House of Mercy Read Free Page A

he Kandinskys’ horse ranch lay a half hour’s drive from the Blazing B. It seemed to belong in the rolling hills of Kentucky or New York, not to these simple plains. The white fences and ornamental gates were out of place in this land of wood posts and steel rails. The Rolls Royces parked in house-sized garages were entirely impractical, too good to drive down the two-lane highways. But the family members, though a bit standoffish, were nationally respected breeders of Fox Trotters and Morgans. They made good money in this valley acquiring reliable working stock for the ranchers. It seemed reasonable that Mr. Kandinsky’s brother-in-law, a Thoroughbred breeder transferring some of his livelihood to a new ranch in California, would pick this place for a rest stop along the way.
    Phil had given Beth directions to the horse breeder’s secondary stables, a barn reserved for the workhorses rather than the studs. She parked near the sliding door that opened onto the stable alley.
    Beth kept a first-aid kit for animals behind the driver’s seat. She withdrew it, not sure if the ointments and disinfectants and dressings and poultices would be at all relevant. But the weight of the bag felt good in her hands, like confidence.
    She entered the barn. Hay scattered across the ground silenced her footsteps. The entire facility, which boasted twelve stalls, was lined with fresh wheat straw and thick rubber mats and shining pine tongue-and-groove siding. If these quarters were for the lowly workers, the studs must have been housed in a crystal palace. Several of the stalls were occupied, but Phil leaned out of the box at the far end and motioned her to come.
    She hoped that the horse’s condition was not as bad as he had made it out to be over the phone.
    Beth kept her voice low so as not to startle the animals. “Hey, Phil. Fiona,” she said to his teenage sister who, judging by her sleeping bag, intended to spend the night with poor Marigold. Both Phil and Fiona had willowy statures and fine brown hair that fell into their eyes. Fiona sat on the ground, hugging her knees. Beth looked at the horse. “How’s she doing?”
    Fiona shook her head and bit her lip. She rocked herself gently.
    “You tell us,” Phil said. “It’s her left eye.” His tone was hopeful. For Fiona’s sake, Beth thought.
    Marigold lay on her side on a bank of straw, her eyes closed, and Beth took heart in the mare’s peaceful appearance. There was no indication that the eyelid had been damaged. Her eyelashes were horizontal, as they ought to be. The contour of Marigold’s head was smooth and free of swelling. Quite possibly, Phil and Fiona’s inexperience had overstated the trouble.
    Beth made a gentle clucking noise to alert Marigold to her presence before kneeling and stroking the mare’s shoulder. The horse allowed it, approving with a deep sigh as Beth’s fingers moved upward on the neck, caressing the jaw in the comforting way that Hastings liked so much.
    When her hands approached the mare’s eye, intending to lift the lid for a closer look, Marigold tossed her head away from Beth’s probing. She nickered a warning and shot an open-eyed glare that caused Beth’s hope to drop. The protective tissue over Marigold’s eye, which should have been water clear, was a white cloud so dense that the pupil and iris were nearly invisible. And toward the rear corner of the eye, the surface was uneven and waxy, like the dribbles of a melting candle.
    “Her cornea has an ulcer,” Beth began.
    “Is that bad?” Phil asked.
    “Not normally.” Corneal ulcers were one of the more common injuries a horse might receive in its lifetime. Hastings had suffered his share. “I’m sorry, girl,” she said to the mare. “How long has she been like this?”
    “The cloudiness—two weeks?” Phil said.
    “Sixteen days,” Fiona said. Beth groaned inwardly.
    “But that oozing, it just started yesterday.”
    “Day before,” Fiona corrected.
    Beth shook her