“Lame or stiff?”
“Off-balance,” Sharon said. “Come and take a look. Just don’t mention it to the boy.”
From Sharon’s description and her own research, Hannah knew that Sharon feared Satchmo had equine protozoal myeloencephalits, a parasite that attacked the horse’s central nervous system. Depending on how long Satchmo had been infected, there might be permanent damage.
Anxiety squeezed her chest as she jogged along beside Sharon’s long-legged stride.
“Stop here and watch him,” Sharon said, halting outside the circle Satchmo was inscribing.
Hannah waved to Matt, who grinned and nodded a greeting as both his hands were occupied. Then she turned her attention to the chestnut pony walking obediently around his young master. For a few moments she didn’t see anything wrong. Then she caught it: Satchmo stepped slightly outward with his hind foot. He adjusted for his misstep almost imperceptibly, but it was there. The shift was so subtle she would have missed it if Sharon hadn’t cued her to watch for something. It was one of the telltale signs of EPM.
“You have an amazing eye,” she said to the tall woman beside her.
“Hon, I’ve been around horses since I was knee high to a grasshopper. I can practically hear ’em thinking.”
Hannah caught several more tiny but awkward movements as the pony circled. She nodded. “I need to do a spinal tap.” She really wished Tim were here; she hadn’t done a spinal tap on a horse since her summer internship during vet school.
“His blood test didn’t show anything?” Sharon asked.
“It showed what half of all equine blood tests show. He’s been exposed to the EPM parasite. I could start treating him without the spinal tap, but if it’s not EPM we’d be wasting valuable time and money.”
Sharon heaved a sigh. “I guess you’d better get your needle, Doc. And put it on my bill.”
“But I thought—” Hannah stopped. It was none of her business who paid for Satchmo’s treatment. For all she knew Adam had changed his mind about buying the pony for Matt. She’d let Tim sort that out. Sharon looked at her. “Never mind,” Hannah said hastily.
“Matt, let’s get Satchmo back to his stall so Doc Linden can suck out some more of his body fluids,” Sharon called before she murmured to Hannah, “If Satch has EPM, he needs rest, not exercise. Have you got your bag of tricks with you?”
“In the truck,” Hannah said, watching the pony’s ears tip forward in anticipation as Matt began to walk toward him, coiling up the longe line as he went. When Matt reached Satchmo, the pony butted his head against the boy’s chest, rubbing it up and down and making Matt stagger backwards. Satchmo followed him and did it again, and Hannah realized it was a familiar game they were playing.
Maybe she should call in another vet with more large-animal experience to do the tap. In theory she knew where the lumbosacral cistern was, but in practice she was—well, out of practice. She could practically hear Mrs. Shanks’s voice announcing that she’d crippled Matt McNally’s pony. Her palms began to sweat and she rubbed them against her khaki slacks.
She’d done spinal taps on kittens; the spinal column of a pony was huge by comparison, giving her a larger, easier target. She swiped her hands one more time and turned toward the gate, saying to Sharon, “I’ll meet you in his stall. Ask Matt to stay. He can keep Satchmo calm while I do the procedure.”
Hannah jogged out to the truck and grabbed the animal hospital’s computer tablet, swiping away at the screen to get to the detailed description of executing a spinal tap on a conscious horse. As she skimmed through the instructions and diagrams, memories from vet school bubbled to the surface and she nodded to herself.
Going to the back of the truck, she rummaged through the large-animal kit she kept stowed in case of emergency calls. Everything she needed was there, including the Styrofoam packaging to send the samples to the lab.
“I wish Adam were here to carry this,” she grumbled, dragging the heavy bag out of the truck bed.
She staggered into the barn, where a stable hand took the duffel from her despite her protests. “You need your strength for fixing horses,” he said, hefting it over his shoulder.
This was one of the reasons she didn’t want to resign from Sanctuary Animal Hospital. People valued her profession here in a way they didn’t in Chicago. In many cases, the animals she treated were an important part of their livelihood. Not just the cows and sheep and horses, but the working dogs and even the barn cats who kept down the rodent population. It was a different relationship between the animals and their owners, one in which the animal was respected as more than just a companion.
