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Officer Ramon Rovira picked up each of Estel’s forelegs in turn to check that his girth wasn’t pinching, before quickly passing the four fingers on his left hand beneath the girth strap and tugging to recheck its tightness.
Estel stamped irritably, annoyed at being tricked.
But the young gelding had the knack of blowing his belly out when Ramon fastened the girth so as to make it feel firm.
Then when he’d go to mount, the saddle would be too loose and slip.
So Ramon had learned to check and recheck the girth when he saddled up the willful horse.
He was a dark bay gelding with a single white star on his forehead, hence the name Estel.
Slightly unimaginative maybe, but Ramon hadn’t chosen it.
They’d been together a couple of years now, and were starting to get to know each other, perhaps even develop a grudging affection.
For all his pretty looks, Estel wasn’t an easy horse to get on with.
He’d belonged to another mounted policeman, Carles, before the man had retired last year just, as luck would have it, Ramon’s previous mount, Ferro, had been reaching an age where he was too old for police work.
The decision to retire him had been tough.
Ferro still had plenty of good riding years in him, but being a police horse required a special sort of fitness and pluck.
So Ramon had bought him off the force and kept him down at his place in the Delta de l’Ebre for leisure riding.
And he’d taken over Estel as a work mount, partly against his better judgment, since he’d seen the way Carles had had to battle with the obstinate horse for years.
“OK, are we ready?” he asked Estel, stroking his face.
The horse pushed him off and snorted loudly, never happy at being forced to work.
“Yeah, alright. Well, we gotta do what we gotta do to keep the wolf from the door.”
He unbuckled the halter from beneath Estel’s bridle and left it hanging on the pitching rail, leading the dancing horse out into the yard.
His partner, Jaume Pellicer, a bulky, easy-going sort of bloke in his early thirties, was already mounted on Eben, a black mare, who stood there calmly while Jaume scrolled his social feed from the saddle.
If ever there was a guy who needed a digital detox.
Ramon went to mount Estel, who of course decided he needed to prance around a spell before letting him get on.
He pulled him up, growling at him. Police horses needed to be absolutely obedient and Estel was borderline getting chucked off the force.
But he had more or less fallen for the balky horse’s charms. It had become almost a game between them as to who could get one over the other.
And Ramon was so far winning—not that he’d accept any other outcome. The horse had to learn discipline.
A few tourists were gathered at the gateway, snapping photos.
Before they headed out, Ramon checked his appearance in the mirror glass that clad the entire Mounted Police Administration building.
They did look damn hot: two mounted policemen in their early thirties, tall, black-uniformed and mounted on two dark horses.
Ramon had let his beard grow a little this year, so it covered his lower face in a seven-day fuzz.
His curly black hair, when it grew out a little, like now, where it was down to his collar, became wavy.
He was naturally hairy, and this year, on turning thirty, had decided finally to stop fighting the fact.
No more laborious waxing of his chest and ass as if he were some pimply faced twink (though he still got his back done—letting that go wild might be a bridge too far).
He had a prominent Roman nose that meant he could pull off the hairy, rugged look well, a good figure, strong thighs, muscular arms, and a great ass from all the riding he did.
His eyes, such a deep brown they were almost black, gave him an inscrutable air. He’d pass muster.
In tandem, Jaume and he turned their horses toward the gate.
That day, they were patrolling the slopes of Montju?c, a destination they could reach easily without needing to float up the horses.
The verdant mountain was a warren of museums of every description, from art museums like the MNAC or the Miró Foundation, to ethnological, archaeological and even sports museums. So the hill was teeming with tourists every day, and unfortunately that also attracted some less salubrious types keen to prey on the unsuspecting visitors.
With all of its changing levels and winding paths, horses were far more ideal than vehicles for patrolling its many spaces.
It was one of Ramon’s favorite beats because it felt almost like being out in the countryside, and there were even a few stretches of path up around the castle where they could give their horses a decent canter.
