“Carrie, being so quiet,” he reminded her.
“Oh, right.” Samantha considered the problem again. “What makes you think she’s got boyfriend trouble?”
“All the signs are there. When you first hired her she never even put on lipstick, and her hair was always slicked back in a braid. About two months ago she started wearing makeup and doing her hair different.” He flapped his fingers near his temple. “All curly and soft around her face.”
“You’re right. I never registered the changes, but she has been fixing herself up.”
“At first I thought maybe she had her eye on Kyle.”
“Oh, dear.” Kyle Jorge was a good stableman, but he was otherwise everything Samantha abhorred in the opposite sex: flirtatious, preoccupied with the female anatomy, shallow, and so full of testosterone, it seemed to ooze from his pores. “I hope not. He’d break her heart, for sure.”
“It’s not him,” Jerome assured her. “I’ve watched, and he doesn’t know she’s alive.”
“That doesn’t mean she isn’t attracted to him.”
“No, but I’ve seen her talking on her cell phone a lot. The first couple of months after you hired her, she seemed totally devoted to the horses, and I never caught her hiding out in the tack room to talk on the phone. That suddenly changed—right about the time her hairdo did. She met someone. I’d go to the bank on it. And chances are, she’s been quiet the last couple of weeks because the relationship is going south.”
Samantha hoped not. Carrie was a kind person with a big heart. She didn’t deserve to be hurt.
Making morning rounds was Samantha’s favorite task of the day. She always began with stall number one. “Hello, Cherry,” she said to the three-year-old sorrel filly, whose registered name was Cherry Cream. “How’s my pretty little girl this morning?”
The young horse eagerly nudged the bags in Samantha’s hands. Samantha dropped four of the cumbersome treat containers to the ground and opened the fifth. Cherry eagerly went after the proffered baby car rots, taking three and four at a time from Samantha’s palm and greedily munching them. While the filly enjoyed her snack, Samantha stroked her with a free hand.
The next stall held Oregano, a four-year-old dun with a grayish brown coat and a black mane and tail. Samantha entered the enclosure to feed him, taking measure of his conformation as she ran her hand over his shoulder and back. He was filling out beautifully and showing great promise in training. He wasn’t quite so quick as Blue Blazes, but Samantha believed he had it in him to become a champion, nevertheless.
Next in line for treats was Cilantro, an eleven-year-old blue roan mare who held the honor of being Blue Blazes’s dam. That spring she’d thrown another blue roan colt who was now five months old, brimming with boundless energy, and needing a name. He also needed to learn some manners, Samantha decided as he pushed ahead of his mother for treats. Samantha allowed him to take one carrot before firmly pushing him aside to give the queen of the stable proper deference.
Cilantro batted her black lashes as she nibbled her velvety lips over Samantha’s palm to select a treat. With gentle elegance, the mare took the plumpest carrot and nodded as she made fast work of eating it.
“Ah, yes,” Samantha murmured as she petted the horse and colt. “My beautiful babies. Yes, you are.”
It was her habit to talk softly to all her animals. Over the years she’d determined that it didn’t matter what she said, only how she said it. The horses responded to the sound of her voice. As she doled out carrots to the mare and colt, Samantha considered possible names for the baby.
Stroking the foal’s nose, she said, “You need a memorable handle, don’t you? You’re going to be a champion someday, and all great champions need catchy titles.”
The double doors to the paddock swung open just then. Jerome entered from outside, wielding a shovel to muck out the stall. As he set to work, he said, “You back on that again? Why don’t you choose a normal name for a change? Greased Lightning, maybe.”
“Greased Lightning is so trite. I’m sure it’s been used.”
“Hell on Wheels, then.”
She laughed. “That would be perfect, but I can’t picture us calling him Hell for short, and it doesn’t fit in with my theme.”
“Forget your theme. Just because Sage Creek flows across your land and you named the ranch after it doesn’t mean every damned horse from your stable has to be christened with the name of a spice, flavor, or food.”
