interior (I was hoping to sell it and buy a place with room for horses) and the brand-new sand-colored carpet set off my few pieces of antique furniture nicely. I'd painted the walls and ceiling a soft cream, and stained the old-fashioned window and door frames red brown. Some new bathroom fixtures, and another stain job on the handmade cabinets in the tiny kitchen, and things were looking pretty good.
Pouring myself a glass of chardonnay, I sat down on my preferred end of the couch, Blue at my feet, Bonner in my lap, and stared out my west-facing window. There wasn't much of a view, just a line of trees on a nearby ridge, but I could see that the short winter day was already settling into its early evening. The narrow strip of visible sky was an unsettled dark gray, with a chalky white band just above the horizon. Black, lacy tree branches moved restlessly in the cold light; the radio had predicted a chance of rain for tomorrow. That would make the endurance ride I was scheduled to work a miserable son-of-a-bitch. Nothing I could do about it, though. The ride would go on, rain or no rain.
Considering that Bonny Doon State Park, where the ride was being held, was very steep and the trails could be slippery, rain was going to make it miserable for the competitors, too. Another thought followed. Bonny Doon Park bordered the Hollister Ranch, Jack's family home. Also the place where Bronc Pickett and Travis Gunhart lived.
I stroked the cat and sipped my wine and found my mind right back on the same old track. Bronc had been friends with Jack for more years than I'd been alive. Trav had been with him for as long as I could remember. These were the people who knew who Jack Hollister really was.
I took another swallow of wine. Jesus, Gail, you are a cold-hearted bitch. Did you ever think you ought to be offering them your sympathy, rather than picking their brains?
Dumping the cat off my lap, I went into the kitchen to find dinner. Chili and rice, it looked like, my old standby. At seven-thirty I walked Blue, got my coffee pot ready for the morning, and turned in with my alarm set for three A.M. Tomorrow would be coming awfully soon.
EIGHT
It was two hours before dawn and the sky was flat black, no moon or stars visible through a thick layer of cloud. The wind whipped sharply across the blank open ground of the field where the endurance ride was scheduled to meet. In my headlights I could see campers, trailers, and tents scattered across the grass; horses were tied to trailers or corralled in little portable pens nearby. Lights glimmered here and there and moving human shapes indicated activity. I parked my truck on an empty strip of grass by a lamp standard and got out.
I almost got right back in. Despite my long underwear and three layers of turtleneck, sweater, and jacket, the icy wind seemed to cut right through me, causing me to shiver instantly. Damn. I'd forgotten my wool beanie, left behind in the bag of unpacked ski gear on my bedroom floor. Small, cold knives of wind were already making my ears ache.
Two women, who had obviously seen my truck with its white plastic multi-compartmented bed and drawn the logical conclusion, were leading their horses up. One asked if I was ready to do pre-race exams. I nodded my head yes and she handed me her card. Race day had begun.
The pre-ride check, which I was beginning, was an attempt to ascertain that all horses scheduled to compete were sound and healthy. Each contestant gave me his or her card, and in the pre-race column I marked the categories with a grade of A to D. Categories included soundness, dehydration, mucous membranes, and capillary refill. All of these were indicators of a horse's health and general well-being.
I'd checked about a dozen horses and my hands and feet had gone numb-my ears felt as if someone were drilling into them with a very sharp drill-when I heard a "Hi Gail, you look cold."
Smiling, I turned to greet Kris Griffith, the one person here
Pouring myself a glass of chardonnay, I sat down on my preferred end of the couch, Blue at my feet, Bonner in my lap, and stared out my west-facing window. There wasn't much of a view, just a line of trees on a nearby ridge, but I could see that the short winter day was already settling into its early evening. The narrow strip of visible sky was an unsettled dark gray, with a chalky white band just above the horizon. Black, lacy tree branches moved restlessly in the cold light; the radio had predicted a chance of rain for tomorrow. That would make the endurance ride I was scheduled to work a miserable son-of-a-bitch. Nothing I could do about it, though. The ride would go on, rain or no rain.
Considering that Bonny Doon State Park, where the ride was being held, was very steep and the trails could be slippery, rain was going to make it miserable for the competitors, too. Another thought followed. Bonny Doon Park bordered the Hollister Ranch, Jack's family home. Also the place where Bronc Pickett and Travis Gunhart lived.
I stroked the cat and sipped my wine and found my mind right back on the same old track. Bronc had been friends with Jack for more years than I'd been alive. Trav had been with him for as long as I could remember. These were the people who knew who Jack Hollister really was.
I took another swallow of wine. Jesus, Gail, you are a cold-hearted bitch. Did you ever think you ought to be offering them your sympathy, rather than picking their brains?
Dumping the cat off my lap, I went into the kitchen to find dinner. Chili and rice, it looked like, my old standby. At seven-thirty I walked Blue, got my coffee pot ready for the morning, and turned in with my alarm set for three A.M. Tomorrow would be coming awfully soon.
EIGHT
It was two hours before dawn and the sky was flat black, no moon or stars visible through a thick layer of cloud. The wind whipped sharply across the blank open ground of the field where the endurance ride was scheduled to meet. In my headlights I could see campers, trailers, and tents scattered across the grass; horses were tied to trailers or corralled in little portable pens nearby. Lights glimmered here and there and moving human shapes indicated activity. I parked my truck on an empty strip of grass by a lamp standard and got out.
I almost got right back in. Despite my long underwear and three layers of turtleneck, sweater, and jacket, the icy wind seemed to cut right through me, causing me to shiver instantly. Damn. I'd forgotten my wool beanie, left behind in the bag of unpacked ski gear on my bedroom floor. Small, cold knives of wind were already making my ears ache.
Two women, who had obviously seen my truck with its white plastic multi-compartmented bed and drawn the logical conclusion, were leading their horses up. One asked if I was ready to do pre-race exams. I nodded my head yes and she handed me her card. Race day had begun.
The pre-ride check, which I was beginning, was an attempt to ascertain that all horses scheduled to compete were sound and healthy. Each contestant gave me his or her card, and in the pre-race column I marked the categories with a grade of A to D. Categories included soundness, dehydration, mucous membranes, and capillary refill. All of these were indicators of a horse's health and general well-being.
I'd checked about a dozen horses and my hands and feet had gone numb-my ears felt as if someone were drilling into them with a very sharp drill-when I heard a "Hi Gail, you look cold."
Smiling, I turned to greet Kris Griffith, the one person here
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