Whitehorse (8 page)
"Good. Maybe you'll join us for some Spaghetti-O's."
"I'm not feeling
that
good."
Laughing, Shamika searched through the pantry and exited with a family-sized can. As Shamika rummaged through the cupboard for a saucepan, Leah kissed her son's warm head, enjoying the smell of sunshine that had been absorbed by his skin; then she studied his clothes, which were linted by animal hair.
"Why were you late?" she asked Shamika.
"Got caught by Estelle Wright, and you know what
that
means. She's got to tell everybody everything that's happened since the last time we saw her."
Leah turned Val's hands over and studied his palms, stained by oily dirt—the sort that coats a person's skin when stroking a sweating horse.
"You've taken him to Rockaway Ranch again, Shamika. If you're going to do something behind my back, you might consider cleaning him up afterward. At least you won't get caught lying."
Shamika carefully placed the pan on the countertop before facing Leah. Her shoulders set, she regarded the anger on Leah's features before replying. "Yes, I took him to Rockaway Ranch, to the riding therapy class Equest puts on there every other week."
"I won't have him on a horse. How many times must I repeat myself?"
"The riding is highly beneficial. It's wonderful therapy. Just feel his legs. His entire body, for that matter. Feel how loose he is. When he's up on that horse he's using muscles that I can't possibly work when exercising him. And besides that, he adores riding. It builds his confidence and allows him to experience just a little of normality that he wouldn't experience otherwise."
"And what happens if he falls off? You, of all people, an occupational therapist, should realize the dangers of getting thrown from a horse."
"The horses that are used in this program are very special. And besides that, the children are buckled into the saddle and they are attended every second. The instructors' hands never leave the children for a moment."
"No." Shaking her head, Leah turned away and started for the bedroom.
Following, Shamika said, "Leah, be reasonable."
"No. A thousand times no. If something happened to Val—"
"Nothing will happen. Please, don't deny him his only opportunity to know a little of the freedom that you and I take for granted."
Leah kicked the bedroom door closed between herself and
Shamika.
She carried
Val
to the bed, pulled off his shoes, and tucked him under the covers. Still smiling, he gazed up at her, eyes dancing, cheeks awash with color.
"Mama love?"
She nodded and brushed the hair back from his forehead.
"Mika love?"
"Shamika loves you very much."
"Val
love horse."
"I know, my darling." She sighed. "I know."
Greg Hunnicutt, president of the Sierra Blanca Downs racetrack, rang her the next morning as she was on her knees removing the stitches from the cantankerous donkey's leg. He wondered if they could move up their job interview to that afternoon. Apparently another vet had just turned in his notice at the track, which meant there were two openings for D.V.M.'s, which, Leah surmised, largely improved her chances of landing one of the positions.
At
she pulled Shamika'
s
van into the
Downs
parking lot. She checked her face in the rearview mirror. Makeup minimum, just enough to partially conceal the purple bruise over her eyebrow. A light touch of mascara to her lashes. A kiss of blush to her cheeks. Lip gloss, no color. Hair French braided. Clean jeans. Starched white blouse that buttoned at the throat—annoying, but necessary when she was walking into a world that functioned strictly on testosterone.
Her papers were in order, tucked neatly into her briefcase. She'd spent the last hour retyping her
résumé.
There were letters of recommendation from her former employer—Dr. John Casey, of
Pilot Point
,
Texas
—and from previous satisfied clients. Her most prized reference, however, was the one written by Professor Carlisle. He'd presented it to her the day of her graduation, declaring that anyone who could fight her way through vet school despite the awful obstacles that had been thrown in her way obviously had a calling.
At three in the afternoon the parking lot was mostly empty. The horse owners and trainers parked in lots beyond the offices, near the barns. Soon, however, the influx of traffic would begin. By
, bettors would drift in to take their places along the rails, stubs in hand as they waited for their pick to come racing over the finish line, hopefully winning them enough to put down on the next race. By the end of the night there would be so many losing stubs littering the ground that one would think the sky had blanketed the ground in snow.
Immersed in an animated phone conversation, Hunnicutt smiled broadly at Leah and waved her in, pointed to an empty chair before his desk, and proceeded to tell the caller that no way in hell was he going to allow a trainer renowned for drugging horses and blackmailing jockeys to run on his track … but it was nice talking to him anyway. No hard feelings. Sure, sure, they were still friends. No problem along that line. His best to the missus. Good luck in
California
.
Still smiling, Hunnicutt hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. His teeth looked like yellowed piano keys, his nose red as a Christmas bulb. "Trainers, God love 'em. They shoot up a horse and get caught and we're supposed to look the other way. Can you imagine how long the state would let us stay in business if we allowed shootin' up a horse? 'Bout that long." He snapped his fingers and rocked back and forth in his chair. "Glad you could make it on such short notice."
