Roped (Gail McCarthy Mysteries) (18 page)

It all made perfect sense.
Four-way
was a horseman's shorthand for a vaccination that contained inoculations for tetanus, eastern and western sleeping sickness, and flu. Occasionally horses reacted to this shot. Usually reactions were mild-swelling at the injection site, a low-grade fever. But once in a great while these unfavorable reactions could affect the liver.

"See the yellow cast to his mucous membranes," I told Lacy. "I think he's having liver problems."

"What do I do?"

"Get him off alfalfa hay, for one thing. Feed him straight oat hay, nothing else." I studied the horse's muzzle. As I had more than half suspected, the pinkish unpigmented skin associated with his white hair looked raw and sunburned, another manifestation of liver failure. "Do you have a stall you can put him in, out of the sun?"

"Yes."

I pointed out the sunburning on the gelding's face and told Lacy to keep him in the stall. Prescribing rest and low-energy feed for the next couple of days, I gave her some antibiotics, took a sample of blood from the horse, and asked her to call me if he took a turn for the worse.

Lacy nodded agreement.

"He might not get better," I said. "We may still have to put him down. But let me run this blood and see what I come up with. I'll call you."

Getting in my truck, I started off down her driveway, picking up the car phone and punching the office number as I went. It must have been my day for allergic reactions. The receptionist sent me out to see a horse with a massive outbreak of hives.

This mare was swollen all over when I got there-huge welts all over her body, her face puffy, her expression miserable. She belonged to a teenage girl named Sharon who adored her. Chance, so named because she'd been bought on a whim at the livestock auction and it was only a lucky chance that had saved her from the killers, was a sweet little Appaloosa who was the champion gymkhana horse in these parts.

Sharon was crying steadily, trying to conceal her tears by looking away. "Will she die?" she asked.

"No," I said firmly. "This is probably a reaction to a bug bite, maybe a bee sting. I see this kind of thing all the time." I gave Sharon a dozen packets of azium, an orally administered steroid. "Just sprinkle this on her feed morning and night for the next few days. She should go back to normal right away. I'll give her a shot to get her started."

I injected twenty cc's of dexamethasone in the mare's jugular vein, reassured Sharon some more, and got back in the truck.

Next was a horse who'd been kicked on the stifle and had a gaping wound that needed to be stitched. Then a jumper who had gone suddenly lame in both front feet; it turned out this horse had been shod the day before by an inexperienced farrier who'd pared away a little too much sole. Then out to see an old horse who was having trouble eating and was getting thin. A routine check of this gelding's teeth showed he was missing a molar; the opposing tooth, meeting no resistance, had grown until it was cutting into the animal's gums when he tried to chew. It took me half an hour working with bolt cutters and rasp, but I eventually managed to chop the offending tooth off and smooth it up.

On and on it went. I had no time to rest, no time to think. One thing can certainly be said for being a horse vet-it keeps you busy.

The rest of the day and the days that followed passed seamlessly, veterinary problems filling my thoughts. I didn't hear from Lisa. Lonny and I had dinner together twice; nothing was said about our future. I asked for and got Saturday off. Jim wasn't pleased, but he acquiesced. I'd covered for him several times last month while he took his family on various expeditions. He owed me and he knew it.

I kept worrying about Glen's stalker. I was convinced someone was behind the long chain of purported accidents, and I was certain there would eventually be another. Several times I started again to call the police, but I always weakened. I didn't have one shred of evidence to prove my case. So I waited. Mistakenly, it turned out.

EIGHTEEN

Eight o'clock on Saturday morning Lonny and I pulled in the familiar Bennett Ranch entrance. The heat wave had finally broken; a fog bank sat leaden and gray over the Pacific coast, cooling the air. Halfway up Lone Oak Road, we'd risen out of the wet mist into the sunshine, but the temperature stayed chilly; Santa Cruz County's air-conditioning system was back in working order.

