84. Kangaroo Court #3
“Thanksgiving.” I smack him on the back. “He said it before Layton pulled his crap and you pulled your punches.”
“Never going to let me live that down, are you?” he mutters from behind me.
“Nope.” I extend a hand to Bright. “We’re ten minutes behind you.”
“Ooh. Things I don’t want to know,” Brax whines.
Willa’s rich full laughter fills the air around us as we take the stairs down to our cars.
Brighton
I back the ranch truck up on Lager’s property and Braxton and I jump out, heading for the old stables. I drop the opening of the horse trailer.
“They’re going to need something, Bright.” Brax walks back out into the January sun, his boots squishing in the mud after all the rain. Texas weather—it’s feast or famine, that’s for sure.
“In what way?” I call from inside the trailer as I ready it for transport.
“They’re thin and skittish and—” His words cut off mid-sentence.
His eyes cut back and forth against the ground. I see the green vine, one that wasn’t there during the months of drought. I follow it and Braxton around the barn and back toward the open pasture land behind the barn.
“Shit.” I missed it. How did I fucking miss it?
“Yeah. Think he knew?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. But I should’ve.” I hang my head, staring at my boots, before lifting my chin to the sky and releasing a deep-buried scream.
Potatoes.
Fucking Potatoes.
He was growing potatoes in his garden.
“Glycoalkaloid poisoning.”
“You know that it’s hit or miss based on consumption.” He looks around the area.
I nod, frustrated that I missed something so simple.
“Solanine wouldn’t show up on standard bloodwork.”
“It would if I had tested for it.”
“Bright.”
“Don’t.” I pace away and scream again.
I watched those beautiful animals struggle.
I watched them fight for their lives.
And I didn’t help.
I walk back with renewed determination. We know what it is. I can fix it.
… If it’s not too late.
“It’s reversible. Seriously, Bright, they need a week and should be fine.”
Should.
“Yup. Let’s do it.” I head to the stables and start with the most docile—or most sickly, who knows which—and place the lead around her neck. “Come, sweetie. We’re going to get you well. No more eating bad stuff, okay? It’s going to be fine.”
I’m telling myself this as much as the mare.
We load up all of them, and before pulling out, I walk the property one last time.
The garden has potatoes, dead corn, peppers withered on the vine—it is Texas after all, what looks like squash or zucchini vines set to rot, onions shoots, and broccoli.
At any point, half of those things would be toxic to these horses.
Either Lager wasn’t paying attention, or he didn’t care. I’m guessing number two. Or he wasn’t well enough to put it all together.
I walk the paddock and pasture calming my angry mind and pissed off heart. When I get back to the truck, Brax has closed up the barn and taken the driver’s seat.
He says nothing, very un-Brax-like, and slowly pulls away from Rich Lager’s house. I don’t have to see that man anymore, or be intimidated by him, or worry. The sigh that leaves me must come from my toes.
The relief is overwhelming.
“I called Diaz. He knows we have them and will get back with us in a couple of weeks.”
The county agriculture commissioner, Manuel Diaz, has known Pop for ages. They were hellions as kids together, roaming the hills and valleys on their dirt bikes. I’m sure there’s more to that story, but I’ve never asked.
“Thanks, Brax. They’ll have a clean bill of health when he’s ready to auction them.”
“Are you concerned at all with bringing them into the stables now?”
“Nah, but let’s let them stretch their legs as they heal. Lager missing the obvious means he probably missed more than that. He wasn’t well... at least, when he wasn’t on his meds.”
“What was Pop on about today with him preying on Mom?”
I close my eyes and slide deeper into the seat of the truck as we hit asphalt and the ride becomes smooth. “No clue. No freaking clue.”
We make it to the ranch easily and place the horses in the bigger paddock behind the barn. I can avoid ours heading in here for a week or so. It’s clean, has fresh water and hay, and will allow them to move.
And I won’t have to corral them from the acreage Pop donated to the new conservancy border. How in the world did Eli come up with that?
“To Jon.” Pop lifts his cup—the sincerity in his voice is fraught with emotion—and holds Jon’s gaze.
“Words will never be enough.” He looks at the boy who ran around and played on this land with Exton for years before life sent them in different directions.
He lifts his cup higher still, and we all toast.
“Thank you.” Exton’s voice is earnest and steadfast, as he claps Jon on the shoulder. “What’s next for you?”
Jon shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Another run for office?”
“Nah.” Jon studies the floor.
“My new business is taking off. If you’re bored, I can find things that will keep you busy while you decide.”
A small smile plays on Jon’s face. “That sounds like a great idea.”
“I have to tell you what I’m working on.” Exton wanders off, and Jon follows.