At Risk (4 page)

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.