my hand. That wasn't going to happen either. Instead, I was inching down the freeway once again. Stop, go. Stop, go. Staring at brake lights.
I tried to relax, tried to let go of my need to be elsewhere, tried to enjoy the apricot and rose shades of the sunset hanging in the western sky. Still, frustration kept creeping back in.
This was one of the worst parts of my job, this constantly being on call. More and more I resented giving up so much of my private life; more and more I longed to be home with my garden and animals and Blue. Eight years into my veterinary career, I was becoming-dare I think it-a bit burned out.
I still loved the horses, I reassured myself. Loved working with them, loved being able to help them. And I could tolerate the people. It was time I begrudged. Precious time to spend with my own horses, see what was blooming in the garden, be a family with Blue and the animals.
A family with Blue. I sighed. Thoughts that had been lying patiently in wait just under the conscious surface of my busy, busy mind rose steadily into view. Blue wanted to get married. Did I? Did I want a child?
Maybe. I could feel the longing, the buried maternal instinct lifting its head. To hold a baby, to be a mother, to walk hand-in-hand with a toddling child, the center of his universe. Mama. And I was thirty-eight years old this year. If I wanted to have a baby, maybe it was time to start trying.
I could feel the tug in the other direction, too, towards freedom and independence: no strings, or groping baby hands, attached. One thing was for sure, I thought, if I ever wanted to be married, to have a mate and raise a family, Blue was the one. I couldn't imagine a man that I would admire more, desire more, feel more comfortable with.
But was it enough? Enough to trade in this life that I had found so rewarding? I had no illusions. If Blue and I married, it would be to start a family, something that was clearly on both our minds. And if I had a child, I would stay home to raise it; I would be a proper mama. As a mare raises her foal, as any mammal cares for her young, so would I do. My baby would nurse and lie next to my body at night and be carried in my arms during the day. While my child was young and needed me, I would be there.
Give up my work? Even for a while? The thought was a scary one. Still-I fiddled restlessly with the vent fans-I'd been creeping through traffic for half an hour now, with another half hour to go. It was getting dark. I was definitely getting tired of this. Maybe it was time for a break.
Oh hell. I shoved the confusing, conflicting thoughts away, wondering if Blue realized the turmoil that his proposal would cause in my heart. At this moment, I'd rather concentrate on anything else. Like Tracy Lawrence, for instance.
Tracy Lawrence, who had seemed so furious with Sam. And who had also been surprised, even shocked, when I recounted Dominic's last words.
Why? I wondered. And why was it Tracy who had called me about the injured horse, rather than Sam?
I found out half an hour later. Dusk was giving way to dark as I pulled in the Redwood Ranch driveway, my headlights showing me the barn. No humans in view, but there was a light in a nearby box stall. I walked in that direction.
Peering over the door, I saw Tracy Lawrence, tears running down her cheeks, holding the leadrope of a palomino gelding. The horse's neck was cut wide open under the throatlatch, blood staining the yellow hair, skin gaping red. I gasped, whether at the animal's injury or Tracy's expression, I couldn't say.
Tracy jumped at the sound and turned to face me. Almost unrecognizable as the cute little blond stereotype I was used to seeing, her initial expression was a mask of fury, which rapidly softened into frustration as she recognized me.
"Gail, it's you." Tears in Tracy's voice as well as on her face. "You took so long."
"I'm sorry. There wasn't anything I could do. I was in Aptos when you called, and you know what the traffic is like at this hour."
"I know. But I've been so scared. I didn't want to move this horse or leave him for a second. Look."
I looked. Sure enough, clearly visible in the gaping hole, but apparently uninjured, the jugular vein pulsed. Any nick there could be fatal.
"I'll get my stuff and stitch him up," I said.
Returning in a minute, I gave the horse a shot of tranquilizer to keep him quiet, and had Tracy steady his head as I began the delicate stitching job.
"Where's Sam?" I asked.
Tracy's eyes flashed. "I don't know. But probably down at the bar with his buddies, drinking himself under the table."
"Oh. So, what happened to this horse?"
"I haven't got a clue. It was real busy out here today, people coming and going, bringing horses, riding. Sam gave some lessons. I mostly stayed in the house, stayed out of Sam's way. He stuck his head in the door around five o'clock, said he was going to town and I was supposed to feed the horses. I flipped him off, for all the good it did. I knew he was off to get drunk, but," she shrugged, "the horses do need to be fed and I was the only one to do it.
"I found this guy like this when I went to feed him. I can't figure out how he could have got hurt in the stall. I can't see anything sharp, can't find anything with hair or blood on it."
"It's an amazingly clean cut," I said. "Perfectly smooth, no jagged edges. Like someone did it with a knife."
"But who would want to cut poor Pal's throat?"
"Who does he belong to?" I asked.
"A twelve-year-old girl. He's her show horse."
"That is weird." I was halfway done sewing the cut up. Keeping my eyes on my work, I asked the question that had been on my mind since I got here. "Tracy, are you afraid of Sam?"
Tracy's face seemed to crumple. She made a heroic effort to hold back the tears; I could see her jaw clench. "Sam's got a bad temper," she said, barely audibly.
"I know that. Do you think he would hurt you?"
"It's more than that." Tracy put her free hand over her face. "I told him last week that I was leaving him. I told him Friday morning, while he was sober, so he would understand that I meant it."
"Oh," I said. "That explains a lot."
"There's more." Tracy looked down at her boots. "I told him I was leaving him for Dominic."
"You were what?" My hands almost jerked, I was so startled. Letting my breath out slowly, I reminded myself to stay focused on my job. Carefully I brought the flaps of skin together and resumed stitching.
"You told Sam you were leaving him for Dominic?" I repeated.
"On Friday morning," Tracy said again.
"Oh my God." It was all I could do to keep from jumping again. "So you think that Sam might have ..." My words trailed off.
Tracy was crying openly now. "Gail, I don't know what to think. I've been so scared and confused. I've cried and cried for Dominic, but I can't tell anyone about it. I never would have thought Sam could do something like that, but now, I just don't know. He seems so crazy lately.