One Hoof In The Grave [Carriage Driving 02] (42 page)

I looked down. It was the only thing I’d had to toss over Jethro’s head. He now stood with his front hooves squarely in the middle of four hundred bucks worth of tan suede.

“It’s okay,” I said and laid my cheek against Jethro’s dark brown neck. “What on earth happened?”

Jack pointed toward the railroad tracks that ran along the far side of the fence by the road. “You know how you told ’em not to set the first leg of the marathon so close to the train track?”

I nodded. “But thirty or forty trains have rattled by in the last two days. The horses couldn’t have cared less. The show committee said I was crazy to worry.”

“Uh-huh,” Jack continued. I watched his enormous hands flex into fists. “The dumbass engineer on that last freight must-a decided it’d be cute to blow his whistle as long and loud as he could just when he got even with Jethro. Shoot, like to scared
me
half to death. No wonder Jethro spooked. If I ever find out that devil’s name . . .”

Looking at Jack’s face, I prayed for the engineer’s sake that Jack never would find out his name. Jack was the kindest, gentlest man I knew until you messed with his horses. Then it was a thermonuclear explosion. I once saw him pick up an incompetent fill-in farrier at a horse show up by the scruff of his neck and toss him halfway down the barn aisle. The farrier had driven a nail straight into the quick of a mare’s hoof, then went right on shoeing her after she thrashed and squealed. Frankly, I thought Jack had been extremely forbearing. I’d probably have cracked the man over the head with his hammer.

“Are the Hulls okay?” I asked. I’d been so busy worrying about Jethro, I hadn’t given his drivers a thought.

“Tully’s got a broken wrist and Amy’s got a scraped chin. Other than maybe fifty thousand dollars worth of damage to vehicles and trailers, everybody’s just fine, including Jethro. Thanks to you,” Jack said.

Jethro still stood in the middle of my jacket, but there wasn’t much point in moving him now. I doubted Pete Hull’s insurance would include a new one. “I haven’t run that hard since I was in high school.” I leaned over and put my hands on my knees to steady my breathing. I’m well past thirty, although I don’t generally let on just
how
well. I do have a daughter out of college, however, and though I’m in good shape, jogging in the park hadn’t prepared me for running flat-out over a rutted hay field. It’s a miracle I didn’t trip, fall flat on my face and break my ankle. “Thank the Lord I didn’t have to run any farther. Like to have killed me. Pure luck I caught him.”

“And guts,” Jack said and shook his head. “The insurance companies are going to have a field day on this one.”

“Hey, girl, you’re a hero!” Pete Hull trotted up and smacked me on the shoulder.

“Just lucky, Pete. Y’all okay?”

“Gonna be. I told those idiots on the show committee we were asking for trouble to run the first leg of the marathon that close to the railroad track.”

Still, it was easier to blame me, only a hired hand, after all, as the show manager, than to blame the show committee or the paying customers. Somehow I’d wind up carrying the can for the accident. Although it’s a rule that drivers wear hard hats during the marathon, a number of the old guard still grumbled.

They all refused to wear hard hats during the other classes, although the rules say that no one can ever be penalized for choosing to wear one. The ladies preferred their summer straw hats festooned with feathers and ribbons. The men wanted their top hats and bowlers. Elegant, but those wouldn’t protect their skulls in case of a runaway like Jethro’s. The show committee would be after me to talk and talk and talk about whose fault Jethro’s escapade was. If I hadn’t needed my check, I would have run for my truck and ducked them. But I needed the money, even if I didn’t get the accompanying smile and pat on the back for a job well done.

“Will you go with me to see the head of the show committee?” I asked Pete.

Before he could answer, my cell phone rang. I dragged it out of the pocket of my jeans and answered it, grateful for the interruption.

“Ms. Abbott? Merideth Lackland Abbott?” an unfamiliar voice said. Male, heavy southern accent.

“Yes?”

“No easy way to say this, Mrs. Abbott. I’m afraid your father has met with an accident.”

I grabbed Jack’s arm. “Hiram? What happened? Is he all right?”

“Um, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid he’s dead.”

The next thing I knew I was sitting on the ground while Jack shoved my head down between my knees. That was when I threw up.