Free Breakaway (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) by Laura Crum

was part of the job. Now I was home, sitting on the porch, feeling like shit. Even the weather seemed in league against me.
    The morning brightness had faded, and clouds came and went across the sky, alternately hiding and revealing the sun. Light and shadow played somberly over the ground. A restless little wind moved the air around, and I could feel the weight of my own mortality hanging heavy on me.
    I stared out over my hollow in the hills, not cheered at all by its magic. I'd created a space of beauty and tranquility here, all right, but for what? For the fleeting pleasure it gave me? Right now that seemed too transitory to be of any importance. I simply didn't know what I was doing it all for.
    What is wrong, I asked myself, not for the first time. What is it that's missing in my life? Some sort of true-love, happily-ever-after scenario? I'd never expected or needed that before. Or was it some kind of spiritual grounding that was lacking? Again, this had never bothered me in the past. My job, my animals, my various interests had been enough. So what was so different now? I didn't know. I only knew I felt shitty.
    The impulse to go inside and lie down on the couch, turn my face to the wall, was strong, but I fought it. I'd been a fighter all my life, struggling to put myself through college and vet school after my parents died, battling stress and monetary worries in my first few years working for Jim. Now, automatically, I fought the insidious lethargy of depression, pushing myself to keep going, keep doing, despite the lack of inward motivation. You are not going to give in to this; the words chanted in my brain.
     
    I walked slowly down the slope toward the horse corrals. Plumber watched me coming and nickered. I could see the two banty chickens scratching in the straw outside the hay barn. Jack, the little rooster, was a silver lace, very elegant with his white feathers all edged in black. Red, his mate, a more pedestrian commoner, was just a little red hen.
    Despite my mood, I smiled at the sight of them. Chickens are cheerful creatures, pecking and clucking around. Without thinking, I checked the big water trough where I kept water lilies and goldfish; sure enough, several tiny goldfish fry wiggled into the weeds as I peered; they'd been born in the last few days.
    Plumber nickered again and came trotting up the hill toward me; Gunner ambled behind him. Life teemed and thrust everywhere around me. Once again, I turned to the natural world, in its constant effervescent liveliness, to comfort me.
    I saddled Plumber, smoothing the nice wool Navajo blanket in shades of steel blue, black, and cream over his back. I'd bought the saddle blanket years ago to go with Gunner's bright bay coat, high white socks, and one blue eye; now Plumber had inherited it. It looked just fine against his smooth light brown hair, the color of coffee with cream in it.
    Once Plumber was saddled, I shut Roey in the dog pen, gave Gunner a pat, and climbed aboard. I could hear Gunner's neighs behind us as I rode down the driveway; no horse likes being left alone. However, I knew from past experience that Gunner, a sensible animal, would settle down once we were out of sight.
    The grass along the verge of the drive needed mowing, I noted. Just when was I going to get to that? One of the things I hadn't thought about in my desire to acquire a country property was the amount of steady work it would entail. I always seemed to be behind.
    I rode out my front gate, Plumber walking calmly along the edge of the somewhat busy country crossroad I lived on. He was used to traffic, and unconcerned with the noisy automobiles that hurried past him. Still, I kept a cautious eye out for bigger trucks with flapping tarps, or other potentially horse-eating vehicular monsters.
    In a little while we reached the crossing I was aiming for; I waited patiently by the side of the road, looking for a large hole in the traffic. Plumber stood quietly; one of the things I