Breakaway (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (11 page)

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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

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.

"How did you know?" I asked him.

"It's subtle," he said charitably. "When you saw the mare she was probably so swollen that it was hard to tell. But once she'd been wrapped for twenty-four hours and the swelling was down, I could feel that the tendon was fine, and it was easy to palpate a big lump on the inside of her cannon bone." Jim shrugged. "It was an understandable mistake."

Jim still said nothing. I knew that he knew that some of our clients preferred him to an extreme degree. There was little either of us could do about it. But I hadn't done the office any favors by making a mistake with an already hostile client.

I sighed. "Sorry," I said.

"It was a tricky one." Jim didn't sound particularly upset. "I could have made the same mistake if I'd seen her first."

"Thanks," I said. But I was pretty sure that, in fact, he would not have. Jim wasn't often wrong. I'd learned an incredible amount in the years I'd worked under him, and I was still learning. Even at the worst of times, when long hours, low pay, and Jim's sometimes derogatory attitude had really gotten on my nerves, his abilities as a veterinarian had always been such an inspiration that I'd only become more determined to stay the course. And now, now I was committed.

This was my practice, this was my life. Jim and I had worked out a deal in which he would retire in ten years and I would, at that time, become the sole proprietor. It was what I had always wanted, and I had finally made it happen.

So how come I didn't feel better about it? My reverie was interrupted by the receptionist, who came through the office door and said, "Gail, June Jensen has a newborn foal. She wants you to come out right away and imprint it. She says Gordon's out of town."

"Oh," I said. I looked at Jim. Imprinting a foal was something clients normally did themselves, and it would take me at least an hour.

Jim's voice trailed after me. "Get back as soon as you can. I'm doing a surgery this morning, and I want you to help me."

"Okay," I said again.

June Jensen lived in the Soquel Valley, in my old neighborhood, in fact. Driving to her place on Olive Springs Road, I went right past the little cabin I'd lived in for five years. There were flowers in the window boxes; it looked like the new owner was taking care of the place. I smiled at it affectionately as I passed, but felt only the mildest of nostalgic twinges. My property in Corralitos had become home.

June and Gordon Jensen had a pretty little spot that was bounded by Olive Springs Road on one side and Soquel Creek on the other. Their older farmhouse had been remodeled just enough to be clean and comfortable and not so much that it had lost its character. Behind it, a small barn and corral occupied the patch of meadow next to the creek.

June came out of the house as I drove in. A woman of about my age, she was a little plump and distinctly unglamorous, prone to wearing jeans and baggy sweatshirts. She was also not a horse person; it was her husband, Gordon, who owned the bay mare that produced a foal every year.

"She foaled two weeks early, Gail," June was already talking as I got out of the truck. "Gordon will be back tomorrow, but that's no help now. And you know how he feels about imprinting these babies."

"Is the foal doing okay?" I asked.

"I think so. I came out this morning to feed, and she was standing there, nursing. I almost dropped the grain bucket, I was so surprised. Tiz usually foals right on schedule."

June was leading me toward the horse corral as she spoke; I could see mama and baby ahead. Everything looked reassuringly normal.

I knew Tiz, the bay mare, well. Gordon Jensen had owned her for many years. A registered Quarter Horse with a fancy pedigree, Tiz was well made and kind-natured. Every year Gordon bred her to a different stallion, raised the baby up to weaning age, and sold it. He made a small profit on the colts, enough to pay for his horse-keeping expenses, which was important to him, I knew. Gordon and June didn't have a lot of money.

"How do you want to do this?" I asked June.

''I'll hold Tiz," she said promptly, "and you imprint the baby. I do this with Gordon every year. I'm used to hanging onto the mare."

"I take it she's okay with this." I looked questioningly at June. Some mares were extremely protective of their babies and could be downright violent.

"She gets a little upset," June said, "but not bad. She's never tried to bite or kick us or anything."

"Good," I said. "Do you want to catch her?"

"Could you do it?" June glanced at me diffidently. "I'm not all that used to putting the halter on; I'll probably fumble it. I can help you corner her."

"Sure." I took the halter she handed me. I was fairly used to catching clients' horses. It wasn't my preferred method, but I often ran across this situation. Since I knew Tiz, it wasn't an issue, but I'd nearly been flattened last week by a brown gelding that belonged to a teenage girl who couldn't catch him.

Shaking my head at the memory, I slipped between the boards of the horse corral, halter in hand. June followed me. Setting my emergency bag down on the ground just inside the fence, I started toward the mare.