Here to Stay

by Catherine Anderson

  Landing in a sprawl outside the enclosure, Zach spit dirt and hay, trying to get his lungs to work again before he moved. Pain. Fortunately, the stallion’s hooves had glanced off, sparing Zach the full impact of the strikes, but it still hurt like hell. When he’d recovered enough to move, he gained his feet and began berating the stallion.

  “You ungrateful, rotten, misbegotten bastard!” Furious, Zach drew back his foot and sent a feed pail flying. The bucket arced high and landed at the center of the arena with a metallic thunk. “One of these days, I’m going to put a bullet between your eyes!” Zach kicked the dirt, settled fists at his hips, and grabbed for breath. “Son of a bitch!”

  Cookie sauntered from a mare’s stall well away from the stallion section. As he fastened the gate, he shook his head. “You kickin’ buckets again? If you want your toe broke, come out with me to the choppin’ block, and I’ll just whack it with the sledge.”

  Zach leveled a burning gaze on the older man. Atop Cookie’s head sat a battered tan Stetson that Zach knew for a fact had served him winter and summer for more than thirty years. Thinking of hats, Zach shot a look into Tornado’s stall. His brown Stetson, knocked from his head during the brouhaha, was now flatter than a pancake, and Tornado was still pawing it to do further damage. Zach made a mental note to grab another Stetson from the stable office, where he always kept spares.

  “It’s called venting, Cookie. That damned horse just tried to kill me.”

  Cookie arched a grizzled brow and spewed tobacco juice from between his front teeth. With his usual good aim, he nailed the bucket Zach had just sent flying. “You got two choices, way I see it. Work the meanness out of him or have Tucker put him down.”

  Zach hooked his thumbs over his hand-carved leather belt, which he’d won during a challenging bout of cutting competition a few years ago. The reminder only made him feel more frustrated. He was renowned for his ability to train any horse he came across. It was pretty damned humiliating to fail day after day with Tornado.

  “I’ve tried everything. He’s impossible, and nothing I do is going to change him.”

  Dawn was breaking, faint streaks of pearly pink light spilling into the arena through skylights and open paddock doors. The other employees hadn’t arrived yet. Zach and Cookie opened shop each morning, and the hands started trickling in around seven.

  “Ain’t many horses truly ruined beyond repair.” Cookie spit more tobacco juice. “Even well-trained stallions can be temperamental. Give ’em a sniff of a mare in estrus, and they’re popcorn farts. You Harrigans have a way of breedin’ docile ones. Maybe it’s the handlin’ they receive from birth. But as a general rule, stallions are difficult.”

  Zach passed a hand over his eyes. “Tornado’s beyond difficult.”

  “Since nothin’ else has worked, why don’t you try some of that newfangled clicker stuff on him? Works with Rosebud, don’t it?”

  As the old foreman turned and walked away, Zach glared at his back. Clicker training? It was the craziest suggestion Zach had ever heard. Or was it?

  A few minutes later, when Zach had cooled off, he approached Tornado’s stall with Rosebud’s tennis-ball target. The stallion snorted and threw his head, sidestepping inside the enclosure. Softly whistling, Zach opened the gates and strung a heavy chain across the opening, which was about as effective as stringing dental floss in the path of a rhino. But Zach trusted the other horses, and he needed to pretend that he trusted Tornado. Mind-set was sometimes everything.

  Zach scooped some pellets from the pouch at his belt and extended an open palm to the horse. Tornado snorted and backed up several steps. But then his nostrils quivered, and he elongated his neck, trying to get a whiff of what Zach had in his hand. Stubborn, meanhearted beast. But Zach had decided to give this a try, and he was as stubborn as any horse. He waited until Tornado gave in to curiosity and came over to eat the pellets. Then Zach slowly drew Rosebud’s training wand forward, allowing the stallion to see and grow accustomed to it while he ate a second handful of goodies.

