House of Mercy by Erin Healy Page A

run a race, but she didn’t have a drop of sweat on her.
    “When did she go down?” Beth asked.
    Jacob was sitting in the dust by Gert’s head. “Right after you hung up.”
    “Sorry to make you wait. Dr. O’Connor is out on a call.”
    “I know.”
    She knew then that he’d called the vet first, before her, and she felt mildly embarrassed that she’d assumed otherwise. But she couldn’t figure why he wouldn’t just come out and say it.
    “Who else did you call?” she asked.
    “Stanton, from up in Villa Grove, but it’ll be another hour before he gets over.”
    Beth ran her hands over Gert’s throat, which was quite hot and dry to the touch. She placed a forefinger under the left side of the horse’s jawbone and easily found the pulsating artery there.
    “Count fifteen seconds for me,” she said. Jacob glanced at his wristwatch and gave her a go-ahead.
    “Time,” he said.
    Beth multiplied her count by four. “Heart rate’s fifty-six,” she said.
    “That’s what I got too.”
    “You might have mentioned that.”
    “I answered all your questions.”
    “Okay, then. Is this a game? One point for you, Jacob.”
    “No game,” he said.
    “Did you take her temp by yourself too?”
    “All my answers were truthful,” Jacob said, tipping his hat back on his head. The band inside left a reddish impression above his eyebrows. “I respect my horse’s dignity.”
    “But you know how to do it if you had to.”
    “What kind of a cowboy would I be if I didn’t know how? She’s pushing 103.”
    Beth raised her eyebrows.
    “Mercury in my fingertips,” he said, showing her his hands.
    “You can’t tell just by touching her,” Beth scolded.
    “You’re the expert.”
    Separated from Jacob only by his horse, Beth could easily smell his earthy scents: sweat mixed with the dust of the day and the wet leather of his boots, which were damp and mud-crusty from his irrigation work. He smelled like all the comforts of home, the way it had been in summers before this one, which she’d ruined before it even started.
    She wanted to lean into him and close her eyes and rest her head in that safe spot between his collar and his arm. The strength he’d collected from the outdoors would give her courage that fluorescent lights and air-conditioning and a windowless grocery store could not.
    She wanted to shave off that facial hair and run her hand over his cheek.
    Instead, she fetched a thermometer from the barn, tied a string to the end, and went through the routine motions of determining just how hot Gert was. The girl was typically compliant, but today it wasn’t even necessary for Jacob to hold her head when Beth inserted the device.
    An accurate reading would take three minutes. Gert closed her eyes but seemed no less relaxed. Jacob rose and leaned against the barn. Beth waited for God to use her, wondering what it would feel like this time, what it would look like. Would this event bring her any closer to figuring out his methods, or hers?
    Beth lifted her eyes to the pasture to see if any other horses were affected by similar symptoms.
    “You’re a born vet,” Jacob said.
    She looked at him, wondering what had prompted the remark. “That’s nice of you to say.”
    “Not being nice. It’s just the truth.”
    “Well, I’m not a legal one.”
    “It’ll happen.”
    “It’ll take a miracle.”
    “Miracles happen.”
    They do! she thought. She nearly said it—she nearly told Jacob everything about the antelope, the wolf, and the bird. Something stopped her, though: the sight of Gert lying there in the same condition as when Beth had arrived, the truth that she didn’t have a formula to explain God’s work, a flicker of wavering faith. Doubt.
    “Do you think so?” she said instead.
    With his head tipped back against the barn siding, Jacob crossed his arms and his ankles and regarded her carefully. His eyes were the same color blue as hers and should have been unremarkable in their familiarity.