The Bennett Ranch looked dew-washed and sparkling in the bright morning air, and thoughts of a stalker seemed ridiculous. Al was loading cattle in the chutes and wrapping their horns with protective leather in preparation for the roping. Lisa and Tim helped him. Lisa had brought the two Queenslands, and they ran around happily, barking and nipping at cattle whenever an opportunity presented itself.

Tim looked up from wrapping horns and smiled indifferently at the dogs. "Worthless, no-good, stubborn sons of bitches," he drawled. "I had one of them once. A Queensland heeler. You know, that was the only dog I ever really enjoyed shooting."

I looked away. I had no idea if the story was true or not. What was clear was that Tim was back in typical form. Lisa had heard his comment; she merely rolled her eyes at me and kept working. Everything seemed reassuringly normal.

Trucks and trailers rumbled into the driveway in a steady trickle. Lonny and I saddled Burt and Gunner and started to warm them up. Glen appeared, still on crutches, supervising the production of the roping. In a way, I thought, it was a good thing he'd hurt his ankle; it made him easier to keep an eye on.

I loped Gunner around, swung my rope, waited for things to get going. The early-morning air was sharp and clean, and the sun gleamed in red glints on Gunner's neck. Despite the unusual circumstances, I felt a rush of excitement at the thought of the upcoming roping. Lisa was a good partner. She and I were capable of winning this thing.

I could hear the cattle banging around in the chute, then Al's voice bellowing out, "Clear the arena!" We all rode out of the pen, and Al started calling out the teams. Lisa and I were the fifth team out. I stepped off Gunner and tightened his cinch.

Gunner watched me with his bright, curious expression, and I thought, not for the first time, what a nice horse he was and how lucky I was to own him. I'd only started competing on him six months ago; before that I'd always roped on Burt, Lonny's head horse. Solid and dependable, Burt had effectively taught me to rope; when I'd developed enough confidence I'd moved on to Gunner.

Gunner was still green; I couldn't just forget about him and let him do his job, as I could with Burt. I needed to ride Gunner and support him-reinforce his training. But he was willing and cooperative, as well as fast and strong, and I loved roping on him.

Getting back on him, I swung my rope to loosen my arm and focused my mind on roping. I pictured my loop closing around the steer's horns, pictured myself dallying smoothly around the saddle horn.

I studied the people in the arena, trying to decide just how tough this roping was going to be. It was limited to residents of Santa Cruz or Santa Clara counties, and Glen used the West Coast handicapping system. This meant ropers who had won a lot of money had to rope with people who hadn't, so the teams, theoretically, were all of the same ability. In practice, it didn't quite work out like that-there were still a few tough teams. Tim was roping with a kid from a neighboring ranch who had virtually no money won but was still a terrific heeler. And Lonny's partner was an old man named Wes Goodwin who almost never competed, thus had no winnings to speak of, but was absolutely deadly. Lisa and I would have to rope all ten steers to win this roping.

Al called out our names, and I rode Gunner into the header's box and turned him around. I could feel his heart thumping steadily, but he was calm. Lisa rode Chester into the heeler's box. "You ready?" I asked her.

"Any time," she said.

I tightened the reins on Gunner and nodded for the steer. There was the clang of the gate opening, the flash of the steer jumping forward, and then Gunner and I were after him, running full-speed down the arena.

Gunner closed the gap easily; I stood in my stirrups and swung my rope and threw. The loop went on the horns perfectly; I pulled the rope to take out the slack, dallied around the saddle horn, and reined Gunner off to the left.

I could feel the horse gather himself underneath me as he picked up the steer's weight and began to pull him; I could see that the steer was leading off easily and Lisa was in the right position. Lisa threw, and her loop went neatly in front of the steer's back legs; in another second she pulled her rope tight and I whirled Gunner around to face her. The timer dropped the flag. Nine seconds. Not bad. We could have been quicker, but it was a satisfactory start.

I rode Gunner back up toward the chutes, feeling good. Lisa rode next to me, shaking her head. "I didn't get the loop all the way under him. I was just lucky I caught two feet," she said.

"You did great," I told her happily.

