Chapter 3
Frankie
Cal’s truck rumbles down the road with a comfortable but hurried hum.
Its red paint is slightly sun-faded, and I noticed a couple dents when I got in.
Heavy duty rubber mats line the floor, dirt embedded in their ridges.
The pine tree air freshener hanging from the mirror competes with the smell of dust, leather, and disinfectant.
He turns down a road I’ve been down many times before on long post-work drives.
After being on my feet all day, surrounded by people, I need what every introvert needs: space and quiet.
I listen to a favorite podcast or an audiobook.
If I’m in a talking mood, I call Archie or Piper—occasionally Dex or Rhys.
Not being at the wheel, though, means I can sit back, relax, and really take in the scenery.
Serenity Cove is surrounded by rolling hills dotted with ranches and the occasional winery.
The hills are almost as beautiful as rolling waves.
Most of the year, they’re green and peaceful.
But even when they turn brown during the summer months, they’re full of life.
Not with people and houses like the Hollywood Hills, but wildlife. Hawks and different birds fly overhead. Horses gallop through pastures. Jackrabbits hop across the road. There’s always something new to see, and I’m seeing so much more of it today with Cal driving.
He slows to turn right down a private, gated road.
“I’ve wondered who lived behind these gates. Does the BS on them mean what I think it means?” I ask as Cal speeds through the open gates toward a house not visible from the road.
“Ha. Only if you think it means Black Stallion Ranch. Hank Black owns it.”
“I like my guess better, but Black Stallion is alright, too.”
Cal’s smile stretches beyond his usual lopsided grin, and, as always, I’m hit with a strange sense of accomplishment knowing I made that happen.
He drives past the large Craftsman house toward a big open barn surrounded by pasture. His tires crunch over gravel as he comes to a stop and throws the truck into park. He’s out before I even have a chance to unbuckle my seatbelt.
I slide out and meet him at the truck’s canopied tailgate.
He’s already got it popped open and the bed of the old F-250 looks like a mobile workshop—scuffed totes strapped down with bungees, a metal toolbox up against the cab, a cooler jammed into the corner.
Everything is covered with a fine layer of dust, yet somehow still feels clean.
He reaches first for a plastic tub with OB written in large, block letters in black marker. This he hands to me with a quick, “Do you mind?” I shake my head as he grabs a canvas duffel that’s seen better decades and a hard case with battered latches.
“Do you get woozy around blood?” With both arms full, he shuts the tailgate with his hip like he’s done it a thousand times.
“No.”
In a different life, I might have been a nurse.
In my real one, I played a Nurse Paula in my first movie, a World War II drama.
It was a small role, but I loved learning all of the medical jargon and being part of the life-saving emergency, even if it was staged.
The blood and scalpels were fake. The energy wasn’t.
“I might need your help.” He leads the way to the barn, moving so fast I have to stretch my legs to keep up with his pace.
“Hank’s going to want to be there, but owners have expensive horses and are too emotionally attached to their investment.
They get in the way. Today, you’re my assistant,” he adds in a conspiratorial tone as we approach the barn.
I blink, surprised, and my pulse picks up with excitement.
I’ve spent two years taking orders for pancakes and eggs and bussing tables.
I like the job. I like that it’s mindless.
But walking into the barn, I feel the same kind of adrenaline rush I used to get before a surfing competition.
The same rush I got my first day on the set of Surf City High, and the first time I walked the red carpet.
I’ve missed that feeling, but I have to swallow back the nervousness that follows. I remind myself that this experience doesn’t have to lead to disappointment and regret like those other experiences.
“Hank?” Cal calls, and a man steps out of a stall on the other end of the barn.
“She’s down here, Doc.” He motions us in his direction.
A horse whinnies in response, and Cal and I hurry down an aisle lined on both sides with stalls full of horses.
The animals hoof the ground and shake their heads as we pass.
I don’t know what they’re saying, but I bet Cal speaks their language.
I follow Cal into the stall where Hank is.
A black horse with a white stripe on her face snorts nervously in between heavy breaths, her body covered in sweat.
Another man holds a rope wrapped loosely around the mare’s neck, soothing her with quiet whispering and long strokes. Hank paces, and the mare follows his nervous movements with worried eyes. I immediately understand why Cal anticipated needing my help instead of Hank’s.
