Free Hoofprints (Gail McCarthy series) by Laura Crum Page A

and cozy. The five men sitting on the bar stools turned their heads to look at me. Giving them a wide smile entirely inappropriate for a strange woman entering a bar full of men, I parked myself on an empty bar stool. At this point, I was so glad to see some normal, civilized people that I would have been happy to get any kind of ridiculous come-on. I was beginning to be afraid Bonny Doon was populated entirely by fog, redwoods, and murderers, with maybe a few ghosts thrown in.
    The bartender got up and limped in my direction. He had gray hair, a gray beard, a battered cowboy hat, and an old vest. He gave me a friendly smile. "What'll you have?"
    "Jack Daniel's and soda in a tall glass," I said automatically.
    He fixed the drink and brought it over. When I paid him, I asked, "Do you know a place about two miles down the road, metal gate painted yellow, twenty-one twenty Pine Flat Road?"
    "Sure." He looked at me curiously. "Fred Johnson's place that was. He died a year ago."
    "Anybody living there now name of Houseman?"
    He shook his head. "Nope. It's shut up tight. Estate's in some kind of litigation. All his kids fighting over who gets it, I imagine. None of 'em were any damn good." His bright, curious eyes looked into mine. "Why?"
    I sighed. "I'm a vet. Somebody called me out there for a sick horse. Nobody was there. Practical joke, I guess."
    The old man shook his head again. "Gate locked?"
    "No."
    "Should have been."
    We looked at each other. I already knew I was not going to tell the good old boys at The Lost Weekend about the shooting. Finishing my drink, I thanked the bartender for his help. He looked disappointed when I turned to go; he'd sensed something was up.
    I got back in the truck and headed toward home, feeling confused and deeply tired. Someone had shot at me and I had no idea who or why. My story didn't make sense, even to me; what in the world would the cops think? In any case, exhaustion was rapidly growing to be the predominant feeling. Tomorrow, I decided, I'd deal with it tomorrow.

SEVEN
    I stood in the fiat dirt parking lot behind the office at 8:00 A.M. the next morning and watched a sorrel gelding trot away from me. The strong ropy muscles in his hindquarters propelled him evenly and powerfully. All four white-socked legs hit the ground in a steady one-two one-two beat. He was sound as far as I could see. This was a shame because he was supposed to be lame in the left hind.
    The owner, an older woman with a lined face, gave me a frustrated smile. "He's not showing it, is he? I swear he's been lame in that leg."
    I smiled back. At least this wasn't one of those deals where I couldn't see a lameness that the owner could. A lot of my reputation as a decent horse vet rested on my ability to diagnose lameness. Accurately. Mistakes weren't tolerated very well by the clients.
    I ran my hand down the gelding's left hind leg, and he jerked it up suddenly. Keeping my hand firmly on his fetlock, I talked to him soothingly: "Take it easy, you big baby; I'm not going to hurt you."
    Horses might look like large, powerful creatures, aggressive and threatening, but inside themselves most are something small and timid-a rabbit, maybe. This horse was being uncooperative because he was afraid of me, not because he wanted to hurt me.
    When the gelding relaxed a little, I pulled his leg up and held it tightly flexed for the two minutes required for the spavin test, then told the owner to trot him away from me. He went off with a noticeably short step. We repeated the test a couple of times and got the same result. Bringing out the X-ray machine, I took pictures of his left hock, developed them, and told the woman her horse had bone spavin.
    "Is it bad?" She looked at me anxiously.
    "It's not that bad. It's like having arthritis. Do you have any bute?"
    She shook her head. Handing her a bottle of the white tablets, I said, "Bute-phenylbutazone, really-is a painkiller we use with horses more or less the way people use