Taken by Storm (37 page)

But Ariadne, sneaking out to the stable for a pre-dawn tryst with her lover, did, and investigating, found Thunder down in his stall and rolling about in anguish.

She took one look at the old gelding and knew he had colic.

Bad.

Colin had been more pleasantly awakened by ship’s servants in times of impending battle. One moment he was making love to Ariadne in a dream-hazed field; the next, hands were rudely shaking his shoulders, his teeth were snapping together, the equally startled Shareb-er-rehh was lunging mightily to his feet, and Colin’s back and head thumped painfully to the hard-packed earth beneath the straw.

“For God’s sake, Ariadne—”

“Oh, Colin, you must come,
quickly
!”

“Come where?” he muttered, thickly, as he pushed the rumpled hair out of his eyes.

“Thunder! He has colic!”

Together, they ran to the gelding’s stall, Marc at their heels and little Bow crawling out of the hay to come flying after them. Sure enough, Colin found the old horse down, his flailing hooves cutting the air as he rolled about in an attempt to relieve the agony.

“You have to save him!” Ariadne cried, her eyes desperate. “Please, Colin,
do
something, he’s suffering, please, please do something, now—”

He reached out, caught her arms, held her until she calmed down. “Stop it, Ariadne!” he ordered, holding her tightly. “I need your help, do you understand?”

Numbly, she nodded her head and stared at him. Then he turned, strode past the curious horses that were now watching him from their stalls, and hauled his sea chest out of the chaise, which had been drawn up in a nearby annex. Hoisting the heavy trunk, he hurried back into the stall.

He found Ariadne down on her knees beside the old horse, stroking the sweating hide. Thunder’s eyes rolled in his head upon seeing Colin, and desperately, he tried to lunge to his feet, back straining, lips peeled back in pain. He managed to stand, and began pawing his bedding before his legs buckled and he went down once again.

Outside, the day grew a shade brighter.

“Stand back, Ariadne,” Colin ordered, and quickly entering the stall, he seized Thunder’s halter and with all his strength began hauling on his head, trying to get him onto his feet.

“Come on boy, get up—”

Thunder groaned, tried to get a leg beneath him, began to roll onto his side.

“Ariadne, help me!”

She dove forward, instinctively swatting at the gelding’s heaving flanks, the sunken rump, while the veterinarian heaved and hauled on the halter. Thunder got a leg under himself once more; another; a good, sharp swat on the rump and he was standing, lurching, walking—

“Why, Colin?” Ariadne was asking, as she stared miserably at the suffering horse. “He seemed fine last night—”

Colin, however, had looked into Thunder’s feed bin and seen the remains of what the gelding had been eating—several chunks of fruity, sugary pie and pastry, crawling with flies, lay in the trough. He pulled out his watch and putting his fingers against the ramus of the mandible, took the gelding’s pulse.

Should be forty beats per minute,
he thought, his mind racing, his eyes closed as he counted.
I’m counting sixty-five. . . .

“Look in his feed bin,” he said darkly.

Ariadne did—and cried out in alarm and horror.

Thunder groaned, tried to lie down. Roughly, Colin jerked the gelding’ head back up, knowing if the animal went down again he might never get up.

Now, servants and stable hands were beginning to filter into the stable to start their morning work, their faces shocked as they saw Lord Weybourne’s personal groom attending to the old horse.

One by one they came running, eager to offer their help.

Colin, putting his ear to Thunder’s flank, looked at the small gathering. “Where’s Maxwell?” he snapped.

“Gone. Went to the track,” one of them offered, lamely.

Colin swore beneath his breath.

“What are you listening for?” Ariadne breathed, holding Thunder’s head so the old horse couldn’t collapse.

“Abdominal sounds. But I’m hearing nothing. No stomach noises, nothing.”

“He’s going to die, isn’t he?”

“Not if I can help it.”

But he noted that Thunder’s mucus membranes were a dark red instead of the normal, healthy pink, and that the sweat was pouring off of him. His patient’s prognosis didn’t look good at all, but at least he knew the etiology of the colic—not constipation, nor a blockage, but an overload of pastry.

Ariadne was there beside him, brave, frightened, wanting to help. “What’s happening inside of him, Colin?”

“Too much pastry,” he muttered, flipping open the lid of his sea chest with one booted toe. “It’s fermenting in the stomach, probably the large colon as well. Expect diarrhea. Then, laminitis.”

