Kit Ehrman: At Risk

She was pushing it a bit, but it seemed that my timing and appearance couldn't have been better. Mr. Sanders, Steel's owner, or should I say ex-owner, snatched a paper off Mrs. Hill's desk and almost bumped into me when I didn't move fast enough. He slammed the door on his way out.

What an arrogant s.o.b. I wouldn't miss him if he didn't replace his horse, but I could sympathize with him. I was sad and angry, too, every time I thought about the horses.

"Stephen, my poor boy." Mrs. Hill clambered to her feet. "You look absolutely horrid. How do you feel, dear? You should have stayed home longer."

I turned toward her as she hurried around the corner of her desk. "I'm fine, Mrs. Hill."

"Good, dear." She patted my arm.

The level of her distress took me by surprise, and that, in and of itself, was a sad commentary on my life. I tried to keep from fidgeting under her gaze.

Mrs. Hill patted my arm one last time and returned to her desk. She straightened the hem of her blouse before she lowered herself into the chair-a kind of symbolic redefining of boundaries. She would have been thrilled if I'd been more willing to accept her as a motherly substitute. God surely intended her to be one, unlike my own mother who was more adept at managing fund-raisers and organizing charities for strangers than caring for her family.

"What did Mr. Sanders want?" I said.

"Oh." She flapped her hand. "He needed insurance papers signed."

We discussed the daily operations of the farm, and when she finished bringing me up to speed, I said, "Any word on the horses?"

"No. We've sent their descriptions to all the rendering plants and auction houses we could think of, but we haven't heard anything."

"How are the owners holding up?"

"As well as expected, I suppose. Jill Gardner's taking it especially hard." Mrs. Hill stretched across her desk and plunged her thick fingers into a Foxdale mug filled with candy. "She was in here yesterday, saying she'd never buy another horse. You know how some people are when they lose a favorite pet and think they'll never get a replacement. Well, I told her she would eventually, and she thought I was saying that just so I could talk her into bringing it here when she did. Anyway, she started screeching like she does when she's upset."

Mrs. Gardner I wouldn't miss, either.

As barn manager, I'd been on the receiving end of her screeching more times than I cared to remember, but Muffy was a nice old mare. Never gave us a bit of trouble, even when she'd developed a rare blood infection and had needed antibiotic injections twice a day for a month.

Mrs. Hill absentmindedly unwrapped the plastic from a butterscotch candy and popped it into her mouth. "She said we'd never see her business again and that she was going to sue us for not keeping her precious Muffy safe." She held up the mug. "Want some?"

Trying to keep a straight face at her rendition of the story, I mumbled "No thanks" and said, "Do you think she has a case?"

She rolled the candy from one side of her mouth to the other and frowned. "Don't know. It's not my concern. Not unless I get dragged into some silly court proceeding."

Mrs. Hill might have been the farm's manager, but she didn't have final say when it came to finances. The purse strings were controlled by the farm's owner-a Baltimore-based millionaire who, as far as I knew, had never set foot on the place. And that was half the problem. Foxdale had been on a downhill slide ever since the last nail had been driven home. Only in the past year had things turned around.

"Is there anything else?" I said.

"No, dear, carry on." She slid a stack of mail across her coffee-stained blotter and flicked on the computer.

When I found the crew, they'd already begun mucking out barn A. Cliff was perched on the John Deere 960, twisted around in the seat as he inched the tractor down the aisle. A skinny sixteen-year-old, Cliff was hopelessly undereducated, hardworking, and so enthusiastic I sometimes wondered if he was on something. He wore his blond hair spiked-effortlessly achieving the just-stuck-my-finger-in-an-outlet-look-and he liked his jeans baggy. I figured it was only a matter of time before one of us found him hanging from the tractor with his pant leg snagged on the gear shift, not to mention the fact that the color and style of his underwear had become a running joke with the crew. Checking had become reflexive. Today's choice: purple jockeys with a black waistband.

He'd just about gotten the manure wagon lined up with the next group of stalls when he caught sight of me. "Hiya, Steve."

"Where's Brian?" I said.

"Takin' a leak."

I nodded and turned, ready to retrace my steps back toward the lounge, when Cliff said, "Wrong way. He's out back."

I clamped down on my response and started around the tractor when Cliff looked beyond me and did a double take. I turned to see what he was looking at. Not what, but whom. Mrs. Elsa Timbrook had cut through the wash rack, which was surprising, considering the elegant knee-high suede boots and fur jacket she was wearing.

She walked up to me and stood so close, I figured she'd never heard about personal space. The musky scent of her perfume overpowered the pervading odors of diesel fumes, sawdust, and horse.

"Steve, I need Lite brought in for a training session with Anne."

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "Cliff, go get him for Mrs. Timbrook."

Cliff's grin widened. "Sure thing." He switched off the engine, swung his leg over the steering wheel, and jumped to the ground with a degree of agility I wouldn't have thought possible with those jeans.

Mrs. Timbrook frowned as Cliff skirted past us.

"Excuse me," I said. I squeezed between the wagon and a jumble of pitch forks and rakes that leaned against a stall front. As I approached the doorway, Brian sauntered into the aisle. He stopped abruptly when he saw me.

"Go back outside," I said. I pulled the doors closed and turned to face him. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Takin' a piss, man. Whataya think?"

"What I think is that we have restroom facilities for a reason. One of the boarders walks out here and sees you, I don't think she'd be too impressed with Foxdale's professionalism."

"Depends on which one," he said with a smirk that pissed me off.

"And another thing-"

"Oh, let me guess," Brian said. "Marty ratted me out."

"You get caught smoking on the premises again, and that's it. You can find a job somewhere else."

"Is that all?" His voice was sullen.

"Yeah."

I put my hands in my pockets and waited for him to head back, and in a moment, he did.

By Friday afternoon, a week after the theft, three boarders had taken their horses somewhere safer. We were down ten horses, but I wasn't concerned. Owners who kept their horses at pasture for the winter would be looking for a facility like Foxdale as the show season drew nearer.

I walked into the implement building and yanked my keys out of my pocket. Dave, who had been hunched forward over his workbench, rhythmically rubbing a sheet of sandpaper along the length of a two-by-four, looked up when he heard me.

"How's it going?" I said.

"I'm 'bout finished with the fan jump combination. Doin' the standards right now. Wanna see?"

"Sure." I squeezed between the bush hog and an old manure spreader we no longer used and stood beside him. "They look great. I see you've finished the Liverpool."

He nodded.

I gestured to the piece of wood he was working on. "Why don't you use the sander for that?"

"Already did. I like to finish up by hand."

I ran my fingertips along the smooth wood. The show jumps he created were as much works of art as they were obstacles for the horses to negotiate. I was, as usual, impressed.

"Supplies'll be arriving next week for that cross-country jump you want built in the southeast field," Dave said. "When you want to work on that?"