at last, I was headed home, towards Blue and my little house and the animals.
Not for long. To my absolute dismay, my cell phone rang just as I hit the freeway. It was the answering service operator. "Sandy McQuire has a colicked horse and needs a vet right away."
"Tell her I'll be there in ten minutes," I said resignedly. Sandy McQuire lived along Summit Road, not all that far from Sam Lawrence. I would have to backtrack five slow miles before I reached her little stable.
What had Tommie Harper said about Sandy? That she was one of Dominic's many ex-girlfriends, and one that particularly hated him. Hell, I thought, the ground is thick with 'em. There seemed to be a woman with a motive to murder Dominic around every comer. And there were probably several dozen more that I didn't even know about.
Not, in many ways, a very nice fellow, Dominic. And yet Tracy Lawrence had decided to leave Sam for him. How had that come about? Tracy was probably half Dominic's age. Why fall for an aging horseshoer who was a known womanizer?
Well, I did know the answer to that, I reflected. Dominic could be charming. Charming and flirtatious and apparently chivalrous. Contrast that to Sam, who, even at his best moment, was still a rough-edged fireball. Tracy was probably tired of being singed and ready to be courted awhile.
But damn. Any woman with the brains of a turnip ought to be able to see that Dominic was a bad bet. Of course, I realized a second later, quite a few otherwise intelligent women had already fallen for him. It just wasn't my weakness; I didn't find handsome, flirtatious men particularly alluring. That was why I didn't get it.
Following Summit Road, I drove through dark ranks of redwood trees, around hilly, tortured curves. Houses spangled the meadows with light. Not too far to Sandy's now.
In another five minutes I was there, pulling into a bumpy driveway to arrive at a well-lit barn. Sandy McQuire stepped out to meet me.
In her thirties or early forties, Sandy was thin and trim and had the hardest face I could imagine on a woman of that age. Fine lines radiated out from steely eyes; deeper lines scored her cheeks from nose to lips. Her chin jutted out aggressively and her mouth clamped shut in a narrow seam. She had sandy-beige hair and sandy-tan skin, and all in all, Sandy seemed an appropriate name for her.
I remembered Tommie telling me that this woman had gone through a boob job to attract and attach faithless Dominic; there was certainly no sign of that now. Sandy McQuire was, as they say, a carpenter's dream. Perhaps she'd had a reverse job done. I shook her lean, sinewy hand and asked how the horse was.
"You're not going to believe it." Sandy laughed. Lighting a cigarette, she went on. "Half an hour ago he was thrashing on the ground and now he's standing there as normal as you please." She sucked in a draft of smoke and coughed. "Have a look at him."
I followed her down the barn aisle, passing box stalls filled with happily munching horses. Bays, sorrels, the occasional buckskin or gray. I wished sadly that I was munching on something myself.
Sandy stopped in front of a stall where an unremarkable dark bay horse stood chomping hay like the rest of them. Gesturing in his direction, she said, ''Thirty minutes ago he was flailing around on the ground, moaning and groaning. And now the silly son of a bitch seems fine."
"Colics can be like that," I said. "He seemed to be in a lot of pain?"
"Sure looked like it."
"I'll check his pulse and respiration, make sure everything's normal, then leave you with some painkiller; you can give it to him intermuscularly if he gets painful later. Whose horse is he?"
"Barbara King's. I didn't call her, though, what with all she's been through."
I nodded. Stepping into the stall, I asked, "What is he?"
"Four-year-old colt. Prospective rope horse. Gentle as a pup. Aren't you, Leo?"
Automatically sizing Leo up as I stepped into the stall with him, I revised my impression of
Not for long. To my absolute dismay, my cell phone rang just as I hit the freeway. It was the answering service operator. "Sandy McQuire has a colicked horse and needs a vet right away."
"Tell her I'll be there in ten minutes," I said resignedly. Sandy McQuire lived along Summit Road, not all that far from Sam Lawrence. I would have to backtrack five slow miles before I reached her little stable.
What had Tommie Harper said about Sandy? That she was one of Dominic's many ex-girlfriends, and one that particularly hated him. Hell, I thought, the ground is thick with 'em. There seemed to be a woman with a motive to murder Dominic around every comer. And there were probably several dozen more that I didn't even know about.
Not, in many ways, a very nice fellow, Dominic. And yet Tracy Lawrence had decided to leave Sam for him. How had that come about? Tracy was probably half Dominic's age. Why fall for an aging horseshoer who was a known womanizer?
Well, I did know the answer to that, I reflected. Dominic could be charming. Charming and flirtatious and apparently chivalrous. Contrast that to Sam, who, even at his best moment, was still a rough-edged fireball. Tracy was probably tired of being singed and ready to be courted awhile.
But damn. Any woman with the brains of a turnip ought to be able to see that Dominic was a bad bet. Of course, I realized a second later, quite a few otherwise intelligent women had already fallen for him. It just wasn't my weakness; I didn't find handsome, flirtatious men particularly alluring. That was why I didn't get it.
Following Summit Road, I drove through dark ranks of redwood trees, around hilly, tortured curves. Houses spangled the meadows with light. Not too far to Sandy's now.
In another five minutes I was there, pulling into a bumpy driveway to arrive at a well-lit barn. Sandy McQuire stepped out to meet me.
In her thirties or early forties, Sandy was thin and trim and had the hardest face I could imagine on a woman of that age. Fine lines radiated out from steely eyes; deeper lines scored her cheeks from nose to lips. Her chin jutted out aggressively and her mouth clamped shut in a narrow seam. She had sandy-beige hair and sandy-tan skin, and all in all, Sandy seemed an appropriate name for her.
I remembered Tommie telling me that this woman had gone through a boob job to attract and attach faithless Dominic; there was certainly no sign of that now. Sandy McQuire was, as they say, a carpenter's dream. Perhaps she'd had a reverse job done. I shook her lean, sinewy hand and asked how the horse was.
"You're not going to believe it." Sandy laughed. Lighting a cigarette, she went on. "Half an hour ago he was thrashing on the ground and now he's standing there as normal as you please." She sucked in a draft of smoke and coughed. "Have a look at him."
I followed her down the barn aisle, passing box stalls filled with happily munching horses. Bays, sorrels, the occasional buckskin or gray. I wished sadly that I was munching on something myself.
Sandy stopped in front of a stall where an unremarkable dark bay horse stood chomping hay like the rest of them. Gesturing in his direction, she said, ''Thirty minutes ago he was flailing around on the ground, moaning and groaning. And now the silly son of a bitch seems fine."
"Colics can be like that," I said. "He seemed to be in a lot of pain?"
"Sure looked like it."
"I'll check his pulse and respiration, make sure everything's normal, then leave you with some painkiller; you can give it to him intermuscularly if he gets painful later. Whose horse is he?"
"Barbara King's. I didn't call her, though, what with all she's been through."
I nodded. Stepping into the stall, I asked, "What is he?"
"Four-year-old colt. Prospective rope horse. Gentle as a pup. Aren't you, Leo?"
Automatically sizing Leo up as I stepped into the stall with him, I revised my impression of
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