They headed across town to Avinguda Paral·lel and then rode up Carrer Nou de la Rambla to where the park proper began.
Here they took a pedestrian trail that zig-zagged up the slope and was wide enough for the horses.
Jaume was talking about his latest obsession, investment.
He had a young family—his wife Maya and a five-year-old daughter, Clara—whom he absolutely adored.
Whom Ramon adored too, as he was her godfather—not just for that reason, obviously, but because she was a total angel.
Since Clara had been born, everything in Jaume’s life revolved around her, and every few months, he would strike upon another way by which he might ensure her lifelong happiness.
At the moment, that meant creating funds for every aspect of her future life:
“You know, because when she’s older, she’ll be able to use that money to go to university if she wants. Or if she prefers to go into a trade, I’m fine with that, it could…”
Ramon didn’t begrudge him his familial bliss, but he did feel jealous of the all-consuming love that drove Jaume and Maya.
They invited him to every major event in their lives.
He was there for Clara’s christening obviously, and on her birthdays.
At Easter, like the good godfather that he was, he brought the mona, the donut-shaped cake to celebrate, as tradition demanded.
Christmas and Midsummer he was there too—to the point where Clara had grown up calling him tiet or uncle, assuming he was as much a part of their family as her parents.
While he felt honored that his partner accepted him so fully, even knowing he was gay, he kind of wished he could have something similar of his own one day.
Maybe not kids, but a partner with whom he had something like that sort of intimacy?
There had been someone, for a brief while, but that was firmly in the past, where he wanted to keep it.
He had made the mistake of letting René into his life before he knew who he fully was, and in the end, it had been a fight to recover his independence.
Once bitten, twice shy, nowadays he tried to accept that such a life as he had yearned for might simply not be made for him.
So he focussed on being content with what he had.
And what he had was more than enough: he loved his job; being able to work with the horses all day; being outdoors; having a vocation that truly helped make society a better place; he had good friends, and in Jaume an amazing patrol partner who accepted him for who he was.
He shouldn’t be complaining and pining for more, when what he had was already a better lot than to what many folk could aspire.
His thoughts were jogged out of their track by Estel stumbling.
“Hey, matey, what’s up?”
In a moment, Ramon had slid off and was examining Estel’s forelegs, which were splashed with blood.
He immediately saw he was favoring his left.
Jaume dismounted too, and took hold of Estel’s reins, leaving Ramon to examine him more closely.
Picking up the lame hoof and cradling it between his thighs, Ramon saw blood streaming from the tender frog in the center of the hoof, and something was wedged under the end of the horseshoe just where it came around to meet the frog.
“It’s a ring pull, and it’s wedged in, cutting into his frog.”
Taking his hoof pick from his belt, Ramon tried to dislodge the sharp disc of bent aluminum.
It looked like it had come from a tin of tuna or olives.
He managed to work it out from under the shoe without doing much more damage to the frog.
But blood kept flowing from the wound in Estel’s frog.
The horse was in pain and tried to pull away, but Ramon kept a firm hold on the hoof.
Keeping the horse’s foreleg off the ground meant Estel stayed off balance and couldn’t kick or move away.
“He’s cut quite deeply. That needs to be dressed.”
Ramon wanted to curse the idiot who’d thought that it was a good idea to open a tin of food in a public park and toss the ring top on the ground.
“Do you think you can walk him back?”
They’d come a long way from the municipal stables, by way of the sometimes quite filthy blacktop of the streets. But what other options did he have? Unless… he thought of his friend Carme. Would she be around?
“We’re close by La Foixarda. I have a friend who works there. Let me give her a bell.” After a brief call, he reported back to Jaume: “She says we should still stop by. She’ll take a look at him. Plus they’ve got a new hand there, English, who’s supposed to have some vet skills.”
Jaume nodded, and they turned in the direction of La Foixarda stables, Jaume riding Eben, and Ramon leading the lame Estel.