“Why would her skin come off like that?” She stepped up on the bumper of her horse trailer and looked in at the filly through the bars, waiting for Doc to answer. “I think I can see holes so deep her tendons show, Doc. Maybe I’m imagining it?”
“The chemicals they use cause terrible burns,” Doc said. “They’re supposed to be put on so that the burning isn’t visible and you can’t see that the horse is being hurt. Scars build up over time but that takes months to develop. What you’re describing sounds like someone did it wrong, used too much.”
“If the filly’s owner did call you,” Billie asked, watching the filly shift her weight and lower her muzzle to her damaged leg. “What would you tell her to do?”
“Listen to me, Billie. You can’t do a damned thing for this horse. She’s not yours, and if you try to interfere, you’re going to get yourself hurt.”
“But what would help her, if I were able to help her?” Billie asked. “Say I bought her or something.”
“By God, you are the dumbest girl I ever met. Do you have any idea what it takes to get this stuff off a horse’s legs?”
“No.”
“Weeks and weeks of working to get it off, to get it out of their skin. It’s not just lying on top; it’s gone way in deep. Once a chemical gets its teeth into flesh, it can devour everything—muscle, tendons, even bone. But if you do get that filly, give me a call and I’ll come look at her.”
“Come now.”
While she waited, Billie drove the trailer into the shade of the hay barn where the filly would catch a breeze until Doc got there. Then she fed the other horses. The bag of Equine Senior was almost gone already.
By eight the heat had climbed to ninety. In another couple of hours, it would reach ninety-five then climb higher. Billie loaded hundred-pound hay bales into the wheeled cart, pushing it from corral to corral, cutting the bright yellow baling twine with her pocketknife, separating the thick flakes from the bales and throwing armloads over the fences into the feeders on the other side.
In the feed shed, she scooped the dwindling senior feed into buckets for Starship and Hashtag. Grabbing one bucket handle in each hand, she pushed open the door with her hip and stepped out into a morning turning white with heat.
Fingers dug into her shoulder. “Set them down.”
CHAPTER 6
BILLIE SLOWLY BENT her knees until the bucket bottoms rested on the ground then she released her grip on the handles. As she rose, Charley turned her to face him. He still wore the same threadbare overalls he’d had on when she’d first seen him hurting the filly, and the hand digging into her shoulder was the same hand she’d seen two days ago covered in a latex glove, smearing chemicals on the filly’s legs. Incensed, she twisted her head and sank her teeth into his hand, biting down hard on a fleshless, bony knuckle. His other hand balled into a fist and he swung wildly, socking her in the side of her mouth and breaking her hold. Billie’s head snapped back then forward. Pain shot down her neck. She tried to bite him again.
He slapped her hard across the face. This time the pain in her neck made her scream. He let her go.
“Much as I’d like to just leave you here to deal with the trouble you’re making,” he said, “we need to talk. You’re going to get me killed. And yourself.”
“Fuck you.” Billie reached for her neck.
Charley pushed her ahead of him to the open feed shed door. She tried to grab the jamb, but he pried off her fingers and shoved her inside then stepped up behind her and closed the door. He looked around then pushed her onto a stool.
“Now sit still and listen.” He leaned against the wall beside her, both of them panting. “Don’t you have an air conditioner?” he asked. “Some water?”
Billie wanted some too. Badly. Slowly, keeping her eyes on him, she crouched and reached under the table to the door of the mini fridge she kept there. He shoved her aside, reached in, and brought out two icy bottles. He handed her one and wrenched the cap off the other. He took a couple of swallows then waited, his chest heaving, before taking more. Watching him from the stool, she drank hers.
When he finished, he screwed the cap back onto the bottle, pulled the bottom of his T-shirt out of his overalls, and wiped it all over before setting it in the trash. He’s going to kill me, she thought. That’s why he’s getting rid of his fingerprints. She glanced around the familiar shed, looking for a way out that didn’t exist.
“Where’s my horse?” he asked.
Neither of them moved. She thought about what would happen when he found the horse in the trailer, which he almost certainly would. Flies drugged with heat stumbled across feed that had spilled on the floor, climbed the window screens, and landed on her hands, arms, neck, lips, and eyes. And on his.
Gulliver scratched at the door. Charley opened it, and the dog trotted in to flop on the floor, panting. Charley’s eyes returned to the little fridge under the table, and Billie knew he was still thirsty. She bent down, got two more bottles, looked at them, and put one back. She opened the other, poured some water into a bowl for Gulliver, and slowly drank the rest, expecting Charley to shove her aside, to force his way to the refrigerator and take another bottle.
Instead, he reached into his pocket. She tensed, not knowing if he was after a gun, but his hand reappeared holding a leather billfold. He flipped it open with his thumb and held it toward her. She glimpsed a card behind cracked plastic.
“What’s that?” she asked.
He snapped the
