Cutter (Gail McCarthy Mystery series) (3 page)

After he finished petting the old dog, Bret stood up and gave my living room a quick evaluation. "Want me to vacuum?"

I laughed. "It could use it."

My house was tiny, really more of a cabin than a house, perched on a steep minuscule lot on the bank of Soquel Creek with redwoods and firs towering above it. Bret and Blue and I were enough to crowd the living room, which contained a few pieces of antique furniture I'd inherited from my parents, a battered hide-a-bed couch, and a large Dhurrie rug, patterned in shades of brown and tan. Everything covered with a thin coat of Blue's hair.

"Vacuum's in the closet." I smiled at Bret. No point in being defensive over how I kept, or didn't keep, the house; after all, it was my house. I made the payments, and one of the rewards of the independence I'd cultivated was that I didn't need to justify myself to anyone. "Go ahead and do the floors, if you want. I'm going downstairs to straighten my bedroom."

My stairs were actually a ladder, dropping down through a hole in the floor, space efficient, but occasionally awkward. Downstairs, facing the creek, was my bedroom. Surveying it, I allowed myself for the first time to think consciously about an aspect of Bret's self-invited visit that was nagging at the corner of my mind.

I'd redone the room in the last few weeks, spending a disproportionately high amount of the little spare time and money I had to turn it from what could only be called early-American garage to what it was now. American rustic, maybe.

I'd stripped the pine plank floor and oiled it, painted the walls and ceiling a simple soft white, and left the old-fashioned casement windows looking out on the creek uncurtained, as I liked them. There were only two pieces of furniture, both of which I'd inherited from my parents, but they were so spectacular as to be startling. A huge, rococo antique bed with a headboard and footboard carved in a design of grapevines and wheat sheaves sat at one end of the room and was matched by a marble-topped dresser in the same pattern at the other end. The two rosewood pieces showed to advantage in the plain white room, and their baroque, scrolling lines were matched by a rust and blue oriental rug (my main expense) which lay on the plank floor between them.

Pulling the faded blue quilt up on the bed, I smoothed the flannel sheets with their wild rose pattern and felt deeply satisfied. The room seemed to say things about my inner self that I couldn't. It was severe and yet richly feminine, and I liked the way the watery green light from the creekbed filtered through the windows and played on the rug. And there was no denying I'd created all this partly for Lonny.

Lonny Peterson was a client of mine. He owned Burt and

Pistol, two Quarter Horse geldings he used for team roping, and I'd been called out to treat Burt for a puncture wound in his hock the first week I'd worked for Jim. Lonny's warm smile and quick mind had attracted me, and I liked the affectionate rapport he seemed to have with his horses. I'd sensed a mutual current between us, but nothing had come of it except some enjoyable flirting whenever we ran into each other.

Then, a month ago, he'd brought Pistol into the clinic to be x-rayed for a persistent front-leg lameness; after I'd diagnosed ringbone Lonny asked me out to dinner. I'd accepted, and we'd seen each other several times since, always in a casual way, but the intimacy between us was clearly growing.

As I picked clothes up off the floor and put them in the hamper or closet respectively, depending on whether they were borderline or over the edge, I thought about Lonny, about what I wanted, what I expected. My remodeling of the bedroom had certainly had something to do with my sense that I might soon be inviting him into it. Bret's presence wouldn't be an asset, but presumably he wasn't staying forever. Presumably also, Lonny had a bedroom of his own that he might invite me into.

Vacuuming the rug with the hand-held appliance I kept in the closet, I wondered, as I think everyone does in this era of AIDS, if I really wanted a new sexual partner. Was it worth the risk?

The chemistry between Lonny and me was starting to sparkle, and I genuinely liked the man. But, but, and again but-casual sex wasn't for me, and a relationship, whatever its advantages, had some major disadvantages-not even counting herpes, AIDS, etc. I'd bought my independence at a high price, and I wasn't wholeheartedly eager to give it up. On the other hand . . .

Sighing, I forced my mind off the subject, put a load of laundry into the apartment-sized stacking washer-dryer behind a screen in the corner of the room, and decided to change out of my less-than-presentable clothes while I was down here.

