Released from the man’s grip, the filly backed into the far corner of the stall.
“Is something wrong with this horse?” Billie asked, keeping her voice neutral, curious, encouraging—a technique she had refined as a reporter.
“Ma’am, you better get yourself out of here before you get yourself into serious trouble.”
The filly shook the smeared leg, tapped it on the ground, and snatched it up so it hung in the air.
“Why would being here get me in trouble?” Billie moved toward the filly and touched the backs of her fingers against the quivering neck.
Charley stepped between them. She sensed powerful muscles beneath his sagging skin. He was old but strong, his arms covered in keloid scars that disappeared into the gloves. He used his body to block her view of the horse and stepped toward her.
Billie spread her hands in a gesture of submission and backed out the stall door then down the barn aisle, careful not to stumble over anything, watching him as she went. Her heart slammed around in her throat like a caged lizard. She didn’t know what she’d just seen, but it felt as wrong as if she’d witnessed a murder. Get out of here, she told herself. Go! NOW!
But she forced herself to stand still, to count her breaths, to slow them. Finally she eased out through the barn door. She stood alone outside, her heart slamming into her throat, terrified, but of what? She glanced back toward the door but no one came after her.
Bracing herself against the wall with one hand, she stilled her breathing even more and listened intently. Maybe she should just keep on going now that she was outside. Maybe not. She had seen all kinds of horsemen during her life. Some blindly fell in love with what horses could do, unaware or uncritical of how they were trained. Others saw abuse everywhere and ran to the nearest phone to make senseless trouble. She was neither, but what she’d just seen made her horrified and angry.
The groom, she figured, had even more years with horses than she did. He would recognize that she was a horseman. He would know from the way she moved around the barn, in the stall, the way she looked at the animal, knowing with a glance its age, sex, conformation, and temperament. He would know by the way she modulated her voice to let him know her anger, while not further alarming the young horse, and by the way she had pressed the backs of her fingers against the filly’s neck…he would know damned well that was a promise of some sort—to come back, to bring help.
Billie thought that Charley would probably report her, maybe right away. He could be on the phone this minute letting his boss know that some woman named Billie Snow had seen him messing with the filly in the barn and that the woman was steaming mad.
She glanced over her shoulder, looking into the dark, but she didn’t see him. She went to her truck, opened the door, and got in. She slammed the door shut and sat there, her left arm hanging out the window, jiggling her keys in her hand before inserting them and starting the engine. It was an old Chevy Silverado single-axle one-ton, white and boxy. For a moment she just sat there, listening to the throaty rumble of the idling engine. She leaned back against the seat and tipped her head back. Then she straightened and put the truck into gear and headed out toward the highway.
As she drove, Billie tried to make sense of what had just happened. Before she reached the highway, she began to feel angry at Charley for scaring her.
At the next intersection, she wrenched the truck into a U-turn and headed back. She drove down the far side of the showgrounds, circling toward Charley’s barn, and parked in the shadow of a huge dumpster filled with trash from the show. She got out, quietly shut the truck door, and slipped inside the barn.
Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, throwing cones of light that flickered with moths. Charley was gone from the stall. The filly stood tied to the wall, sweat-drenched and trembling. Her front legs were covered in bandages, and Billie saw the glisten of plastic wrap below and above the fleece. The filly had tucked her hind legs far up under her, taking the weight off her front feet. The position screamed of agony.
Billie heard footsteps limping down the aisle and slid into the empty stall beside the filly’s and crouched down.
Charley hobbled like his knees hurt, like he had a new pair in his future, like he might need some new feet too. He lurched into the stall, balancing himself with the crook of one arm hooked on the door jamb. He held a small bottle with a dropper. The filly pulled harder against her rope. He bent toward her front hoof, lifted the bandage with his index finger, and squirted something onto her leg. She squealed and reared, thrashing. Calmly he went to the other side and bent to do it again.
“Stop!” Billie didn’t remember getting out of her crouch and stepping forward, but there she was, at the door to the filly’s stall.
“You’ve got no business here!” Charley shouted, limping toward her.
“What’s wrong with this horse?”
He grabbed her shoulder hard, pushing her back. She struggled against his grip, trying to pry his fingers off.
“You. Are. Trespassing.” He squeezed harder. “Get on out of here or I’m calling the cops.”
“I’ve already called them,” she lied.
Reflexively, his eyes flicked past her. She wrenched out of his grip and spun to face him. They stood glaring at each other. Charley didn’t look any surer about what to do next than Billie. Sweat she hadn’t been aware of coursed down the middle of her back and under her arms, slicked her cheeks and her upper lip.
