Free Wild Honey by Terri Farley Page B

hooked the cap over the back of her head, then tugged it down to shade her eyes, Sam looked up at the trees. She searched for sunbeams of unusual brightness. She didn’t see any. Maybe overwork had made Mrs. Allen light-headed.
    â€œYou wouldn’t have to work so hard if we couldget some kids to volunteer help with the horses,” Sam said. “They’d love it, you’d—”
    â€œNeed liability insurance,” Mrs. Allen muttered.
    â€œThat doesn’t matter,” Sam said, though she didn’t know what liability insurance was.
    â€œIt does if someone got hurt and her parents sued me. I’d lose everything.”
    Sam couldn’t believe anyone would sue Mrs. Allen. She was spending her nights, days, and money taking care of wild horses. If you were going to sue someone, wouldn’t you go after someone who deserved it?
    â€œWell, no one can do all this work alone,” Sam said.
    â€œProbably won’t matter, once Glen gets done with me.” Mrs. Allen hurried the end of her sentence as the vet reached them.
    Looking hot and frustrated, Dr. Scott wiped his wrist over his forehead.
    â€œI’ve done nothing to deserve the looks you two are giving me,” the young vet said. “You’re shrinking away from me like I’m—I don’t know what. A hooded executioner holding an axe?”
    â€œNo…” Sam drew the word out as if he were being silly.
    â€œOf course not,” Mrs. Allen added.
    â€œHere’s what my inspection report will say,” Dr. Scott began. “Your horses have enough food and water. I saw no sunken backs, protruding hip bones,or ribs indicating they’re starving or malnourished, and no potbellies indicating worms.”
    Sam smiled, but she was so afraid the vet would start toward the barn, her lips kind of jerked.
    Dr. Scott took a breath and held up his hand to stall off interruptions. “Most of their coats look okay, not dull with hunks of hair coming out, indicating mineral deficiencies.”
    Mrs. Allen gave a quick nod as if she’d never had a single doubt.
    â€œHowever,” the vet raised his voice and eyebrows, “they’re wandering around a soft pasture, not galloping over lava beds, so their feet could use some work. I’m guessing half of ’em need their teeth floated, too, but this was just a quick visual inspection. I haven’t done a hands-on exam for any of them since just before you adopted them from Willow Springs.”
    â€œBut the bottom line,” Mrs. Allen said, “is that you’re not going to recommend the Humane Society close me down.”
    â€œNo, but I will suggest that any time you take in a horse, you get a photo of it on day one, and a letter from the vet on scene testifying to the condition of the animal,” Dr. Scott said. “If I hadn’t seen those horses before you adopted them, I might have some questions.”
    â€œI get it,” Sam said. “If Mrs. Allen takes in a horse in bad condition—”
    â€œSomeone could say she’s to blame. In fact, I bet that’s how the complaint came about. Someone who’s used to seeing blanketed, stabled horses thought this bunch had been neglected.
    â€œAnd one more recommendation,” Dr. Scott continued. “It would make my job, and the farrier’s, a lot easier if you’d try to handle those horses once in a while. Brush ’em and pick up their feet or do something to convince them it’s okay to be touched.”
    Mrs. Allen nodded adamantly, but Sam heard the defeated tsk of her tongue. When Dr. Scott put it that way, it made perfect sense, but where would the extra time come from? And was Mrs. Allen really in shape to hand-gentle wild horses?
    â€œMaybe, after tomorrow’s hoopla…” Mrs. Allen’s voice trailed off.
    â€œThe police horse desensitization?” Dr. Scott asked.
    Sam flinched. How could he know?
    â€œWhy,