“You want to put us all out of business?” Tiger leaned in close, pulling on Richard’s shirt as if searching for a place to clip on a microphone. “You should keep your mouth shut or it might get shut for good.”
He turned away before Richard could say anything, nearly bumping into Billie.
“Get out of here!” he demanded.
She flashed her press pass at him, and he shoved past her.
Another woman, her face covered in a thick layer of makeup, stepped past Billie to Richard.
“You ready?” she asked him. “Look at the camera. Just be natural. Three. Two. One…”
The reporter positioned herself in front of him, faced into the camera, and said, “This is Sally Ann Wagner, here at the home of the upcoming Tennessee walking horse Big Show in Shelbyville, Tennessee to hear what a long-time trainer and owner of these beautiful animals has to say about the controversy over the means used to train them. As we speak, there is a group of horsemen walking—no riding!—on the Capitol in Washington, DC to bring attention to what is often referred to as ‘the plight of the walking horse.’”
Billie caught a quick, subtle flinch in Richard’s eyes. She had resolved to change the title for her article when she learned how much he hated that phrase, clichéd from years of overuse.
Unaware, Sally Ann continued. “The case against Hall of Fame trainer Dale Thornton has just been thrown out. Here, outside the courthouse, protesters have gathered. Animal rights activists and others claim that these horses are tortured to make them step high.
“Today, we are here to talk to Richard Collier, whose family has been active in the walking horse industry for three generations. Mr. Collier and his family own, train, and show walking horses. In fact, Sylvie Collier, Mr. Collier’s daughter, is being touted as perhaps the next—and youngest ever—winner of the coveted world grand championship class.”
The reporter stepped aside and turned to face Richard. “People within the walking horse industry claim that these complaints will ruin them and destroy their livelihood. They say there is no abuse involved, and the horses are loved and well cared for. Please tell us, Mr. Collier, your opinion of this controversy.”
She held the microphone a few inches in front of his lips. He cleared his throat and took it away from her. She looked startled, but he ignored her and faced the camera.
“My family has raised walking horses for generations,” he said. “I have been privileged to work with these gentle animals all my life. I have ridden, trained, and shown them to the highest championships in the land.”
Billie looked out at the faces in the crowd before him. The media vans had attracted passers-by, and there was quite a crowd. She spotted Richard’s daughter Sylvie flirting with a cute tech guy.
She was aware that Richard’s pause had gone on too long. People were worried, restless. Wondering if he was finished, if he had frozen from stage fright. He licked his lips, swallowed.
“Every horse I showed, every horse I won on was sore. Every single one.” He paused to let it sink in and heard a rustle, then a rumble from the crowd. He interrupted it. “You cannot make a horse move like that—can’t make a horse do the Big Lick—can’t make a horse pick up its front feet so high and fast and step under so deeply behind unless you sore it.”
Reporters stepped toward him, shouting questions.
He raised his hand. “Hear me out!”
They subsided enough for him to continue.
“I am a God-fearing man!”
They fell silent at this. Billie had never heard him use this come-to-meeting voice before. He sounded like a politician.
“Raised among you and with you. I have already said that I have come to believe that soring is wrong. But more than that, I have come to believe that soring is a sin. So I am here to tell you that I have sinned against God’s creatures. I have sinned but I repent. I am here to speak the truth. I have done that. There is not a single Big Lick horse who is not sore. There is no horse going into the ring at the Big Show who has not been sored. There is no trainer, no owner, no show rider, no exercise rider, no groom, no stable hand who does not know this. We are all guilty of this sin. We must all stop it now. What we do is wrong. I never thought I’d side with PETA or the Humane Society or any other animal rights group. But I’m telling you, in this instance if in no other, they are right. What they say we do, we do. We must stop. We must.”
Over the cacophony of shouted questions, Billie heard applause. And booing. She stepped in and extended her iPhone. She saw wariness in his eyes, uncertainty.
“Mr. Collier,” she said, “why have you said this? Aren’t you worried about your safety?”
“I said it because it’s true. It needs to be said.” He raised his hand in a silencing gesture. “No questions. Thank you,” he said then turned away.
The crowd followed him to the truck, honking questions. He ignored them, his walk faster than theirs. But when he arrived at the truck, Billie was already there.
“Thank you for your time.” She wanted to put her arms around him, tell him she was proud of him.
“I’ll call.” He closed the door.
She wondered if he would.
When she turned to look back at the crowd, she spotted the witness whose presence in the courtroom had gotten the case thrown out, talking with a couple of reporters.
“Dr. Spearman!” she approached him. “Arabella Snow. Frankly magazine. Can I talk to you?”
CHAPTER 25
BILLIE SAT CROSS-LEGGED on the motel bed, pillows behind her, a slice of take-out pizza from the greasy box on the bureau balanced on her knee. She had tidied the room and balled her laundry into a plastic bag then stuffed it into a corner of her suitcase. She hadn’t been able
