Chapter 7 #2
Piper goes next. Sage rates into the first barrel with her nose soft and her hip through, comes through the pattern smooth and controlled. Piper rides out without looking at the rail to see how it went. She already knows.
Lynette runs Ace through with the ease of nine years behind them.
Del and Buck are functional. He does what he's asked, and she asks clearly, which is more than some combinations manage on day one.
Brooke comes through after Del. Charm finds every pocket. Sawyer gives her one small note on her exit line, and Brooke nods and moves on.
Brooke comes to stand at the rail beside me when Kira rides off toward the alley. "She's been chasing that mare's tail for two years," she says. Not complaining. Just the fact of it.
Cara runs Arrow next, and it's the same, correct, and efficient. Arrow finds the pockets without argument. Sawyer watches, not saying anything.
Wren and Daisy come through last, a little rough around the edges, Daisy still figuring out the pocket, and Wren's hands slightly late on the turn. But they're honest about every mistake, which means they'll fix them.
Then, Kira brings Fever into the alley.
The mare's ear goes back before they hit the first barrel.
I see the weight shift wrong two strides out, Kira's hands moving early, and my hands close on the top rail before I've decided to move.
I know what's coming. I know it the way you know a storm from the pressure before the clouds arrive.
Fever runs the pattern and pulls up at the far end. Sawyer waits until they ride back.
"Did you feel it two strides out?" Sawyer says. "Before the first barrel."
Kira's jaw tightens. She nods.
Rhea's two feet to my left at the rail. Sawyer's on my other side. Neither of them looks at me, but I know they both caught it. Nobody says anything. The session keeps running.
That's the thing that gets to me later, after the session clears out and I'm still at the rail. Not that I saw it. The fact that the two people in this arena who would know what it meant saw me see it and kept working as if it was expected. Like it was already part of how this runs.
***
I go to check on Cricket before bed out of habit.
The barn's quiet. Levi's at the far end, doing his walkthrough, moving through the stalls. He doesn't look up when I come in.
I get to Cricket's stall and stop.
She's standing with her weight shifted back, nose dropping toward her flank. The movement is small and repetitive. I look at the stall floor.
Nothing's there.
"Levi."
He looks up. "What's wrong?"
"She's nosing at her flank, and her stall’s clean." I look at him. "She hasn't passed anything. She could be colicking."
He's already moving across the aisle before I've finished. I open the stall door, clip the lead to her halter, and bring her out.
"She needs to walk," he says. "Keep her gut moving. Let's take her to the pasture."
"Okay."
We walk her out.
The night air's cool, and the pasture's dark. The only sounds are crickets and our boots and Cricket moving between us. She walks forward, which is good. Her ears are low, which is less good. I keep my hand on the lead rope and watch her.
After a while, Levi says, "You know about the labs."
I look over at him. “What labs?”
"Sutton saw a litter of yellow labs at Creekside back in April," he says. "Logan lasted four minutes."
"Four minutes before what?"
"Before he said yes." He glances at Cricket, then back ahead. "Sutton had a name picked out before they got back to the ranch. Like the name was already a fact that had been waiting on them."
I picture Logan sitting in the truck with a yellow lab puppy and his son naming it with the authority of someone delivering important information. "Was Bingo always wild, or did that develop?"
Levi doesn't hesitate. "Always." He glances over. "You've met him."
I laugh.
It's out before I can do anything about it, real and unguarded, and the sound of it surprises me. Levi doesn't react to it the way he has to everything all week. He just lets it land and keeps walking.
Cricket stops.
She paws and stands with her head low and doesn't move.
I look at Levi. He already has his phone out, screen lit, thumb moving. He puts it to his ear.
"Kade," he says. "Cricket's colicking. We're out in the pasture."
He hangs up, tugs on the lead rope, and Cricket starts walking again.
Kade comes through the pasture gate eight minutes later and looks at Cricket. He puts his ear to her stomach, listening for gut sounds, watches her drop her nose toward her flank, then pulls out his own phone.
"I'll call Erin," he says. "Keep her moving."
He steps back toward the gate, and we keep walking.
"Erin's the vet," Levi says.
I nod. "I figured."