“How silly would it sound if I suddenly changed direction? I have big plans for the Sage Creek Ranch. Someday I hope to see my line of quarter horses renowned nationwide as some of the finest ever bred.”
“It’ll happen. You’re off to a grand start, anyway.”
“I know it’ll happen,” Samantha assured him. “And when it does, I want my horses to be recognized as being mine when people hear their names. Besides, it’s not easy to come up with original names for the AQHA. You know that. I hate when I fall in love with a name, and they kick it back at me, saying it’s already on the registry.”
“You’ve definitely got a corner on the kitchen cupboard,” he remarked. “The stall roster reads like a damned grocery list.”
“No, sir.” Samantha chuckled and waved him away. “You just love to give me a hard time.” She thought for a moment. “I went through my cupboards one night last week, looking for ideas. What do you think of calling him Hickory Smoke?”
Jerome leaned on the handle of the shovel and repeated the name softly. “That’s not bad. He’s sort of smoke gray, and Hickory or Smoke would be cute for a nickname.”
Samantha bent at the knees to look the colt in the eye. “What’s your vote, little guy? When you win a huge purse someday, will you prance around the arena with pride when they yell, ‘Hickory Smoke!’ over the loudspeaker?”
Jerome resumed shoveling. “I swear, girl. You talk to these horses like they might talk back. He’ll be happy with any name you give him.”
“Hickory?” Samantha called softly. The colt flicked his ears forward. “He likes it, Jerome.”
“Well, then, that settles it. We can add a new grocery item to our list.”
The colt kicked out with his rear hooves, making Jerome leap to one side. He sent Samantha a meaningful look. “You’d best watch your p’s and q’s with him, Samantha Jane. One of these times he’s gonna kick out like that and cut you up good.”
“Oh, pshaw.” Samantha imprinted all her foals at birth and worked with them continually after that into adulthood. There wasn’t a grown horse in her stables that wasn’t gentle and well mannered. The foals were just more energetic and unpredictable. “I’m always careful.”
“Like just then?”
She chuckled. “It was you in his line of fire, not me.”
“How much would you say he’s consumed?” Tucker asked a woman over the phone who’d just called the clinic in a panic because her gelding had been eating dirt.
“Bucketfuls,” she cried. “When I go out there he glares at me and gobbles up more. I’ve never seen anything like it. Mud dripping in globs out each side of his mouth. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
Tucker signaled his on-call assistant, Marsha Lattimer, that he’d just vacated an examining room and needed it sterilized for the next patient. Sundays. Every single time Tucker was on call over the weekend, he stupidly hoped to see very few patients, but instead it was always one emergency after another. Fortunately, his brother Isaiah would be relieving him at noon, allowing Tucker to put in his last volunteer stint at the fairgrounds that afternoon.
“My guess is he’s craving a trace mineral of some kind,” he told the woman. “Sometimes horses eat dirt because something’s lacking in their diet.” Tucker reached to pinch the bridge of his nose, a habit when he grew thoughtful. Luckily, he caught himself in the nick of time and rubbed his temple instead. His poor nose was sore as all get-out today. “Would you like me to come out and have a look at the animal? I might be abl
e to fit in a short visit in the early afternoon.”
Tucker grabbed his appointment book to make sure he had a few minutes available before he went to the fairgrounds. The two hours he’d hoped to have free for a break and some lunch were filling up fast. After arranging a time to make the field call, he dropped the phone back into its cradle and headed for examining room two.
“You ready for some excitement?” he asked his assistant. “Daisy, the Saint Bernard, swallowed a stick, and it’s caught in her throat.”
Marsha groaned. “Is that the dog with the inch-long fangs and the personality disorder?”
“That’s the one.”
“Why’d she swallow a stick today? Why not wait until tomorrow, when Noreen will be here?”
“You don’t like Noreen?”
Marsha grinned. “She’s uppity. Long fingernails and oh, so fancy.” She wiggled her hips and flapped her wrists. “All us gals have decided she needs to be taken down a couple of notches.”