Replacing my faded Wrangler jeans with some newer Wrangler jeans and my old sweatshirt with a scoop-necked blue-green T-shirt, I brushed my hair, studying myself in the mirror over the old antique dresser. Am I an attractive woman? As usual, I concluded that I'm reasonably attractive, if not beautiful, and I like my looks well enough.

Mixed Irish and German genes have given me a largish nose and a wide mouth, also blue-green eyes under dark brows and skin that tans easily. My unruly hair, somewhere between curls and waves, is Hershey-bar brown or the color of a muddy arena, whichever you prefer. I'm tall (five foot seven) and a little too wide-shouldered and -hipped for conventional beauty; my body looks strong as well as curvy and I'm happy with it, though I'd prefer not to get any bigger.

Confining my hair in a blue-green cuff, I evaluated-neat, casual, a look that said I-work-with-livestock-a look I like. A big-city career woman would probably be aghast. Jeans, boots, and a carefully chosen T-shirt or tailored shirt (flattering color and neckline) are my everyday version of good style, a reflection of the fact that I often end up in a barnyard, no matter where I start out for in the first place.

I applied a little matte-tone sunblock to my face, some blush, some lip gloss-all the make-up I wear on a regular basis-and smiled at the mirror. Good enough.

Back up the ladder, a glance showed that Bret was sacked out on the couch fast asleep, sure that his part of the cleanup was done. Well, the floors were vacuumed. I cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen and checked the cupboard and refrigerator, making a list of what was missing. Snapping my fingers for Blue, I stepped softly past Bret and out the door. After staying up all night hustling women, he probably needed his sleep.

Blue hopped stiffly onto the floorboards of the pickup and I climbed in after him. First the grocery store, and then back to Casey's.

Chapter THREE

I pulled up in front of Casey's barn an hour later. Casey was in the arena, working a horse on cattle. No one else was in sight. As I watched, he guided the little blue roan mare he was riding into the herd, reining her gently and quietly, and separated a brindle steer from the bunch. The horse stood between the steer and the safety of the herd, and I could almost see the steer make up his mind to get back. From a standstill he broke hard to the right, then doubled back sharply to the left, diving toward the other cattle. The roan mare moved with him stride for stride, keeping herself between the steer and the herd. Feinting left and right rapidly, the steer tried to confuse the horse, but the mare stayed with him, leaping back and forth, never missing a beat.

H was startlingly, touchingly beautiful. The little horse moved like a dancer-always smooth and in time. Casey sat squarely in the middle of her, still as a statue, his face and eyes intent. The reins swung loose; he left every move to the mare's judgment. Her face was as intent as Casey's, her ears pricked sharply forward in concentration.

The steer paused, unsure what to try next, and Casey picked up his reins and touched the horse on the neck. She stopped, and all the tension seemed to go out of her body. Casey turned her away from the cattle, patting her on the rump affectionately, and his eyes met mine.

Immediately his wild, happy-go-lucky daredevil's smile flashed on and he whistled, the same long wolf whistle he'd greeted me with when we'd met. "Hey, good-looking," he drawled.

I smiled back at him. "Hi, Casey. How're the horses?"

"They're fine. I kept a close eye on them for a couple of hours, but whatever it was, it's passed off. Have you got the results of those tests yet?"

"Casey, I can't even send the tests in until Monday. It'll be a few days before I know." His face hardened. Trying to bring back the smile, I said, "I watched you work this mare. She looked great." Casey shrugged, but the laughter bubbled up in his eyes. "She's a cutter." He stroked the mare's mane lightly.

"What does it take to make one like this?" I asked, thinking of Gunner, my colt, my project, imagining him a finished horse like this mare.

"Lots of time and wet saddle blankets." Casey shrugged again, clearly unwilling or unable to explain any further. His particular brand of intelligence was instinctive; it told him what to do with a horse but didn't lend itself to articulate explanations of what he was doing.

"Want to work her on a cow?" he asked suddenly, as if that were the only explanation possible.

"Uh, well," I stammered, unsure what to say.

