The Michaela Bancroft Mysteries 1-3 (2 page)

Little Bit groaned again and Michaela noticed that she was having a hard time lifting her head to look at her baby. She watched for seconds before she realized what was happening with her mare. A lot of blood— everywhere. Oh God. Wait! This was all wrong. Oh God, no! She was hemorrhaging. Somehow she'd been torn inside during the birth. Michaela pulled her cell from her coat pocket and called Ethan Slater, her vet— and longtime friend. Growing up around horses and being a rancher's daughter, she knew that there wasn't a whole lot she could do, and it was unlikely the vet could either. She was losing too much blood, too fast to get her into surgery, and Michaela cried as she gently stroked Little Bit's face, willing her to live and in some way hoping she was alleviating any pain the old girl felt.

Ethan pulled in fifteen minutes later. But it was too late. Little Bit had died, quietly bleeding out as Michaela held her head and whispered to her. When he opened the stall door, he reached his hand out to Michaela and she took it. He pulled her up and hugged her. "I'm sorry, kid. I'm really sorry." He let go after a minute and looked at her with his intense green eyes. "We've got work to do now. She's gone, but
he
has a chance. C'mon. Go to the truck and in the right side of my vet box are packages of Foalac. You'll find a bottle there, too. Get them out and follow the mixing directions. I'm going to move him, so you don't have to see her like this. Okay? Now, go unlock one of the open stalls and slide the door for me."

Michaela knew that the timeline they had to get the colt to feed was about one to two hours, but the sooner they could get a grip on things the better, just in case there were further complications where he was concerned. She was so grateful for Ethan's no-nonsense, methodical ways. She wanted to fall apart. She loved that mare. Hell. Thank god, Ethan knew exactly how to handle the situation
and
her.

She nodded and followed his orders, leaving the stall as he went to pick up the colt, who weighed about seventy pounds. Michaela had lost animals before, but the pain was always just as intense. But she'd never lost a mare this way, and of all her horses, she'd had a real connection with Little Bit. She had an inside joke with herself about how she'd wished for years she was more like her mare, who had no problem at all getting pregnant.

She took the supplemental food and mixed it as Ethan tended to the colt. She brought it back in the large bottle he'd told her to grab. Ethan asked her to set it to the side. "Let's get him up to drink. We don't want him choking." Together they helped the colt get to his feet. Michaela grabbed the bottle and handed it to Ethan, who took it from her and stuck it into the colt's mouth, teasing him a bit at first with it, allowing him to get used to the feeling of the rubber nipple. The baby gummed it, but soon his pink fleshy tongue wrapped around it, and as sucking noises escaped from his mouth, Michaela felt her body relax. She stood on the other side of the colt in case he lost his balance on still-wobbly legs. That night, she resolved to see him through, to see him grow strong and healthy. She'd named him Peppy Leo after his great-grandsire Mr. San Peppy and great-great-grandsire Leo San, both of whom had been huge cutting horse champions, and because her colt was as strong as a lion. And he had
survived.

"GOOD NIGHT, CHAMP," MICHAELA SAID TO HIM. She turned out the breezeway lights and headed toward the house, knowing that in a little more than two years her colt would indeed be a champion. As resolved as she'd been to save him that night ten months earlier, she was just as committed to her vision for him— and herself— now. Kirsten might have taken Brad from her, and the bank might come after her, and who knew what else might happen, but no one could steal her dream from her— the dream she knew would become a reality.

MICHAELA OPENED THE BACK DOOR TO HER ranch-style house, which led into the laundry room. The house, located in Indio, California, amid the Coachella Valley, had been built in the early 80's and was badly in need of an update. Michaela and Brad had bought it with the horse facilities in place a couple of years after they were married, almost a decade ago. Her plans to bring it into the twenty-first century would have to wait until the debts were paid off.

She breathed in deeply. The smell of fabric softener and detergent filled the air. Unbelievable. Camden had actually been doing laundry. Huh. Surprise, surprise. She had come to believe that Camden simply went through clothes until she didn't have any left and then went out and bought more.

Michaela pulled her boots off, not wanting to track mud through the house. Shania Twain's "Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?" blared from the family room. God, why
that
song?