Tucker lowered his voice as he drew closer to the room. “Daisy’d be the dog to do it. No argument there.”
Tucker was flashing his professional smile as he opened the door to greet the Potters and a snarling Daisy, who lunged against the leash and almost jerked her master off his feet.
Cujo, reincarnated.
“Dang, that stinks!” Jerome pressed his shirtsleeve over his nose. “Lord almighty, I’ve never in all my days smelled anything so foul.”
Samantha was far more concerned about Tabasco, her four-year-old sorrel stallion. She’d seen many a horse with diarrhea, but never a case as severe as this. Tabasco was a gorgeous animal, and she had great hopes for him, but more important, she loved him.
“There’s blood in the excrement,” she said as she examined the fecal spray on the wall. “Do you think he ingested some of that bad hay before you noticed all the foxtails in it and sent it back?”
Jerome shook his head. “None of that hay ever reached the stables. I checked it the same day it was delivered and called the supplier to come get it immediately. Something sure as hell gave him diarrhea, though.”
And a bad case, at that. The entire stall had been splattered, and Jerome was right: It had a terrible, incredibly foul odor. “I’m calling the vet. I don’t like the looks of this.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” Jerome replied. “He’s a valuable animal, and if it’s something contagious we need to protect the other horses.”
Samantha left the enclosure to use one of the arena phones. Seconds later she was speaking to the receptionist at the Loyal Companion Veterinary Clinic. “Doc Washburn is in Europe? But I need a vet out here today, Pam.”
“No worries. His new partner, Darrin Black, is handling everything in his absence. Shall I send him out?”
Samantha didn’t care to use a strange vet, but she couldn’t see that she had a choice. “Yes, please, as soon as possible. I may have a very sick horse on my hands.” She broke the connection and returned to the stall. “Washburn is in Europe on vacation for a month,” she told Jerome. “Can you believe it? He never even notified us that he’d be out of town.”
“Maybe he let Frank know, and your dad just forgot to tell you.”
“No. Dad doesn’t forget things like that.” Concerned about her horse, Samantha stepped over to rub Tabasco’s forehead. “Poor baby. You must feel awful.”
“He’s mighty fidgety for a sick horse,” Jerome observed as he tossed shovelfuls of the foul-smelling hay and watery manure into the adjoining paddock for removal by tractor later. “Means he’s hurting something fierce.”
The horse did seem fidgety, Samantha realized. He kept lifting his hooves and sidestepping even as she petted him. “He acts like it hurts even to stand.”
“More likely his belly aches, and it hurts more when he’s still. Who’s coming out to look at him?”
“Washburn’s new partner, Darrin Black. He’d better be good, that’s all I know.” Samantha rolled back Tabasco’s lip. “His gums look a little pale to me.”
Jerome came over to have a look. After pressing the stallion’s gum tissue, he said, “Maybe a little, but his capillary refill is still pretty good.” He patted Samantha’s shoulder. “Stop fretting. Horses’ systems can get out of whack sometimes, just like ours.”
“I’ve never seen a case of diarrhea to equal this.”
“It’s bad, I’ll grant you that. I’ll be interested to hear what the vet has to say.”
Two hours later the vet finally arrived, a count against him right there. Samantha expected prompt responses to her emergency calls. Darrin Black was a tall, skinny redhead with countless freckles and a receding chin. He didn’t look old enough to have gone through veterinary school, let alone to have had much experience treating equines. She ushered him into Tabasco’s stall and watched anxiously as Black examined the horse, checking his gums and eyes, palpating his belly, and then taking his temperature.
“Nothing’s jumping out at me,” he finally said. “My guess is that he got ahold of something that gave him diarrhea, and it’ll just pass.”
Samantha wasn’t surprised that nothing was jumping out at the man. Every vet she’d ever known always listened to a horse’s belly first thing. No gut noises were a sure sign of colic, and colic was the number one killer of equines.