The man brought her bag into Satchmo’s stall and waved off her thanks. She found an anxious-looking Matt standing beside the pony while Sharon slipped a halter over Satchmo’s head.
She went over to the boy. “Hey, don’t look so worried. This is just a test. No big deal.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t found anything wrong with him,” Matt said, stroking the pony’s neck.
“There’s only so much you can tell from the usual blood tests,” Hannah said, resting her hand on Satchmo’s back. “If there’s something medically wrong with him and we don’t treat it, he could get really sick. But if I find it now, before it gets worse, we’ll be able to cure him.” She crossed her fingers behind her back. If the pony had EPM, the nerve damage could have been done already.
“I’ve got a stock if you want to use it,” Sharon said, fastening a chain lead to Satchmo’s halter and winding it across his nose. The chain kept the horse’s attention on his nose and gave the person holding the halter a little extra control.
Hannah looked at the placid pony and the worried boy and shook her head. “I trust you and Matt to keep him still.” Putting the pony in a stock—a sort of cage to confine him—would upset both Satchmo and Matt. “I’ll take a stool, though. And ice to pack the fluid in until I get back to the clinic.”
While Sharon sent a groom off to fetch a stool and ice, Hannah set up a portable table, snapped on a pair of sterile rubber gloves, and laid out her supplies, including two eight-inch needles that made Matt’s eyes go wide. “They look scary,” Hannah said, “but horses are bigger than humans.”
When everything was arranged to her satisfaction, Hannah went over to Matt. “So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to give Satch here a local anesthetic on his rump. Once he’s numb, I’m going to insert the big needle into what’s called his lumbosacral cistern and draw out some cerebrospinal fluid. I’ll send that off to the lab for testing. That’s it. Nothing more to it.”
Matt gave her a nervous smile.
“The thing is I need Satchmo to stay still while I’m inserting the needle and extracting the fluid.” She didn’t mention that any movement could injure the pony’s spine. “Sharon knows exactly how to hold him, but you’ll make it easier for everyone, including Satch, if you keep his attention on you. Got it?”
The boy swallowed and nodded.
“I’ll let you know when it’s time,” Hannah said.
She returned to the table and began prepping the injection site before she administered the local anesthetic. Satchmo flicked his tail once and then stood still, his head resting against Matt’s chest while the boy rubbed behind his ears.
Once she was sure the anesthetic had taken effect, she stripped off the old gloves and put on a clean pair. She was taking every precaution to make this go smoothly. She picked up one of the giant needles and climbed up on the stool.
“Okay, I need you to keep him still until I say I’m done,” she said, turning to check on her helpers. Sharon shifted her grip on the lead chain to just under the pony’s chin and nodded. “You ready, Matt?” Hannah asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Matt said, his voice holding only a slight quaver.
Hannah rested the tip of the needle on the spot she had ma
rked and pushed. As the needle found its mark, she felt a lessening of resistance. The tension in her shoulders eased, but her relief was short-lived. Satchmo suddenly tucked his tail down between his hind legs. Was that a signal that the pony was going to try to move or lash out with his back hooves?
Hannah held her breath and took a quick look toward Satchmo’s head. Sharon stood with her feet braced wide, ready to counteract any movement. Matt’s face was pale and his eyes were resolutely turned away from the huge needle, but he murmured to the pony in a low, soothing voice as he continued to scratch behind his ears.
After a few seconds passed and Satchmo continued to stand quietly, Hannah let out her breath and removed the trocar from the needle, beginning the process of collecting the spinal fluid. When she had enough, she carefully withdrew the needle and stepped down from the stool. “Okay, it’s all over. I just have to put a stitch in to close the opening.”
She finished by packing the fluid in the Styrofoam transport chest surrounded by ice.
