Rebound (Boomerang #2)(22)

The sky is a brilliant blue with feathery clouds hanging near the horizon. The white sun bleaches the ground and angles off the shack’s roof to create a blinding corona. I reach for my sunglasses, trying to tamp down the prickles of anxiety and excitement building in me. I never know what we’re going to find, how damaged a horse will be, whether it will be filled with promise or too far gone to save.

“What do we know?” my father asks. For a second, I think he’s asking about Adam, but I’ve already done my debriefing.

“Not much,” I reply. “Missy from Horse Rescue just said the owner’s had an ad on Craigslist for a couple of weeks. Selling two horses, a thousand dollars each.”

My father frowns. “Too cheap.”

I nod. “Her guess is that the owner is old and that it might be a problem of neglect rather than abuse.”

“Let’s hope so,” Joaquin says. He lifts his baseball cap to wipe perspiration from his brow. “I don’t know if we can house another angry horse. Not with Persephone still needing so much work.”

“That one’s unreachable,” my father grumbles.

“I just don’t believe that,” I say. It’s true the little palomino quarter horse is a hard case—but she’s young, little more than a yearling. Already, she has the bearing of a champion and thoughtful amber eyes that follow my movements around the paddock. I’ll reach her. “She just needs time.”

“Her time’s costing me money,” my father says. “If we can’t get her to do what we want, she’ll have to go.”

“Wow, Dad, I’m glad you don’t have that philosophy about your daughters,” I tease, but he’s already straightening up and plastering on the wide, disarming smile he uses on people he doesn’t know.

I follow his gaze to a heavyset older man who leans against a rusted cistern a few yards away. He’s got a gleaming sunburn-pink scalp under thinning silver hair and wears coveralls and heavy work boots. “You Quick?”

“Depends on who’s chasing me.” My father’s standard line.

We introduce ourselves to the man—Mr. Hance, who gives me a dispassionate once-over and says, “Suede’s not much of a riding horse. No energy these days.”

“How old is he?” I ask.

“Five.”

That surprises me. A five-year-old horse is young, still. Energy shouldn’t be an issue, which makes me think Missy was right about neglect.

“Why don’t you show us,” I suggest.

He leads us into the outbuilding, which has a bowed aluminum roof and no floor but rocks and scrub. Inside, a couple of flimsy partitions separate the place into makeshift stalls. There’s barely any hay in here. No tack. And it’s dark and full of cobwebs.

But it’s the odor that gets to me most of all. The smell of animal waste and ozone, which means fear, mixed with the sickly sweet odor of infection. I’m scared of what we’ll find.

“That’s Suede,” Hance says, pointing into the shadows.

My father puts a hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you let Joaquin in first?”

“I’m fine, Dad,” I say, though of course I’m not. This part, the anxiety before the seeing, always gets to me. Still, I need my father to stop protecting me. He has to know I can handle the difficult parts. That I’m up to the challenge.

I draw a breath and move toward the stall. Joaquin, my father, and Mr. Hance follow.

Inside, a horse stands in the corner—a beautiful Appaloosa with an ebony base and a gorgeous white and black spotted patch over his rear back and flanks. Right away, I see that his ribs show, and his tail is tucked in tight to his body. He’s in some pain.

I assess for a moment, trying to get a sense of the horse’s level of agitation. But I want to throw myself at him and put my arms around his neck, brush his matted black mane from his face, take away whatever’s hurting him.

“Suede won’t cause any trouble,” Hance says. “You can go on and have a look.”

“Looks sick to me,” my father says. I hear dismissal in his voice, and it digs at something inside me. I prepare myself for a battle, knowing I’ll have to give him logic, not emotions, to make my case. “Why are you selling it?”

Him, I think.

“Just can’t keep up with it anymore,” Hance says. “Too much to feed. Can’t run him the way he needs to be run. And to be honest, he’s sickly.”

I approach the horse carefully, making sure my steps are quiet, relaxing my posture and trying to slow my heart rate. Suede’s shoulders bow, and his flesh jumps, but I don’t see any flies or anything else pestering him.

“Look at the hooves,” Joaquin says.

Gently, I lift the horse’s front leg. He’s shoed, but his hooves have grown over and are deeply cracked and pitted with hay and pebbles. I see what looks like the start of an abscess. That same sickly odor rises from the inflamed spot.

“Poor thing,” I say.

Joaquin nods, and we spend some time examining Suede for other defects. He’s got another, deeper abscess on his back right hoof, and heat rises from his flesh, making me worry that he’s feverish. He’s all skin and bones; but his ears are pert, his eyes gentle, and he nuzzles my flat palm, breathing out a puff of dry warmth. He needs to be rescued. By me.