Leah crossed her legs and smiled.
His gaze took a slow trip up and down her person. "So how's your daddy? I ain't seen him since, oh, last Fourth of July."
"That makes two of us," she said.
"Stays busy, does he?"
"Very."
"Been
a
lot of controversy lately about his dealin's with the gambling issue and Formation Media."
"Such is life for politicians, I guess."
"I thought of runnin' for office once. Major brain fart." He laughed and scratched his beer belly. "One thing I ain't is stupid. Besides that, I got too damn many skeletons in the closet. Know what I mean?"
She nodded and shifted the briefcase on her lap.
"I don't get it. These dudes in office go around breakin' the law, screwin' interns,
et
cetera and think they ain't gonna get caught? Major brain fart. Hell, the goddamn press is like a buncha vultures circlin'. If you show a smidgen of weakness they'll swoop down on you and pick your bones clean as toothpicks before you can squawk ouch."
"Silly, isn't it?"
Hunnicutt sat forward, elbows on the desk, his face losing its almost comical animation as he fixed Leah with an intensity that made hot color creep up her neck. "I suppose you've got
résumés
and references in that briefcase, Dr. Starr. That's all well and good. But I've been in this business a long time, and I'm here to tell you that all the
résumés
and references in the world won't stop a dirty doctor from shootin' up a horse if the price is right, or puttin' an animal down if a portion of insurance money is dangled like the proverbial carrot in front of his nose."
"I suppose that depends on whether the doctor is in this business for the money, or for the love of the animal, Mr. Hunnicutt."
"Doctors have bills to pay just like everybody else, especially when they're strugglin' to get started."
"If you believe I'm dirty, Mr. Hunnicutt, why did you ask me here?"
"I don't believe anything of the sort. I'm just offerin' you fair warnin'. I don't tolerate shenanigans on my track. We run a clean operation here. If I ever got wind that some asshole owner or trainer has got a vet of mine under his thumb I'd stop at nothing to see his or her license jerked, not just in this state, but in this entire friggin' country."
The phone rang. Hunnicutt grabbed it. A woman's voice buzzed in the silence as he nodded and grunted in response, his sharp gray eyes still focused on Leah. Then he hung up without so much as a goodbye, sat back in his chair and absently adjusted the tie cutting into his fleshy throat. "Tell me somethin', Doc. You married?"
"Divorced."
"How long?"
"Four years."
"Do you like men?"
Leah frowned, then nodded, not certain about his meaning.
"Do you cry easily?"
"That's a very sexist remark, Mr. Hunnicutt. Would you ask that if I were a man?"
He grinned. "Let me rephrase the question. Are you easily hurt or offended by rough language directed at you by an irate trainer or owner? 'Cause sure as you and I are sittin' here right now, there's gonna be some dick-head who is gonna get in your face because he doesn't like the way his million-dollar baby is recoupin' from the sniffles."
"I would expect any caring owner or trainer to question me if his horse isn't responding adequately to treatment."
"What will you do when some good old boy pinches you on the ass? Or calls you Doc Tits? Or worse. 'Cause I'm here to tell you right now, most men out there think a woman is good for two things. Exercisin' or jockeyin' a horse, or spreadin' her legs so he can jockey her. If you ain't got a hide like an armadillo you won't last a month."
"If I could make it through vet school, Mr. Hunnicutt, I can make it through just about anything."
"Right. You up to a little
tête-à-tête
with the folks who'll ultimately decide whether we hire you or not?"
Leah uncrossed her legs and sat forward. "I was under the impression that you—"
"This track is run by a board of trustees, of which I am a member. You have to pass muster with every one of them before we can put you on the payroll."
"They vote?"
"Yep." He chuckled. "Don't look so puny. They pretty much rely on my opinion. For most of them their place on the board is a pastime. They enjoy the horses but do other things to pay the bills. Let's face it, you can count on one hand the number of horse owners out there who can actually make a livin' at this—not since the eighties bust. Damned IRS 'bout buried us all. Sooner we bury them the better." Leaving his chair, he moved to the door behind Leah. "Now is as good a time as any to take the plunge, Doc. They're waitin'."
A few nights ago she had watched a special on
Dateline
about the last moments of a convict on death row. How, just hours before strapping the accused to a table and inserting a lethal dose of knockout into his arm, prison officials moved the doomed from one wing of the prison to another. The cameras had followed the prisoner down long, stark, sterile corridors, focusing luridly on each pitiful drag of the prisoner's foot, the trembling and shaking of his body as the realization set in that there would be no last-minute reprieve from the inevitable.