“Satchmo, you are a model patient,” she said, coming up to his head to join Matt in giving him a good rub. “I’ve never had a horse stand that still for a spinal tap.” She squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “You and Sharon are great assistants.”
“Ms. Sydenstricker was the one holding him,” Matt said, his voice still a little shaky. He rested his forehead against Satchmo’s.
“I didn’t need to do a thing,” Sharon said. “You had him practically tranquilized, young man.”
Hannah went back to stowing away her supplies in the medical bag. She kept an eye on the pony to see if he was showing any sign of discomfort. When she finished, she looked at Sharon. “Would you take Satch on a circuit of the stall?”
“Is something wrong?” Matt asked, stepping away from Satchmo’s head so Sharon could turn the pony.
“Nah,” Sharon said, urging Satchmo into a walk. “Just standard operating procedure after a spinal tap.”
As the pony plodded around his stall without any noticeable change in his gait, Hannah nodded.
Matt’s face lit up in a grin. “He’s okay, right?”
“He looks good,” Hannah said.
“Keep him company while I help the doc with her bag,” Sharon said, handing the lead line to Matt.
She picked up one handle while Hannah hefted the other. As soon as they were out of earshot of the stall, Sharon said, “How long until you’ll know?”
“I’m going to overnight it to a lab in Kentucky where they collect data on EPM, so they know what they’re doing. I’ll tell them to put a rush on it.”
“That boy needs that pony,” Sharon said.
“I’ll do everything I can to get Satchmo healthy.”
“I know that, Doc. You’re one of the good guys.”
Would Sharon say that if she knew about what happened in Chicago? The horsewoman cared about her horses, but she was a businesswoman too. Or maybe she already knew, like half the people in Sanctuary. “Where was Satchmo before he came here?” Hannah asked.
“At the racing stable in Florida with Jazzman. They’re careful there, so I figure he picked up the parasite in transit. Dirty water. Contaminated feed. Something like that.”
“Poor little fellow to have such bad luck,” Hannah said.
“I won’t be using that horse transporter again,” Sharon said.
“How did you come to own Satch?” They’d arrived at the truck and together slung the bag into the back.
“Lost horses just find me,” Sharon said with a shrug. “Once Jazzman died, the stable owner had no use for Satchmo, so he was going to sell him for dog food. One of the grooms was fond of Satch and got hold of me.”
“Sounds to me like you’re one of the good guys,” Hannah said.
“If Satch hadn’t come here, Matt wouldn’t have found his whisper horse.”
Hannah nodded. She wasn’t going to argue with this woman who knew more about horses than she ever would. “Have you got a whisper horse for me?” she asked, only partly in jest.
Sharon grinned. “If you’re lookin’ for one.” She held out her hand. “Nice job on the spinal tap, Doc. It went as smooth as silk.”
Hannah shook her hand, wincing slightly at the strength of Sharon’s grip. “It’s been awhile.”
“Like riding a bicycle, I guess,” Sharon said before she started back toward the barn.
As soon as Sharon was out of sight, Hannah slumped against the truck, her knees suddenly unwilling to hold her upright without assistance. She braced her hands on her thighs and took a few deep breaths. If she hadn’t been so worried about Satchmo, she would have waited for Tim to come back because it wasn’t at all like riding a bicycle.
A couple of more breaths and she straightened and climbed into the truck’s cab. As she turned the key, she muttered, “You know, maybe a whisper horse isn’t such a bad idea.”
Chapter 10
ADAM FELL INTO the big, leather chair behind his desk at the restaurant and stripped off his tie. He’d expected an easy night, but a group of businessmen had flown in from Atlanta at the last minute, growing more and more demanding as they emptied several bottles of wine. He’d eventually switched all of their wait staff to men because one guest persisted in grabbing the waitresses and making lewd comments. As the group was leaving, Adam spoke with its host and explained that the offensive diner would not be welcome back. He didn’t tolerate abuse of his staff, no matter how much money his patrons spent.
He tossed the tie onto the desk, jogging the mouse of his computer so the sleeping screen came to life.
