Billie’s cell phone buzzed in her pocket. Richard. Again. She let the call go to voice mail. How many times was that? Ten? She wondered for the tenth time why she didn’t just block his number.
She walked to the back of the trailer, wincing as she lifted and straightened her arms to open the door. Her rotator cuff still bothered her and she might need surgery to repair it. Most of the bandages were off her arms and hands but the skin felt hot, as if it were still burning. Scars had formed, but the doctors said they would lessen over time. She didn’t know if they’d be permanent or if they’d fade to nothing. The ones on the insides of her elbows tugged and hurt when she tried to straighten her arms, but these too the doctors said would improve. She was sick of being told how lucky she was to have escaped the barn fire that claimed three human lives. No horses had died in it, but the owner, the trainer, and the head groom of Angel Hair Walkers had been incinerated.
Jazz stood tied in his trailer, his black rump to her, his face turned over his shoulder as far as the rope allowed, looking at her. Talking softly, she sidled in beside him until she could reach the rope’s slipknot and undo it.
Carefully, she backed him out, letting his hind legs take the brunt of the descent onto the ground. He paused with his front feet still on the trailer floor then slowly lowered them outside, one at a time, easing his weight cautiously onto each in turn.
While Gulliver chased a prairie dog into its hole, Billie let the big horse graze some parched grass, offered him a drink from his bucket, then tied him to the outside of the trailer.
From the back of the truck, she got her kit with his bandages and dressings and set it on the ground. Kneeling, she unwrapped his legs and examined the gauze beneath the wraps. It was still a seeping mess.
When she told Doc she was going back to Tennessee to buy Jazz and bring him home, he told her that horses who had been sored took a long time to clear the chemicals from their bodies. Now she knew what he meant. She wondered what he’d say when he came to examine his new patient tomorrow evening after she got home, what changes he’d make in the treatment. She could only hope that Jazz’s prognosis would be better than the filly’s had been.
With fresh gauze, she cleaned the wounds, re-treated, and re-wrapped them. She injected Jazz with his evening dose of pain medicine. Through it all, he stood immobile and trembling, still afraid he’d be battered, shocked, or burned if he moved. It was going to take a long time for him to trust her or anyone else. If he ever did.
She led him to the arena and turned him lose. Without his huge stacked shoes, she supposed he could run, but he never did. He stood rock-still, tolerating her while she petted his neck. When she backed away, he sighed his relief. She closed the gate, and he slowly walked toward a patch of weeds that looked like they might once have been grass, and nosed them.
Frank had called while she was driving and had left a message on her cell. She pulled a folding chair from the back seat of the truck and set it up in the cool wind where she could keep an eye on her horse and terrier, who was now chasing tumbleweeds. She grabbed the bag with her knitting in it, a shawl for herself this time, and told her new phone to dial Frankly.
Frank answered, “Where are you?”
“Deming.”
“Where?”
“Southwestern New Mexico.”
“Pretty?”
“Pretty flat. I’ll be home at the ranch tomorrow.”
“How’s the horse?”
“Quiet.”
“Is that good?”
“Not this kind of quiet. His legs are still weeping chemicals. He’s still in pain.”
“You can tell?”
She nodded.
“Billie?”
“I can tell. When will my piece run?”
“I have a proposition for you,” he said.
Billie watched a dust devil form about a quarter mile away. The miniature tornado swooped and spun, ducking left then right. As it approached, it grew, lifting trash cans and wooden pallets into the air along with sand and dirt. It roared past Jazz, missing him by inches. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Billie?”
“Sorry, I was watching a dust devil.”
“Really? What’s that?”
“What’s your proposition, Frank?”
“I’ll make you a contributing editor here at Frankly. You’ll do four pieces a year for me, and I’ll give you a raise. Three of the pieces I’ll choose. You can choose one.”
“I don’t know, Frank.”
“Think it over.”
“I’m not coming back to New York.”
“No one asked you to. Anyway, I’m getting married.”
Vertigo made the chair tilt beneath her. She grabbed the truck’s door handle and hung on.
“You’d be inconvenient,” he said.
“Married?”
“I want you safely where you are.”
He hadn’t answered her about when the article would appear. Didn’t he know? Of course he knew. She mustn’t pressure him. He’d made her an offer. Could she say no? She had spent the money from the article within forty-eight hours of receiving the check. She’d paid Sam and Josie for watching the ranch and feeding the horses while she was gone. She’d paid Josie extra for taking care of Gulliver. She’d bought a load of hay and grain. There was enough money left over to repair the leaking roof. Instead, she had phoned Simeon. “Is that horse I rode still for sale?”
It was crazy, she knew. The horse was nearly two thousand miles away and probably crippled. It would cost a fortune to buy him, get him, treat him, care for him. But she was driven by guilt that she’d ridden him.
“I’ve about sold him already,”