  Before the session ended, Tornado was touching the tennis ball to get rewards, and Zach was congratulating himself on a job well-done. The quarter horse had locked onto the target just as quickly as Rosebud had during her first clicker session. Was it possible this might work? Zach cautioned himself not to get his hopes up. Tornado had a temperament as volatile as nitroglycerin. Unless the equine equivalent of Dr. Phil dropped by, Tornado might never get better. Even so, Zach felt a surge of excitement as he went to work with Hurricane, a dream stallion Zach had started training at birth. What if? The question circled endlessly in Zach’s mind.

  Once Zach finished with Hurricane, it was time for his hands to start arriving. Ethel De Mario appeared first, running ten minutes early. A slender brunette who wore her long hair in a braid down her back, she waved and called, “Good morning!”

  Zach latched Hurricane’s stall gate. “Morning! How’d the dinner go last night?”

  Ethel’s Italian parents-in-law had dined at her home the previous evening, and they tended to be critical of her culinary skills. “Let’s just say Michael’s mom left for home before I strangled her.” She tugged a pair of worn leather gloves from the waistband of her jeans. “Didn’t like my lasagna. Said my pasta was rubbery. Detested the bread because I didn’t bake it. Didn’t care for the dipping oil. You name it, she hated it.”

  Zach laughed. “Don’t let her upset you. Your lasagna is perfect!” Ethel often brought in dishes to share with everyone at lunch, and Zach loved her cooking. “She probably just has her nose out of joint. Her non-Italian daughter-in-law can make lasagna that rivals her own. That’s bound to stick in her craw.”

  “I wish something would. Some rubbery pasta, maybe? Trust me when I say I would not be the first person to jump up and administer the Heimlich maneuver.”

  Zach ambled across the arena, grinning at the spark of anger in Ethel’s blue eyes as she tugged on a glove. She flexed her shoulders and stretched her neck, an obvious attempt to readjust her mood before she went near the horses. She never allowed her personal problems to interfere with her work. “She raised a wonderful son. I’ll give her that.” She flashed a smile. “What’s on the agenda today?”

  Zach crooked a finger at her and led the way to Tornado’s stall. After briefing Ethel on the blowup that had occurred earlier and Cookie’s suggestion that Zach try clicker training, he gave her an inquiring look. “You’re great with horses. I respect your opinion. Do you think there’s a chance in hell it might work on him?”

  Ethel settled a gaze on the sorrel. “Anything’s worth a try.” She watched the horse circle inside the enclosure. “I hear the talk around here, Zach. Everyone’s afraid of that animal, including me, as ashamed as I am to admit it. One of these days, he’s going to hurt somebody. I mean really hurt somebody. The worst part is, you’ll never see it coming. He’s fine one minute and maniacal the next.”

  Zach’s throat went tight. As infuriating as Tornado could be, Zach didn’t want to see the stallion come to a bad end. “I hate the thought of putting him down.”

  A singularly plain woman who never wore cosmetics, Ethel always seemed beautiful when she smiled. She rested a gloved hand on Zach’s arm. “If anybody can turn him around, it’s you. Don’t give up on him quite yet. We can all be careful and stay clear of his stall. Maybe the clicker training will be a turning point for him.”

  “I hope so. I’ve tried everything else for almost two months, no headway.”

  “No headway with what?”

  Zach turned to see his hired hand Tony Spellman sauntering toward them. Tony was a big man, as square and solid as a brick outhouse, but despite his size, he was agile and a damned fine horseman.

  “Tornado almost took me out this morning,” Zach replied. “Ethel and I are discussing plans of action.”

  “A tranquilizer gun followed by lethal injection?”

  “Shut up, Spellman.” Ethel shot her fellow employee a warning glare. “
He hasn’t seriously hurt anyone yet.”

  “Yet being the key word. Nobody wants to work with him. Even with the hydraulic box stall and sedation, the farrier shook in his boots while he trimmed that monster’s hooves. Hell, even Tucker walked a wide circle around the son of a bitch that morning, and he’s one of the finest vets I’ve ever known.” Tony looked Zach dead in the eye. “He’s loco. You know it, and I know it. There’s only one thing to be done with a horse like that. I just hope you get your mind wrapped around it and act before it’s too late.” He gave Zach a level look. “He will hurt someone. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Tornado chose that moment to blow up again. The thunderous reports of his rear hooves on the walls of the stall rolled across the arena. Startled, Tony fell back a step. “He’s a killer, I’m telling you.”