A glance at the new emails in his inbox made him sit forward when he saw the name of one sender: William Gaspari, the private investigator he’d hired to find someone from Maggie’s family who might be a better parent to Matt than he could be.
His stomach clenched as he clicked open the email.
Dear Mr. Bosch,
I’ve located a first cousin to Margaret McNally who appears to be a possibility. Attached is the background information. Call me at your convenience to discuss how to proceed.
Regards,
William Gaspari
He waited for the lift of relief. Instead his stomach seemed to turn itself inside out.
It wasn’t that Matt had become more open after finding his whisper pony. His son still shut him out ninety-nine percent of the time. But that one conversation in the car—when Matt hadn’t been able to contain his excitement about Satchmo—had given Adam a glimpse of what might have been.
Adam reached into his pocket for the key to his desk, unlocking the center drawer. Pulling out the dog-eared manila folder the social worker had handed him four months ago, he slipped off the rubber bands and squared it on the desktop. He took a deep breath and flipped it open. There was the photo of Matt in the kitchen, the one that had stopped Adam from continuing before.
He moved it aside.
Beneath it was a souvenir photograph of a younger Matt engulfed by a yellow life preserver standing in blue water with a dolphin’s nose touching his face. His expression held both excitement and fear. Adam’s throat tightened. Maggie had not had much money in the bank when she died, so she must have scrimped and saved to take her child on this trip.
The next photo was the same pose, but in this one Maggie was being kissed by the dolphin. Adam studied her image. The vivid red curls piled on top of her head, with damp tendrils clinging to her neck and cheeks, were the same as when she’d been twenty-two. Her freckled face was sunburned and thinner, but the sheer joy radiating from her smile lit it with beauty.
Would he have recognized her if he’d run into her in the crowd at Disney World? He shook his head and shifted his gaze to stare at the black rectangle of the window. Those years of working in New York were an alcohol-hazed blur, and his memories of anything but the kitchen itself were fragmentary. When he’d
gotten the apprenticeship with the world-famous chef Conrad Faust, he’d burned his bridges with his parents and jumped on a bus to the city, sure his name would be tripping off the lips of influential foodies in no time.
Instead he’d been plunged into hell. Conrad managed by fear: fear of verbal humiliation; fear of physical abuse; fear of being fired. Adam was used to the first two from the years of living with his father, but he couldn’t stomach the thought of crawling back to his parents because he’d been sacked.
One evening, Conrad had walked out of his office, scanned the kitchen, and walked straight to Adam’s station. Without tasting the fiddlehead ferns Adam was sautéing, the chef had picked up the pan and hurled it onto the floor, splashing burning hot butter and oil up to Adam’s knees. Then he launched into a brutal tirade about Adam’s lack of talent, work ethic, and breeding. Adam stood with his head bowed, feeling the blisters rising on his legs as the hot butter soaked through his houndstooth-check cooking trousers. At the end, he said what he had to say in order to keep his job: “Yes, chef.”
Conrad stalked back into his office and slammed the door, while Adam sagged against the countertop. One of the sous-chefs handed him a flask of vodka. Having sworn not to follow his father’s path to destruction, Adam started to hand it back. Then he looked at the perfectly sautéed vegetables Conrad had hurled onto the floor. If he lost this job, Adam had nothing. He unscrewed the top of the flask, filled his mouth with the cheap liquor, and threw back his head to swallow it in one gulp. The vodka burned down his throat and spread through his gut, blunting the razor-edge of his fear. He bought a flask of his own the next day.
He learned to ration his drinking while he worked, balancing on the edge between being drunk enough to tolerate the terror of Conrad’s unpredictability, but not so drunk he couldn’t function in the controlled chaos of the kitchen. He climbed up the hierarchy by working twice as hard as anyone else and flattering Conrad’s senior sous-chefs into teaching him their secrets. After work, he went out with anyone willing and drank himself into oblivion. Maggie had made the mistake of joining him for one of those alcohol-soaked expeditions.
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