Cricket stops twice more, paws, drops her nose, and we circle back and keep her moving. The second time she stops, Levi steps up beside her head and clicks his tongue low, and she takes one step, then another, like she needed someone to ask nicely.
"You do that with all of them?" I ask.
"Do what?"
"Talk to them like they're going to agree with you."
He glances over. "Hasn't failed me yet."
"Cricket's easy," I say. "Try it on one that isn't."
"I have." He looks back at the dark ahead of us. "It takes longer, but it still works."
I don't say anything to that. We walk another loop, and the night settles around us, cool and quiet, just the sound of Cricket's hooves moving through the grass.
"New routine, new feed schedule," he says. "Her gut'll catch up."
I know that. He knows I know that. He said it anyway, and I'm not sure if it was for my benefit or his or just because the quiet needed something in it.
"First horse you ever had colic on you?" he asks.
"No, my dad's paint mare was. I was twelve. I sat up with her all night because I thought if I left the stall she'd die."
"Did she?"
"She was fine by four in the morning." I watch Cricket's ear flick back toward me. "I cried in the barn aisle for twenty minutes after."
"Because she was okay."
"Because I'd been holding it together for six hours, and then she was okay, and I had nowhere to put it anymore."
He doesn't say anything for a beat. Then, "Yeah. That makes sense."
It's the kind of response that doesn't try to make anything of what you said, just confirms that he heard it. I've noticed he does that. I've been noticing more than I mean to.
At some point, his hand comes to the rope beside mine, our fingers are touching, and neither of us moves.
Neither of us says anything about it either.
Erin's headlights come through the gate about thirty minutes later. We walk Cricket toward her. Kade meets her at the gate, and they exchange a few words. Then she comes the rest of the way to us and puts her hand out. "Hi, I'm Erin. Is this your mare?"
"Hi, I'm Cassie. Yes, she's mine."
She nods and steps up beside Cricket.
She runs her hands down Cricket's flank, listens to both sides of her gut, then her heart and lungs. I hold the lead, watch her, and wait.
"Looks like a mild impaction," Erin says, straightening.
"Probably the feed change, maybe the travel stress.
" She goes to her bag and comes back with a syringe.
"I'm going to give her some Banamine for the pain and inflammation.
" She finds the jugular in Cricket's neck and gives the injection. Cricket stands for it.
"Keep her walking another twenty minutes or so and see if she passes anything.
If she hasn't gone by midnight, call me back.
And if she goes down or the pain gets worse before that, don't wait, call.
" She looks at Cricket, then at me with a small smile.
"She's uncomfortable, but she's not in trouble. You caught it early."
She shakes my hand, shakes Levi's, and walks back with Kade toward the gate. They talk for another minute at her truck, and then she leaves. Kade stands there one extra beat watching the taillights before he turns back toward his cabin.
When Cricket finally goes, she drops her head and lets out a long breath. Levi exhales beside me. I press my forehead against Cricket's neck for one second with my eyes closed.
We walk her in. I put her back in her stall, check the water, and watch her drink as if nothing happened. She looks like herself again. That's all I needed.
Levi stops in the doorway. He doesn't say anything, just stands there another beat. Then he goes, boots quiet on the aisle floor, and I listen until I can't hear them anymore.
I stand in the stall a little longer.
Then I go back to my cabin, sit on the edge of the bed, and call my dad.
He picks up on the second ring.
"Hi sweetie. You're up late," he says.
"Hi, Dad. Yeah, I am.”
“What’s up?”
“Just wanted to let you know Cricket colicked tonight. It was a mild impaction. She finally went. She's okay now."
"That's good. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
He lets that sit for a second. My dad has always been able to hear the difference between fine and fine.
"I might come out to see you," he says.
"You don't need to do that."
"I know I don't need to." His voice is easy. "I might want to."
"Dad."
"I'm not promising anything." A pause. "Get some sleep. Tell Cricket I said she's being dramatic."
He's quiet for a moment. "Love you, kid."
"Love you too, Dad."
We hang up.
I set the phone on the nightstand and sit there in the quiet. The barn is two hundred yards away, Cricket is fine, and the calico is under my porch with four kittens who don't know yet how big the world is.
I keep thinking about my hand on that lead rope and his next to mine.
I don't think about it for very long before I make myself stop.