  Zach clenched his teeth as he watched Spellman walk away.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Ethel said softly. “You can turn Tornado around. You just haven’t hit on the right method yet.”

  Zach turned to watch the stallion rear up and strike the air again. He could only pray Ethel was right. It wasn’t fair to his employees for him to keep a dangerous animal on the premises and put all of them at risk.

  Chapter Six

  While waiting for his employees to leave for the day, Zach finished some desk work in the arena office before approaching Tornado’s stall for another session of clicker training. In both hands, he carried plastic bags filled with different treats—baby carrots, apple slices, grain pellets, and a mixture of oatmeal and chopped apples laced with molasses, which was to equines the equivalent of fine wine and dark chocolate.

  At this time of evening, the cavernous arena was serenely quiet. The smell of alfalfa drifted on the air. The horses had already received their nightly ration of grain, and each of them was now munching happily on two flakes of hay. The sound of their molars grinding the fodder always comforted Zach, but he found it particularly soothing in the evenings for some reason, possibly because he associated it with the end of the day, when all the work was done and his horses were safely tucked in for the night.

  His belly rumbled as he strode toward the front of the building. He ignored the pangs of hunger. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gotten a late supper, and it wouldn’t be the last. When you had a stable filled with horses, your own needs took second seat. Tornado needed help, and Zach was bound and determined to give it to him.

  Once outside Tornado’s stall, Zach put the treats on the ground and then considered leaving the gate latched. Given Zach’s agenda for this session, Tornado would probably blow up not once, but several times, and the barrier would at least give Zach some protection. But no. Zach refused to go there. He had to give this horse every possible chance.

  Like his stable mates, the sorrel was munching hay. When Zach opened the gate, the stallion wheeled his rump around. Zach strung the chain across the entrance. Tornado abandoned his meal to watch Zach’s every movement. Zach bent to pick up a bag of pellets. He scooped some onto his palm and extended his hand. Tornado elongated his neck, sniffed, and backed into a corner, shaking his head and snorting.

  “Come on, Tornado, we did this once already today. It’s fun. Remember?”

  Watching the horse, Zach wondered, not for the first time, what went on inside the animal’s head. In the overhead light, the sorrel’s body rippled with power every time he moved. He would throw gorgeous foals, but what if they were as crazy as their sire? No matter how beautiful the stud, no ethical breeder played this kind of genetic roulette.

  The stallion smelled the pellets and obviously wanted them. His nostrils flared to catch their scent. He pawed the dirt and whinnied. But still he held back.

  Eventually the horse could resist the temptation no longer and stepped toward Zach’s outstretched hand. Zach allowed Tornado to enjoy the first handful of pellets, then offered him another. As the horse began to eat, Zach drew the training wand from his belt. The stallion wheeled away, grunting and kicking with his rear hooves. Zach jumped clear, waited for the animal to relax, and then approached the chain again.

  “Come on, boy. You touched the ball this morning and know it won’t hurt you.”

  Tornado stretched his neck, trying to steal the pellets without getting too close to the yellow orb. When that tactic failed, the horse eventually moved closer, tense and jumpy, but determined to get the treats.

  It took Zach nearly an hour to get Tornado to bump his nose against the tennis ball accidentally. Click. “Good boy, Tornado, good boy,” Zach said, picking up a package of sliced apples. He gave the stallion three tastes and then zipped the bag closed. The idea was to keep the stallion wanting more so he would remain eager to work.

  Zach’s goal tonight was to get Tornado to touch his nose to the halter hanging on a hook inside the stall. From day one, Tornado had exhibited an abhorrence of halters. Hoping to desensitize the stallion to the sight of one, Zach had hung the headgear there when Tornado first arrived. Sadly, it hadn’t worked. Tornado simply avoided that side of the enclosure. Zach didn’t know why the animal despised the leather straps. The only way Zach could put gear of any kind on the horse was to confine him in a box chute, call in help to run a rope under the animal’s chin to force his head up, and then ear him until the halter was on. Earing a horse, twisting the ear until it caused pain, was a practice Zach detested, but with Tornado there was no choice.