“Laminitis?”

“Founder,” he said, darkly.

Some of the stable hands had come forward, their faces angry as word was quickly passed about what had brought on the gelding’s colic.

“Who would do such a bloody awful thing?”

“Don’t know; ain’t like this here hoss is anythin’ valuable or anything—”

Ariadne, stroking Thunder’s drooping face, jerked her head up. “He’s valuable to
us
,” she retorted, her eyes glassy with tears.

“Aye, but who would do such a thing?” one of the stable hands insisted, coming forward to help should the gelding’s legs buckle once again. “Why would anyone put all that pastry in the feed bin?”

“Because they were trying to sabotage the race,” Colin muttered, his voice hard and angry.

“But this here horse ain’t racin’!”

“No. But he bears a marked resemblance, in color and markings, to the one that
is
. Somebody obviously poisoned the wrong horse.”

Kneeling, he rummaged through his sea chest until he found what he was looking for. Shadows blocked out the light as the small group drew close, exchanging hushed comments and speculations about the strange instrument he was uncoiling. He looked up and saw curious faces, all staring down at the snakelike thing he held in his hands.

“What in God’s name is that?”

“A stomach tube. I need help here, and quickly, if I’m to have a chance at saving this animal. Someone, please get me a bucket.”

A pail was set before him, and while Ariadne walked Thunder up and down the aisle to keep him on his feet, while the day grew brighter and the birds began to sing, while he sent grooms running to and fro until he had most of the ingredients he needed, the veterinarian began to mix the laxative.

He knew the formula by heart.

Two ounces of
venice
turpentine, dissolved with two egg yolks . . . an ounce of diascordium and a pint of red wine, to help tranquilize the poor fellow . . . a quart of water to restore fluid and correct the dehydration. . . .

Ariadne was there, watching him stir the evil-looking mixture. She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder, her gentle encouragement bolstering his own fading spirits. “A physick?” she asked, peering down at the mixture.

“Aye. We’ve got to get that pastry through and out of him as soon as possible. This will help speed it from the stomach and into the intestine so he doesn’t absorb so much of it.” He stood up, the bucket in his hand.

And saw the stable hands all staring at him—no longer with curiosity, but narrow-eyed speculation.

“You ain’t no mere groom, are you?”

Without skipping a beat, Colin took the stomach tube from the hands of the nearest one. “No, I’m not.”

“He’s a veterinarian,” Ariadne offered, proudly.

“A what?”

“An animal doct—”

Just then, Tristan entered the stable, his face flushed. He caught sight of the sick horse, the group of people gathered around it, and his “groom,” armed with a bucket in one hand and a long, snakelike, leather-wrapped tube in the other.

Instantly, he ran forward to help, his face darkening with rage as he heard bits and pieces of the tale, all coming at him from every direction from stable hands, grooms, and his sister alike. “Maxwell,” he spat, for Colin’s ears alone. “That bastard’s behind this, I’ll bet my bloody balls—”

“We’ll deal with
him
later. Right now all that matters is saving this horse.”

The veterinarian stepped toward the gelding, laying his hand on the sweating, trembling old neck. Sick as he was, Thunder turned his face against his ribs in a quiet, trusting plea to make the pain go away, to make him better.

It was a tall order, but Colin was determined. Some patients—like old Ned, whose life he’d had to mercifully end with a bullet between the ears, the tears rolling down his face as he’d pulled the trigger—he could not save no matter what he did. But by God, Thunder wasn’t going to die.

Not on
his
watch.

Face set, mouth determined, he retrieved the mouth gag from his sea chest. Resembling a metal halter, it was a cruel-looking assembly of bars, screws, and a strap of leather, with a metal plate to keep the jaws forced open. Stroking Thunder’s face, he pulled the animal’s head up, removed the halter, and put the mouth gag on.

One by one, the stable hands, the grooms, and even the horses in the stable all fell silent.

“I’ll need an assistant,” Colin said as he fastened the leather strap, and even before he straightened up, knew it would be Ariadne who would be the first to get to his side.

As indeed it was.

He eyed her dubiously, wondering if her fair sensibilities would withstand what he had to do. But she recognized his hesitation, and put her hand on his arm.

“I’m strong, Colin. Please—allow me.”

“This will not be pretty.”