“My horses don’t get ahold of things without my knowledge, Dr. Black. We follow a very strict feeding regimen, the paddocks and pastures are checked weekly for any poisonous plants that may pop up, and if an animal’s diet is changed, we introduce the new food slowly.”
The young vet glanced up. “I saw some plastic bags filled with goodies outside the stall. It appears you allow them to have treats. A few too many here and there can give a horse the runs.”
“I’m the only person who gives the horses treats, and they get the same stuff and the same amount every third day. I rotate with carrots, apples, and oatmeal mixed with apples. All of them are used to those goodies.”
“Hmm.” Black scratched his head. “I’m sorry, but there’s just nothing that jumps out at me. Watch him for the next few hours. See how he does. If he has another bout of diarrhea, give me a call.”
Samantha realized he was about to leave. “Shouldn’t you take blood and fecal samples?”
He pushed his glasses higher on his nose and gave her a long study. Finally he asked, “For what reason?”
Samantha couldn’t believe her ears. Doc Washburn always took a blood sample. She’d come to believe it was standard procedure. “I keep a number of very expensive animals in this stable, Doctor. If this is a contagion of some sort, the other horses may catch it. Normally when a horse gets sick, Dr. Washburn at least runs blood tests, and if it looks like something serious, he checks the feces, too. He wants to make sure nothing potentially deadly is afoot.”
“It’s my determination that this horse isn’t sick with anything serious or contagious.”
“Pardon me? How can you know that without doing any diagnostics?”
“I’m all but certain it’s nothing catching,” the redhead insisted as he patted Tabasco’s shoulder. “He just has diarrhea, Ms. Harrigan. That happens sometimes.”
He spoke to her as if she knew next to nothing about horses. Samantha regretted now that Jerome had cleaned the stall and removed all the evidence. “I’ve been around horses all my life, Dr. Black. This was no ordinary case of diarrhea. It had an extremely bad odor, was very watery, and there was some blood.”
“Horse manure stinks,” he replied. “As for the blood, that isn’t all that uncommon with a bad case of diarrhea. Keep a close eye on him, make sure he has plenty of fresh water. I’ll call tomorrow to see how he’s doing.”
Samantha was too furious to escort the vet out. She drew the stall gate closed after he left and then leaned against it, her hands knotted into fists at her sides. She had been there for several minutes, watching her horse, when Jerome stopped working on the tractor to come in out of the hot sun for a break.
“That horse manure stinks!”
“Say what?”
Samantha turned to rest her folded arms atop the gate rail. “You heard me,” she told the bewildered foreman. “He informed me that horse manure stinks.”
Jerome drew off his hat and smoothed his sweat-dampened hair. “Well, now, there’s a news flash for you.”
“I’m so frustrated I could spit. What an arrogant toad! He refused to do anything more than shove a thermometer up his butt. Washburn always takes a blood sample, and most times more than that.” She lifted her hands. “Maybe it’s unnecessary, and he runs tests only to make me feel better. But at least I always feel that he’s checking out every possibility.”
“A good vet normally does, especially with valuable animals like these. Sounds to me like your father had better find another vet. Washburn is out of town on vacation a lot these days. If he’s not going to arrange for a qualified partner to take over his practice, what other choice is there?”
Samantha recalled the kitchen conversation with her father and brothers yesterday evening, and she knew exactly which veterinarian her dad would try first. She’d hoped not to see Tucker again, but if it came to a choice between that and the well-being of her horses, she’d be the first to pick up the phone.
Jerome checked his watch. “You can still make it to church if you shake a leg. I can keep an eye on Tabasco while you’re gone.”
Samantha shook her head. “Thanks for the offer, but I want to stay close, just in case. Regardless of what Dr. Black thinks, I don’t believe this is a little intestinal upset. I want to watch the horse to see how he acts.”
“Trust your gut feeling,” the foreman told her. “In my experience, it’s seldom wrong.”
“And you, Jerome? What’s your gut feeling?”
The foreman frowned. “I’m with you. If it’s nothing more than a little upset stomach, it’s the worst I’ve ever seen. Best to watch him, I think.”