  To Zach’s relief, the stallion began cooperating quickly. So far, so good. He had been working with the stud for almost another hour when Cookie spoke from somewhere behind him.

  “Don’t you pussy out on him,” the older man said softly.

  Zach twisted to look over his shoulder. Cookie stood about fifteen feet from the stall entrance. “Pussy out? You should try this. My arm feels like it’s about to fall off.”

  “If you give up, that stallion’s days are numbered.”

  A chill washed over Zach’s scalp. “You think he’s loco, Cookie?”

  The older man sighed. Judging by the sounds, he was scuffing his boot heel in the dirt. “Sometimes a horse is born with a screw loose,” Cookie finally replied. “Ain’t no denyin’ that. I had me a horse like that once. Raised him from birth. Never mistreated him or gave him any cause to be crazy.” Cookie made a choked sound. “Lord, he was a beauty. But he was plumb loco, and there wasn’t no fixin’ him.”

  “You have to put him down?” Zach asked tautly, dreading to hear the answer.

  “Nope. He died in an accident, broke his neck. Maybe it was a blessin’ in disguise, as they say.”

  Zach hadn’t raised Tornado from birth, but he still felt an overwhelming sorrow when he thought about having to end the stallion’s life. Tornado was only five, and he was physically amazing. If only Zach could turn him around, the horse could live to be thirty. Trying to ignore the cramp in his shoulder, he said softly, “If some people are born with a screw loose, I guess the same thing can happen with horses.”

  “True,” Cookie agreed. “But I have to say, in all my years of trainin’ ’em, I’ve only seen it that one time. That ain’t to say Tornado ain’t loco. Way he acts, he’s crazier than a loon. But when you bring an animal into the fold from another ranch, you’re never really sure what happened in its past to make it quirky.”

  “His previous owner, Pat Jones, checked out,” Zach replied, rubbing his upper arm. “He’s got a reputation that would make Mother Teresa look like a mugger. Otherwise I’d never have bought a horse from him.”

  “Sometimes the way things seem ain’t the way they really are.”

  Zach knew that was true. Despite Cookie’s warnings, he lowered his arm. “I’m due for a break.”

  Cookie inclined his head at the wand. “Just so you know you’re not finished yet. Before you call it a night, you need to make him touch that halter.”

  “I will,” Zach assured the older man.

  Cookie knuckled the brim of his hat. “Have fun. I’m headin’ upstairs for a showe
r, some supper, and a little kickback time in my recliner.”

  Zach drew Tornado’s stall gate closed. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

  As Cookie started up the stairs, Zach headed for the stable office to get a cold soft drink from the fridge. After gaining the landing, Cookie hollered, “Don’t take too long a break. Continuity is important.”

  Zach chuckled and repositioned his hat, which he’d confiscated from the office—a new black one he usually wore for church or nights out. “I won’t, old man.”

  As Mandy drew her Honda to a stop by the intercom box just outside Zach Harrigan’s front gate, she once again felt a little spooked by the utter blackness that blanketed the landscape. In town, there were street lamps to illuminate the sidewalks and curbs, and light from the windows of houses spilled over the yards. Out here, she could see nothing beyond the yellow swath of her car’s headlights.

  She pushed the red call button. The gruff voice of the ranch foreman came from the speaker. Mandy leaned out the window to identify herself and ask to be buzzed in.

  “I know it’s a little late, but I really need to talk to Mr. Harrigan,” she explained. “He is at home, I hope. It’s very important.”

  “He know you’re comin’?” the foreman asked. “I just got out of the shower, and I’m buck naked. Can’t go downstairs to ask if it’s okay to let you in, and he’s got his cell phone turned off, so I can’t call him.”

  Buck naked? Mandy gulped back a startled giggle. “No, he doesn’t know I’m coming. I tried to call his house. All I got was the answering machine.” Stomach fluttering with nerves, she tried to think of something she might say to convince the foreman that it was okay to let her pass. “It truly is very important that I speak with him.”