Рита Браун - Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

CHAPTER 25

Midshipman stood in the cross ties in the center aisle of Sister’s barn. Tootie was pulling his mane, a standard grooming procedure endured by horses though not especially liked by them. Two ropes with clips, each affixed to the side of the aisle, helped the horse stand still as the clip fit on his halter. They were literally cross ties.

Rickyroo was watching from his stall. “You got a lot of mane, boy,” the old horse said.

“Oh, just give him a buzz cut,” Keepsake teased from the neighboring stall. “He’ll look like a marine.”

The youngster remained quiet. He knew the older horses were giving him the business, one of many tests they would throw at him. The other horses demanded more patience from him than the humans.

Nearby in his stall, Matchplay whinnied. “No one’s touching my mane.”

Lafayette snorted, “Let me tell you something, son. You landed in a great place. These people know horses and they take care of us. You shut up and learn to take care of them.”

Matchplay’s nostrils flared. Having been nipped once over the fence line by Matador, he thought better of sassing back to an older horse.

Sister came up to Tootie, opened a Ziploc bag. Tootie dropped a bit of pulled mane into it with the root bulbs attached.

“That should do it.” The Master returned to the tack room where Betty and she cleaned tack. Under hanging tack hooks that looked like grappling hooks, two buckets of warm water, clean sponges, saddle soap, and even toothbrushes had been laid out on towels.

Working on a bridle with a simple eggbutt snaffle, Betty said, “What’s better than a heated tack room with a little kitchen?”

Sister smiled. “A bigger tack room with a bigger kitchen?”

“More to clean,” Betty replied.

“I haven’t done too good a job here.” She looked down at the tartan rug. “All those years I polished the floor. Finally put this rug down and it is easier to vacuum than wash and polish but boy, it shows every single mud bit.”

“Hard, hard winter. Ice. Mud. Snow. Sleet. And sometimes all in the same day. Have you noticed that on some of our fixtures, the footing is better?”

“Yes, I have. Time to break out the soil maps and review them all.” Sister dipped a washrag into the warm water, then wrung it dry. “I wonder if I should put the mane hairs in the fridge?”

“No, why?”

“Things keep better if they’re cool.”

“Doesn’t matter. Are you taking the mane to Greg or is he coming here?”

“He’ll be by later. I miss seeing him. He travels so much now since he sold the practice.”

Greg Schmidt, DVM, had sold his veterinary clinic with the idea to retire. In a sense he did retire, but his reputation meant people would call and beg him to speak at a conference, or to please just look at this one horse, et cetera and so forth. Despite not wanting to bother him, Sister had always relied on his superior judgment, discretion, and marvelous common sense. He was the only person she trusted to run a DNA test on Midshipman. It wasn’t that most working vets were gabby, but something might slip out. She would take no chances. Greg was a deep well.

“Every now and then I dream about traveling like him,” said Sister. “Cutting back on the responsibilities. I’d like to see South Africa and Namibia, Botswana. I’ve visited almost every former British colony but not those places nor India. Wherever the British were, there are good horses.”

“Is this your revenge on the Empire speech?” Betty lifted one eyebrow like an arch actress.

Sister shook her head. “No. But I believe all of us once under the British flag have a great deal in common.”

“Even India?” Betty was quick.

“Don’t know. I haven’t been there, but India is the world’s largest democracy. And they inherited that incredible British civil service.”

“You read too much,” Betty teased her.

“Not enough. And who’s talking? Of course, you stuff yourself with those hideous romances.” Sister then spoke in a breathy voice. “She noticed his rippling chest, his piercing green eyes, the black two-day-old stubble. Her heart beat faster.”

“Sounds good to me. Maybe you should try writing one of those. Boost your income.”

They laughed just as Dr. Greg Schmidt, early, walked into the tack room.

“A two-day-old stubble,” Betty repeated, bent over laughing. “Love that!”

Greg, always a good sport, ran his hand over his cheek. “I’m getting lazy.”

“Don’t pay any more attention to her than if she was a goat barking,” said Sister. “Greg, our Betty Franklin, a seemingly intelligent, levelheaded woman, has become intoxicated by romances and all the male heroes sport stubble.”

The retired vet beamed. “So I’m in good company.”

“Always.” Sister handed him the Ziploc. “What a good boy that horse is. Didn’t fuss when Tootie pulled his mane. She’s now giving Midshipman the Roughneck Farm day of beauty.”

Greg peeped out the window in the door that opened into the center aisle. “You know, he reminds me of Curlin, who stands at Lane’s End Farm. One of the most beautiful Thoroughbreds I’ve ever seen.”

“Lane’s End.” Betty said the establishment’s name in such a way that confirmed its exalted status.

“Some of those farms in Kentucky are incredible,” said Sister. “The knowledge is generations deep. Think of the Hancocks,” she added, mentioning a prominent family.

Greg—Ziploc between his forefinger and thumb—leaned against the saddle rack. “Well, you know better than I that once upon a time Virginia and Maryland boasted horsemen of many generations.”

“What is it they call people who leave to film outside of L.A.?” Betty paused. “Runaway production. That’s it. Well, we’ve sure seen it here in the racing world.”

“The Chenerys left. Ned Evans died. The late Clay Camp finally left Virginia for Kentucky. What a brain drain.” Greg stated a bare truth. “People who come here now aren’t racing people. It’s three-day eventers, show people, foxhunters, of course, and great as all that is—clean money, no pollution, all that good stuff—still, it’s not the same as racing. Racing brings millions into a state. Right now the equine industry brings one-point-three billion dollars into Virginia. Just imagine what that figure would be if the old days returned?”

“Greg, I think of it a lot.” Sister wiped down the bridle with a clean dry cloth. “When people ask me how do I feel about getting old, I say, ‘Wonderful, because I lived through some of the best years this country and the horse world ever had. I’m lucky.’ ”

“I caught some of that when I moved here from California.” The tall, silver-haired man looked at the bridle Sister was cleaning. “Who are you hunting in an eggbutt snaffle?”

“Aztec,” Sister replied. “He has such a sensitive mouth, I don’t need much.”

“I’ve always liked that bit. When you started hunting, Sister, I bet people rode in double bridles.”

“Plenty did. The bit sewn into the bridle. I still use bridles, English, with the bit sewn in.”

“Greg, you know what a stickler she is,” said Betty. “I change my bits. Sister sniffs when she sees me do it and tells me I can afford the true hunting bridle.”

“I do not.” Sister defended herself.

“Ha. I once saw you tell a man he had his garters on backward.”

“Well, Betty, he did. I considered the correction an act of kindness.”

“Eagle eye.” Greg smiled at Sister. “Well, ladies, I’d better head home. Called the lab. Not much going on. You’ll have your DNA results quickly. Week at the most.”

With his hand on the doorknob, Sister asked, “Greg, did you ever talk to Penny about pedigree research? Equine genome?”