No, that horse had bolted – and Claire had no intention of chasing it. Once upon a time, years ago, there might have been a part of her that hoped they’d get it together again one day. That she would get herself together enough to stop messing things up. But life was a tricky thing, and having Scotty Shannon in hers as a friend was better than not having him at all.
She wasn’t about to tell Jackie any of that, though. The less her work friends knew about her past mistakes, the better. ‘For a start, we live eight hundred kilometres apart,’ she said. ‘Scotty has his own practice in Bindallarah now. I’m established here. It wouldn’t be feasible.’
‘Feasible! Claire, this isn’t a business plan for a new frozen-yoghurt shop. This is your life,’ Jackie said, exasperated. ‘It’s obvious from the way you talk about this guy – and you talk about him a lot – that there’s unfinished business between you. You’ve got three weeks off, so go finish it.’
Once more, Claire felt her skin redden in spite of the frigid temperature in her office. Jackie was always convinced she had all the answers; it was why many of their colleagues found her difficult to work with. Claire usually appreciated – or at least tolerated – Jackie’s bull-headedness. She preferred to examine a problem from every angle and assess all her options before committing to a course of action, so she found Jackie’s confident, rapid-fire decision-making process refreshing. Most of the time.
At other times, it was presumptuous, arrogant and infuriating. Like right now.
‘You’re right, Jac,’ Claire said. She finished her sandwich and tossed the wrapper in the bin under her desk. She stood up and gripped Jackie’s shoulders. ‘It is my life. And I’ll be the one who decides what to do with it.’
Jackie opened her mouth to protest, to have the last word as always. But her rebuttal was drowned out by the sound of the clinic’s PA system crackling to life.
‘All available vets to critical care, please. Emergency on approach.’
Jackie’s eyes widened; Claire was sure they mirrored her own. In neighbouring offices, she could hear muttering and grumbling from her fellow day-shift vets. A critical case late on a Friday was the last thing they wanted, especially when many of them were about to depart on their Christmas holidays.
Claire didn’t mind so much. She loved the challenge of emergency medicine, but more than that she loved that science was finite. In most cases, there were only a handful of possibilities – a small number of potential causes and corresponding treatments. The answer that seemed correct usually was. She could consider all the likely outcomes in a matter of minutes and know with some degree of certainty that she was making the best decision. Sometimes she was wrong – the laminitis case from last winter still bothered her – but most of the time she got it right.
If only she could say the same about the rest of her life.
Anyway, what did it matter if she worked late? As Jackie had kindly pointed out, all that awaited her at home was the stench of sun-baked rubbish. She hadn’t even bothered to put up her Christmas tree this year.
Claire spun on her heel and raced down the hall to the critical-care unit, with Jackie close behind. She arrived to find a top-of-the-range float being reversed into the yard by a sleek black four-wheel drive. From inside the float came the unmistakable snorts and squeals of a horse in deep distress.
Claire barely registered the way the concrete of the yard magnified the heat, which was still fierce even as the shadows lengthened and the sun began its gradual drift towards the horizon. The float rolled to a stop and she stepped forward and unlatched the ramp. She lowered it to the ground and peered into the dim interior.
The horse was a chestnut Arabian mare, heavily pregnant. She was slick with sweat; it flowed from her like rain off a rooftop. She gasped and panted, every breath a mammoth effort. Her tail was clamped down hard and her muscles looked rigid, but she was trembling, as taut as the strings of a violin. Claire couldn’t remember the last time she had seen such a terrified animal.
As other vets gathered, Claire climbed into the trailer to escape the hubbub of competing voices. ‘Shhh, sweetheart,’ she murmured, but the mare didn’t seem to notice her. Her ears were stiff and twitching, her eyes darting from side to side, the whites exposed. Her breathing was growing more rapid with each passing minute. Claire placed a hand on her neck, then instinctively snatched it back as though she’d been scalded: the poor horse was burning hot.
Anger gripped Claire’s insides. In an instant, she knew what was wrong. Hyperthermia. The mare had heat stroke, she was sure of it. She put her stethoscope to the animal’s side and heard the hammer of her racing heartbeat. This was a very, very sick horse.
‘Jackie,’ she said quietly. She was still alone in the float, but she knew Jackie wouldn’t be far away.
‘Right here,’ came the reply from just outside.
‘It’s heat stroke. Take her temp to confirm, but prep the hydro pool and get a hose on her in the meantime. She also needs IV fluids and nasal oxygen, please. And she’s pregnant, so once we’ve cooled her down let’s get one of the theriogenologists to ultrasound the foal.’
Claire heard the scuffle of feet as Jackie relayed Claire’s instructions to the other vets.
‘You want bloods too?’ she said.
‘Definitely,’ Claire replied. ‘I’ll do that, but let’s get her out first.’
‘You sure, Claire? Easier to do it while she’s confined.’
‘She needs fresh air. She’s out of her mind.’
Carefully, Claire freed the lead rope from the float’s tie ring and wound it tightly around her hand.