A little farther away the blender in the kitchen whirled at full throttle, probably mixing the contents of a powerful concoction— tequila, lime-aid, and more tequila. Michaela shook her head as she headed to her room to shower.

Cocoa, who recently had made it to her tenth birthday, lifted her head off her doggie bed and wagged her tail. Michaela bent down and patted the dog's head. "Hey you, you lazy girl. I see how it is, as soon as the sun goes down you hightail it back inside. By the looks of it, I'd say Miss Camden has been letting you dig into the doggie treats again. I'm going to have to scold her." Cocoa just kept on wagging her tail.

Michaela checked her voice mail:

"Hi, sweetpea, it's Uncle Lou. Give me a call back. I was wondering if we could have breakfast in the morning." She smiled. Uncle Lou was definitely one of her most favorite people.

But the smile faded when the next message came on. "Michaela, it's Kirsten. You better sign those papers, or else we're gonna have big problems."

Michaela flipped a finger at the machine. Why did she let that little hooker get to her? "Ooh look at me, I have fake boobs, collagen lips, lipo on my ass, and I'm Miss Rodeo America," she said out loud, her head bobbing from side to side in an exaggerated fashion.

"News to me."

Michaela spun around to see her best friend and newly acquired roommate, Camden standing, in the doorway, margarita in hand. She tossed back her latest colored locks— flame red— and held out a glass of the concoction. "I gotta tell you that if those are fake boobs, your plastic surgeon did a shitty job, because girlfriend, you're about a B cup. And, for God's sakes who would pay five thou for a measly B cup?"

They both laughed.

"Let me guess: The evil babe who the
shithead
robbed from the cradle has been bugging you again."

"Yep."

Camden held out the margarita. "Drink on me?"

"Nah. Thanks, though. It's been a rough day. The evil babe came by and gave me a piece of her mind. I don't think a margarita will cure this girl's blues."

"No. But a shot will, and I am not taking no for an answer. Now, c'mon." Camden grabbed her hand.

"I need a shower."

"Ten minutes more won't hurt. If I can stand you smelling like a horse, then you can wait. Live a little, and don't let this stuff get you down. You'll be old before you know it and then you'll be dead and you'll be saying, 'Damn I should have had more tequila shots with my best friend.'"

She held up her hands, palms out. "Fine, I give up. I know better than to argue with you. Besides, maybe you do have a point." She followed Camden into the kitchen. "But don't you have a date with Kevin tonight?"

"Nope. He's taking clients to dinner. I'll be seeing him tomorrow. He's taking the day off and we're going to spend it together." Michaela frowned, and Camden added, "I know you don't care for him."

"It's not that. I don't know him that well, really. I just didn't like that he was kind of a jerk to my uncle when he wouldn't sell him his property."

"He can be pushy, I admit that, but he backed off when Lou told him he wasn't interested. He's moved on to other projects."

"I know, but be careful, okay? Get to know this one a bit better than the last one before he slips a ring on your finger." Michaela had a right to be concerned that her friend would rush into another relationship. Her recent split from her third husband, Charlie Dawson— a big-time financial advisor— had left her in a lurch. Seems Charlie knew exactly how to work the financials to his benefit and Camden was out on her butt and wound up at Michaela's front door needing a place to stay, until she could find a place of her own to rent or buy. That had been six months ago, and as far as Michaela knew, Camden hadn't done any house shopping as of yet, only man hunting. She kept insisting to Michaela that Charlie would settle with her, because she hadn't signed a prenup, and then she'd get into a new house. But Michaela really didn't care. She enjoyed her friend's company and wild ways, so far removed from her own behavior, but entertaining nonetheless.

"What, you afraid you're gonna be stuck with me forever? That you'll have to install a revolving door for your divorcée friend? Won't happen, worrywart. I'm gonna find me a real man who can take good care of me and me of him. Who knows, it might be Kevin, it might not." She shrugged. "Now, let's have that drink."

Ten minutes turned into twenty and before long an hour had passed and Michaela had filled up on two of Camden's cure-alls, though refusing to down the shot. She didn't think she could handle the booze straight. "You know that SOB has a new truck," Michaela said. "A Ford F-350." She shook her head. "Kirsten tried to tell me that she bought him the truck. Please. Does it say sucker somewhere on my forehead? Jerk probably hid some money away that I didn't know about— maybe he hid some cash in a safety deposit box or under the mattress, or better yet under, his
girlfriend's
mattress. He's such a jerk, and that little trophy he hangs out with is a piece of work." Oh boy, the alcohol was certainly going to her head.