All my life I'd been interested in cowhorses-cutting horses, stock horses, roping horses-perhaps a reflection of the American fascination with the cowboy image. I'd owned a retired rope horse when I was a teenager, a good old pony who'd taught me to ride and given me whatever understanding I had of horses and their ways. But life had not arranged itself so that I could pursue my interest; life for many years had been a steady all-consuming struggle to get through vet school, while life at the moment made vet school look easy. I had had neither the time nor the money for cutting horses.

"Nah. She's a broke horse. You can't hurt her. Just do what I tell you." Casey was already getting off, adjusting the stirrups for my legs.

What the hell, I thought, you only live once. "What's her name?" I patted the mare's neck as I started to climb up on her.

"Shiloh. She's a real lady. Wouldn't hurt a flea."

Shiloh seemed taller, once I was on her. The ground looked a long way down. I walked her around the pen, getting used to the feel of her. Casey perched himself on the top rail of the fence, calling out a rapid stream of instructions.

"Just walk her into the herd real easy. I'll tell you which cow to cut, pick you a slow one; you push it away from the others, then drop the reins on her neck and let her alone. She'll do the rest."

Taking a good grip of the saddle horn, I nodded my head, feeling my heart thumping as adrenaline rushed into my blood. Shit. Just hang on, I told myself.

Shiloh stepped toward the herd quietly, her black-tipped ears flicking forward to the cows, tilting back toward me when I moved the reins to guide her. I remembered an old rancher I'd known telling me you could always spot a good horse by the way he "worked his ears."

The cattle glanced up at me as I threaded my way between them; the herd shifted and milled, moving away from the horse.

"Cut right in the middle of them." Casey's voice was disembodied; my eyes were locked on the cattle. "Push that black one out. Solid black, big steer. Just to your left."

I looked; there he was. Big and black, moving in front of me as I stepped the horse forward. Steer stopped, moved away. I urged Shiloh toward him; he stepped away again. Two more steps and he was well away from the herd, standing in front of me.

Casey's voice. "Just right. Now drop her head."

Obediently, I let the reins fall slack. Shiloh's head dipped down a foot, her ears pointing sharply at the steer; I clutched the saddle horn with white knuckles, holding my breath, and the steer casually trotted two steps to the right. Shiloh flowed with him. There are no other words for it. Riding her was like being a leaf floating on a stream.

The black steer turned back to the left, seeking a way to the herd, and the mare rolled with him effortlessly, a move as sudden and graceful as a perfect turn on skis-the ultimate free ride. Back and forth across the pen we went, staying with the steer, keeping him away from the herd he desired to rejoin, and I felt a wide grin breaking out as I let myself flow into the turns with the mare, feeling the thrill of her timing.

After a dozen or so turns I heard Casey again. "Pull her up, real gentle."

I reached down and picked up the reins and the mare came to an easy stop, her ears flicking back toward me once more as the steer moved away.

"Good girl," I told her, patting the blue roan neck that was slightly damp with sweat, running my fingers through her black mane. "Good girl."

"So what do you think?" Casey's grin was a reflection of my own as I walked Shiloh toward him.

"Wow. That is fun." I got off the mare and patted her once more, saying regretfully, "I'd give a lot to have the time and money to train Gunner to do this."

Casey flipped one shoulder in his characteristic shrug. "I'll train him half-price. For you. He's a good one."

His eyes met mine in a brief glance that said he was serious and I nodded. "Okay. He should be sound enough in another six months. I'll save my money."

Casey was already leading Shiloh away toward the barn and I followed him, wondering if I had just done something incredibly foolish or incredibly smart. I really couldn't afford even half-price training fees. But the feel of the horse moving underneath me, dancing with the cow ... only one thing I'd known had ever compared to that. Smiling to myself, I thought that was a comparison I wouldn't make to Casey.

By the time I walked into the barn, he had Shiloh unsaddled and was saddling another horse, moving with the restless jerky motions that were typical of him on the ground; it was only on a horse that he acquired that still, poised quiet that was part of his skill. As he pulled the cinch tight on a leggy sorrel gelding he said over his shoulder, "Have a look at those horses will you, Gail? They look all right to me, but since you're here . . ." He was leading the horse away as he spoke. "I need to ride this pig before I quit."