“I don’t expect it to be,” she said, her concerned gaze going to Thunder once more and the tears welling up in her eyes.

“Very well then. Hold him steady.”

The stable went hush-quiet in anticipation. Grasping the stomach tube and feeling like an actor on a stage with so many people watching him, Colin moved to Thunder’s left side and gently inserted the tube into the braced-open mouth. The gelding was too sick to protest. Glancing up, Colin saw the color fading from Ariadne’s face, but she remained steadfast and still, determined to do her part.

Slowly, he pushed the tube into the horse’s mouth; he felt Thunder swallow it, and watched intently for the tell-tale gulp as it passed into the esophagus. There he met with the expected resistance.

“God almighty, how do ye know ye got it in the right place, and not the windpipe?” one of the grooms whispered, his voice filled with awe as he peered over the shoulder of one of his colleagues.

“He’s not coughing.” Colin pushed the tube slowly into the esophagus, watching the customary ripple slide down the left side of the neck; he put his hand there to ensure its progress, envisioning it going through the thorax and past the diaphragm, where he met with mild resistance at the cardia of the stomach. He jiggled the tube a bit to get it into the stomach, held his breath as a sudden wave of foul-smelling gas came welling up through it, and heard Ariadne’s voice from beside Thunder’s head.

“I think I’m going to be ill.”

“Don’t,” he warned, and shot her a sharp glance. She was pure white, nearly green, one hand on the gelding’s head, the other pinching her nose shut to block out the smell. Something in his look must’ve sustained her, for she gave a tremulous smile, swallowed hard, and glanced away.

Outside, a rooster began to crow.

“Alright, someone get me the bucket,” Colin said, and three of the grooms scrambled to do his bidding. Still holding the tube in place, he affixed a funnel to its end, lifted the pail, and poured the physick down the stomach tube.

“You’re going to be just fine, old boy,” he murmured, gazing into Thunder’s suffering eyes as the physick went down. “Just fine. . . .”

But the words suddenly felt like a horrible lie, for he’d made the same promise to poor old Ned before having to destroy him. A lump rose in his throat and unable to look into the gelding’s trusting eye a moment longer, he finally removed the tube, his face grave and expressionless. Then he made his way through the small crowd, got the blanket that had been his bed for the past several nights, and returned to find the stable hands exclaiming over the stomach tube they passed amongst themselves while Ariadne quietly watched them.

She raised her head and her gaze—shining with pride, adoration, and hero-worship—fastened on his.

Her lips moved to form the silent words.
I love you.

He gave a little smile that offered no promises, and unable to face her reverent eyes, turned away to put the blanket on Thunder’s back. The old horse was not out of the woods yet.

“Will he founder?” Tristan asked, watching him remove the metal gag and replace it with the halter. Colin heard himself make some noncommittal reply; then, squatting down, he placed two fingers at the gelding’s pastern and checked the pulse at the posterior digital artery. The hoof itself was too warm, but thankfully, there was no increase in pulse. Nevertheless, he called for several buckets of cold water, and shortly afterward, the blanketed horse was standing in them, head cradled to Ariadne’s chest, little Bow standing on her hind legs to reach up and lick the ugly old nose.

At last, Colin stood back and surveyed his patient, his eyes worried behind his spectacles. In several hours he could give another laxative, but for now there was nothing more he could do. Sunlight was already streaming in through the windows, and soon servants would arrive to tack up Black Patrick; the race would go on, and the late earl of Weybourne’s legacy, his children’s future and happiness, hinged upon its outcome.

An outcome that was dependant upon one thing, and one thing only.

The stallion met his gaze from across the aisle, and something unspoken passed between them.

Shareb-er-rehh.

In a special, roped off area beside the dunes, Lord Maxwell and his Jockey Club friends sat drinking wine and plucking morsels of food from trays carried by servants whose faces were trained to be expressionless. The long beach that lay between the sea and Burnham Overy Staithe’s marshes and sandy dunes was not the best race course he might have imagined, nor was it one that he would’ve selected had circumstances given him more time to choose otherwise. Nevertheless, his racing friends had come up from Newmarket, Epsom and London to see the much-heralded contest between the undisputed “King of Newmarket” and Weybourne’s purported “Fastest Horse in the World,” and the race had drawn villagers, farmers, fishermen, and people of every class and description for miles around.