"You know." Camden pointed at her. "It's not like you aren't gorgeous. I don't know why you always say
she's
the trophy. She's no prize. Brad lost the prize and I bet he knows it. Look at you. Oh, and I might add that you have a brain, too. A commodity Kirsten definitely lacks."

They were sitting on the couch in the family room. Camden took her by the shoulders and turned her to face the mirrored wall behind them. "Just
look
at you."

"Oh yeah, look at me. Real prize. I've got horse crap on my jeans, and my hair is pasted to my head from sweat. Yep. I'm a real prize."

"Shut up." Camden stood with her empty margarita glass. "Want another?"

"Nope. I think I've had enough."

As her friend walked into the kitchen to pour herself a refill, Michaela turned back to the mirror. She pulled the rubber band from her blond hair, letting it down, and studied her reflection. Twenty-two was ages ago; well, ten years to be exact. Although her boobs were small, they were still perky, and her hair wasn't bleached blond like a
Playboy
model— or Kirsten the rodeo queen— more of a sandy color, long and thick, too. That was a good thing. But, those damn freckles that the sun liked to exaggerate still gave her that "I'm the cute girl next door" look. At least her eyes were something; she really liked her eyes. They were nice— warm, hazel, garnered-lots-of-compliments eyes. Who needed fake anything, anyway? Botox was rat poison! And plastic boobs could rupture. Yep,
natural
worked just fine. A little more sunscreen and a Miracle Bra, maybe, but the other stuff— forget it, and who could afford it anyway? Damn if she could.

Michaela moved to a barstool at the counter, watching Camden pour some more margarita.

"It would be kind of fun to do something nasty to him, wouldn't it?" Camden asked.

"Who? Brad?" Michaela shrugged. "Yeah, I suppose it would. I'd love to do something to that stupid new truck of his. I'm sure he loves the thing."

"Ooh, like key it?"

Michaela gave her a look. "Nasty and mean are two different things. I don't know if I could go that far."

"You're a prude."

"Are you calling me a goody two-shoes?"

"If the shoe fits."

"Shut up. Pour me one more of those. Tell you what. Since we're in no shape to drive, I'll carry out a dirty deed to give Brad a nightmare to contend with." Camden rubbed her hands together. "On one condition." Michaela shot her index finger up.

"This is going to be good, isn't it?"

"We've gotta do this on horseback."

"Oh, sister, you expect a lot from a friend. You want me to get up on one of those filthy beasts?"

"Um, Camden, I doubt it would be the first filthy beast you've gotten up on top of."

Camden started to protest, then said, "Okay, you may have a point. So, you're willing to take a chance on putting my drunk ass on one of those animals and venture out in the dark?"

"Yep. Besides, I know you. You're barely buzzed. Me, on the other hand... phew, you make a strong drink. I'll put you on Booger. He's push button. I'd put a baby on him and trust him."

"Great. I get to ride a horse named Booger. The fact that I am even doing this is
so
not me."

"Who knows, you may like it."

They took their drinks out to the barn, where Michaela saddled up the horses. "Okay now, come here and give me your left foot." She clasped her hands together.

"What?"

"Put your foot in the stirrup here. Grab the saddle horn here with your left hand, and the back of the seat of the saddle with your right hand and step up in the stirrup and swing your right leg over the rear end of the horse and sit in the saddle."

"God, Michaela, I had no idea I'd have to do a flipping gymnastic stunt."

"Aren't you the girl always bragging about her flexibility?"

Camden sighed. "Fine. Let's do this before I change my mind." Michaela got next to her and helped to give her a boost up. Camden squealed as she swung her leg over and nearly came off on the other side. Michaela helped her get adjusted. "Oh shit, shit, shit. Get me off. Get me off now!"

"No. Now trust me. Hang on. That's all you have to do. Hang on."

"No shit, Dick Tracy, you think I'm about to let go?"

Michaela grabbed a trash bag filled with the
contents
they needed and put them inside a saddlebag. The saddle-bags tied on, Michaela put her left foot in the stirrup and swung her right leg over the mare.