and references in that briefcase, Dr. Starr. That's all well and good. But I've been in this business a long time, and I'm here to tell you that all the résumés and references in the world won't stop a dirty doctor from shootin' up a horse if the price is right, or puttin' an animal down if a portion of insurance money is dangled like the proverbial carrot in front of his nose."
"I suppose that depends on whether the doctor is in this business for the money, or for the love of the animal, Mr. Hunnicutt."
"Doctors have bills to pay just like everybody else, especially when they're strugglin' to get started."
"If you believe I'm dirty, Mr. Hunnicutt, why did you ask me here?"
"I don't believe anything of the sort. I'm just offerin' you fair warnin'. I don't tolerate shenanigans on my track. We run a clean operation here. If I ever got wind that some asshole owner or trainer has got a vet of mine under his thumb I'd stop at nothing to see his or her license jerked, not just in this state, but in this entire friggin' country."
The phone rang. Hunnicutt grabbed it. A woman's voice buzzed in the silence as he nodded and grunted in response, his sharp gray eyes still focused on Leah. Then he hung up without so much as a goodbye, sat back in his chair and absently adjusted the tie cutting into his fleshy throat. "Tell me somethin', Doc. You married?"
"Divorced."
"How long?"
"Four years."
"Do you like men?"
Leah frowned, then nodded, not certain about his meaning.
"Do you cry easily?"
"That's a very sexist remark, Mr. Hunnicutt. Would you ask that if I were a man?"
He grinned. "Let me rephrase the question. Are you easily hurt or offended by rough language directed at you by an irate trainer or owner? 'Cause sure as you and I are sittin' here right now, there's gonna be some dick-head who is gonna get in your face because he doesn't like the way his million-dollar baby is recoupin' from the sniffles."
"I would expect any caring owner or trainer to question me if his horse isn't responding adequately to treatment."
"What will you do when some good old boy pinches you on the ass? Or calls you Doc Tits? Or worse. 'Cause I'm here to tell you right now, most men out there think a woman is good for two things. Exercisin' or jockeyin' a horse, or spreadin' her legs so he can jockey her. If you ain't got a hide like an armadillo you won't last a month."
"If I could make it through vet school, Mr. Hunnicutt, I can make it through just about anything."
"Right. You up to a little tête-à-tête with the folks who'll ultimately decide whether we hire you or not?"
Leah uncrossed her legs and sat forward. "I was under the impression that you—"
"This track is run by a board of trustees, of which I am a member. You have to pass muster with every one of them before we can put you on the payroll."
"They vote?"
"Yep." He chuckled. "Don't look so puny. They pretty much rely on my opinion. For most of them their place on the board is a pastime. They enjoy the horses but do other things to pay the bills. Let's face it, you can count on one hand the number of horse owners out there who can actually make a livin' at this—not since the eighties bust. Damned IRS 'bout buried us all. Sooner we bury them the better." Leaving his chair, he moved to the door behind Leah. "Now is as good a time as any to take the plunge, Doc. They're waitin'."
A few nights ago she had watched a special on Dateline about the last moments of a convict on death row. How, just hours before strapping the accused to a table and inserting a lethal dose of knockout into his arm, prison officials moved the doomed from one wing of the prison to another. The cameras had followed the prisoner down long, stark, sterile corridors, focusing luridly on each pitiful drag of the prisoner's foot, the trembling and shaking of his body as the realization set in that there would be no last-minute reprieve from the inevitable.
Leah could relate. As she walked in silence at
"I suppose that depends on whether the doctor is in this business for the money, or for the love of the animal, Mr. Hunnicutt."
"Doctors have bills to pay just like everybody else, especially when they're strugglin' to get started."
"If you believe I'm dirty, Mr. Hunnicutt, why did you ask me here?"
"I don't believe anything of the sort. I'm just offerin' you fair warnin'. I don't tolerate shenanigans on my track. We run a clean operation here. If I ever got wind that some asshole owner or trainer has got a vet of mine under his thumb I'd stop at nothing to see his or her license jerked, not just in this state, but in this entire friggin' country."
The phone rang. Hunnicutt grabbed it. A woman's voice buzzed in the silence as he nodded and grunted in response, his sharp gray eyes still focused on Leah. Then he hung up without so much as a goodbye, sat back in his chair and absently adjusted the tie cutting into his fleshy throat. "Tell me somethin', Doc. You married?"
"Divorced."
"How long?"
"Four years."
"Do you like men?"
Leah frowned, then nodded, not certain about his meaning.
"Do you cry easily?"
"That's a very sexist remark, Mr. Hunnicutt. Would you ask that if I were a man?"
He grinned. "Let me rephrase the question. Are you easily hurt or offended by rough language directed at you by an irate trainer or owner? 'Cause sure as you and I are sittin' here right now, there's gonna be some dick-head who is gonna get in your face because he doesn't like the way his million-dollar baby is recoupin' from the sniffles."
"I would expect any caring owner or trainer to question me if his horse isn't responding adequately to treatment."
"What will you do when some good old boy pinches you on the ass? Or calls you Doc Tits? Or worse. 'Cause I'm here to tell you right now, most men out there think a woman is good for two things. Exercisin' or jockeyin' a horse, or spreadin' her legs so he can jockey her. If you ain't got a hide like an armadillo you won't last a month."
"If I could make it through vet school, Mr. Hunnicutt, I can make it through just about anything."
"Right. You up to a little tête-à-tête with the folks who'll ultimately decide whether we hire you or not?"
Leah uncrossed her legs and sat forward. "I was under the impression that you—"
"This track is run by a board of trustees, of which I am a member. You have to pass muster with every one of them before we can put you on the payroll."
"They vote?"
"Yep." He chuckled. "Don't look so puny. They pretty much rely on my opinion. For most of them their place on the board is a pastime. They enjoy the horses but do other things to pay the bills. Let's face it, you can count on one hand the number of horse owners out there who can actually make a livin' at this—not since the eighties bust. Damned IRS 'bout buried us all. Sooner we bury them the better." Leaving his chair, he moved to the door behind Leah. "Now is as good a time as any to take the plunge, Doc. They're waitin'."
A few nights ago she had watched a special on Dateline about the last moments of a convict on death row. How, just hours before strapping the accused to a table and inserting a lethal dose of knockout into his arm, prison officials moved the doomed from one wing of the prison to another. The cameras had followed the prisoner down long, stark, sterile corridors, focusing luridly on each pitiful drag of the prisoner's foot, the trembling and shaking of his body as the realization set in that there would be no last-minute reprieve from the inevitable.
Leah could relate. As she walked in silence at
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