Cal stops in front of the horse, and all the nervous energy that propelled him in here softens. “How you doing Jasmine?” He asks quietly as he tilts to each side, examining her with his eyes and nothing else. “We’re gonna get your foal here safe and healthy. Just relax.”
With his voice alone, Cal not only gets the mare’s breathing to grow quieter but also slows Hank’s pacing and my own racing pulse.
He turns back to me, and there’s an uptick in his energy, but everything stays calm.
“Set the tote here.” Cal’s voice remains quiet and steady as he puts down his bag and case long enough to overturn a feed bucket, prop open his duffel on top of it and take out a stethoscope.
He listens to Jasmine’s heart before running his hand over her back, nudging Hank out of the way.
Cal holds his breath while pressing the stethoscope to Jasmine’s belly.
When he exhales, it comes out as a “huh,” and his brow furrows with thought.
In two long strides, Cal is back at his bag, motioning for me to open the tote. He pulls out a roll of something that he tosses to Hank. “Wrap up her tail.”
Next come alcohol swabs and a box of gloves before he scans an index card he’s got taped to the lid of the tote.
I recognize his tight-lettered handwriting from the notes he’s left me on the back of napkins telling me to make it a good day.
I don’t understand the shorthand on his index card, though, or know what I’m supposed to do, so I watch him as carefully as if I were back on set, waiting for my cue to step in and play my role.
When I think about my part here as “acting,” the adrenaline coursing through my body settles into excitement instead of fear.
The mare huffs and snorts, and I look back at her. Hank’s wrapped half her tail, and his face twists with worry when her belly contracts in a visible, rippling wave. Seconds later, a tiny leg pops out of her…baby maker?
Doesn’t matter what it’s called.
Right now, I’m a bit lightheaded and can’t quite work out how I ran away from Flamingo’s and ended up in a barn next to a horse with a leg dangling out of her...
I’ll have to ask Cal later what the proper name is.
“Only one leg here, Doc. And the hoof’s pointing the wrong way. I don’t want to lose this foal.” Hank’s voice rattles with fear and the blood runs from my face.
This isn’t normal.
Forget Flamingo’s. How did I run away from Hollywood and end up in this very real moment? This isn’t at all like being on set. Everything here matters. This is life or death.
Cal rushes to Jasmine’s back end, takes one look and says, “Foal is in posterior position.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
Cal steps away from the horse, nudging Hank along with him.
“Hind legs instead of front are coming first. Not ideal, but we can work with it.” Cal strips off the flannel he’s got on over a t-shirt and tosses it to the corner of the stall then snaps on gloves. “Hank, we need more buckets of warm water. Two, maybe three.”
Hank wags his head at the other man. “You heard him.”
Cal doesn’t take his eyes off Jasmine as he says, “No, you go Hank. When you bring them back, leave them, then stay out of sight. The more people we’ve got in this stall, the more nervous Jasmine gets, and the more danger she and her foal are in.”
“Fran, open my kit and take out the black case.” Cal gives orders like we’re having a conversation over coffee about something as predictable as California weather, and I follow them just as calmly, even with my pulse racing.
I assume Cal’s “kit” is the hard case he’s carried in. I open its fold out layer to find the smaller black case. When I hand it to Cal, he shakes his head. “Open it up.”
Hank is less interested in following Cal’s directions than in following him like a lost puppy. “I should be here, Doc.”
The words fall flat against Cal’s calm, steady energy as he takes a giant syringe from the case I hold open. “No, you shouldn’t. Now hurry up. We haven’t got time to argue.”
As if to prove the point, Jasmine makes a noise only an animal in pain could make, shakes her head so hard the man holding her loses his grip. Her belly contracts, and she makes the same terrified noise again.
Hank nods, but Cal ignores him, and he quietly leaves.
“Grab a swab packet for me and open it, please,” Cal directs, and I hurry to the overturned bucket where he’s set up a makeshift supply table.
“What’s your name, kid?” Cal asks, and I take a closer look at the other man, who’s not a man at all.
“Max,” he says in the low, uncertain way of a teenage boy who’s still getting used to his deeper voice.
“You work here?” Cal asks.
“Hank’s my grandpa.”
“You’re doing a good job with Jasmine. Keep talking to her while I sedate her. I need her to stop pushing for a minute, and this will help,” he says while running a hand over Jasmine’s neck.