Reining in Murder by Leigh Hearon Page B

friends went on an overnight trail ride where Trotter’s packing ability was required, Wolf was asked to perform this critical task. In fact, he did it a lot better than most humans. Donkeys do not like to be herded using traditional methods. A dog yipping at your heels, urging you to go forward to the hay, proved a lot more effective.
    Trotter skittered into the trailer with one sharp bark from Wolf and immediately began to eat the hay in the feeder strung up at the front. Annie quickly locked the slant gate to keep him there. Now the only hurdle was getting the sixteen-hand bay in with his new friend. She led the horse to the trailer door and gently tapped his rear end to step forward. The bay put one tentative hoof out, pawed the air for a minute, then stepped back. Annie waited a few seconds and tapped again. Now the bay extended his left front leg, snagged the end of the trailer floor with his hoof, and wavered. Annie could almost hear the horse’s conflicting thoughts. Should I go in with my friend? Or stay out where it’s safe?
    Trotter’s bray brought his indecision to a rapid conclusion. With one bound, the bay leapt into the trailer. Annie closed the slant gate one nanosecond later, then leaned on the door, marveling at her good luck.
    Inside, the bay began a small tap dance, but Annie wasn’t alarmed. The slant gate would keep him safe, and she quickly tied his lead rope to the inside tie to keep his head controlled. Now the bay had just enough room to duck his head into the hay feeder, but not enough to rear or lie down. As for Trotter, he knew trailering like the back of his hoof. Nothing the bay did would upset him.
    Easing out the clutch, Annie started the climb out of her farm driveway and down to the valley where the bay’s new home was located.
    Shelby was about twenty miles away, and in a different country as far as Annie was concerned. Here, the dense Northwest forest gave way to miles of sparsely populated pine and deciduous trees. A few remaining dairy farms still eked out an existence, a sorry reminder of the thriving farms that once literally brought milk and butter to people’s homes. Most of the land had been taken over by developers in the past twenty years, so that the landscape immediately preceding Annie’s turnoff was wall-to-wall town homes, with convenient off-ramps to strip malls filled with commercial activity.
    The ride had gone well. The bay had settled down after the first mile or so, and Annie kept a substantial distance between her rig and the drivers ahead to avoid any fast stops. She wished she could take a quick trip to the Thompson ranch, where her flock of ewes and solitary ram were now wintering, as it was right on the way. But the thought of stopping even for a few minutes and risk upsetting the rhythm of the so-far-peaceful journey quickly quashed that fleeting idea. She contented herself with a few quick glances over to the fields in which she knew the ewes were pasturing and made a mental note to check on their well-being when she had more time. Lambing season was just around the corner.
    Turning west onto Myrtle Road, Annie drove down a quiet lane of modest homes, most of which had small horse farms literally in their backyards. This was where the brash new development had stopped—until Hilda Colbert’s complex came into view.
    A large electronic gate adorned with metal images of jumpers stopped all comers a quarter mile away. Annie got out and took a quick look at the bay and Trotter. The donkey still had his nose in the hay; the bay had barely touched his, and the look in his eyes could only be called apprehensive. Time for this journey to end, Annie decided. She got back into the rig and drove up to the gate, then pushed the intercom button to let the farm know a vehicle wanted to enter the property. No answer. This really was becoming a nuisance, Annie thought, as she saw a muck tractor coming out of a huge, twenty-horse stable on