We rode by Tim, leaning on the fence talking to Janey Borba. Her skintight T-shirt was black this morning, tucked into black Wrangler jeans, the impossibly small waist cinched with an enormous silver buckle. She looked like trash, but very attractive trash.

Lisa's head turned sharply and I followed her gaze. We both watched Glen limp around the end of the arena on his crutches. He stopped to greet Pat Domini, giving her the Glen Bennett smile. I wondered if Lisa saw, as I did, how old Glen looked and how tired. He was smiling at Pat in the same old Glen Bennett way, but something was missing. He looked like he was having to work at it.

We spent the rest of the morning roping. There were just over a hundred teams, and we all had to rope three steers before lunch. Lisa heeled all three of ours by two feet, to keep us solidly in the average, but we weren't fast. Thirty-eight seconds on three steers is not world-class. On the other hand, I was grateful I had managed to catch and turn every steer.

By noon, Tim and the sixteen-year-old neighbor kid, whose name was Billy Walsh, were leading the roping, with Lonny and Wes Goodwin a close second. There were still three steers left to rope that afternoon.

Al hollered that we were breaking for lunch, and we all lined up to eat the hamburgers that Janey and a couple of other women were selling at an impromptu snack shack. There were picnic tables set up in the shade of the lone oak, and people gathered in groups, chattering happily. A cool breeze moved about, thinning the midday heat.

I was sitting at a table with Lonny and Glen and Lisa and Tim when Joyce's Cadillac pulled into the parking lot. She got out of the car, wearing another dressy Western-type outfit, this one in shades of pink, and walked in our direction. As she approached, I could see her eyes flicking casually through the crowd; she replied to greetings here and there but initiated no conversation. She moved steadily toward our table.

I found myself studying her as she mouthed some polite, how's-everything-going comments to a man who had said hello, watching the way her eyes stayed flat. I had no idea what was going through her mind.

Her expression, as she greeted the group of us, gave nothing away. She asked if everyone was roping well, and her voice held all the warmth and interest of the time recording. I shook my head mentally. The body was lush and well preserved, the wrappings expensive, but I tended to agree with Lisa. If I were Glen, I'd have an affair. Or, better yet, a divorce.

Glen was talking to Joyce about the barbecue they were hosting tomorrow afternoon. Apparently Joyce was going shopping for food. The discussion was brief, terse, and to the point. No frills, no warmth. Joyce said good-bye to the group at large. Before she left, her eyes met mine briefly, then flickered away. " 'Bye, Joyce," I said.

"Good-bye, Gail," she answered. She was turning as she spoke, and I saw for a second, in her profile, what a pretty woman she still was. Then she was gone.

The roping went on. Horses and cattle and dust and camaraderie. Lonny sat next to me on Burt. We watched the roping and commented on the horses and people. Burt pinned his ears grouchily at Gunner. Lonny talked to me and smiled at me and laughed with me. It felt like the old days, when we were courting.

I kept half an eye on Glen as he hobbled around; I could tell Lisa was doing the same-but somehow the stalker didn't seem real. The roping seemed real.

Lonny was roping well and consistently, and Wes Goodwin couldn't seem to miss. They went to the lead, and Lonny had a grin a mile wide. Ben and Bob Green, two brothers from Watsonville, roped a couple of seven-second steers, which put them in second. Tim and Billy were third.

Lisa caught one foot instead of two on the sixth steer, which added five seconds onto our time. We ended up in seventh place overall for the day. There were still four more steers to rope tomorrow, and we were definitely in contention.

Lonny and I each had another hamburger, unsaddled the horses and put them in the pens Glen had offered us, then headed for the Saddlerack, along with most of the crowd. The Saddlerack had hired a band; it was going to be a party.

Dusk was just turning to dark as we pulled into the parking lot. The old building was already filled with people. Ropers in cowboy hats and ball caps, still wearing their spurs, talked and laughed around the bar; a few couples moved on the dance floor. The light was dim, and the trophy heads gazed out from the shadows through the smoky air. The people chattered and smiled and lifted their drinks. The band played.