front left leg. Another small miracle – Uncle Michael’s mount had
suffered a clean break that very nearly sealed his fate.
“Get Missy back to the paddock and call
the vet,” I ordered. “Walk her slow and watch that leg.”
My voice was gruff, abrupt, but Ellen was
too grateful to have something to do to notice. She disappeared while I talked
to the operator and relayed their instructions to Randall, who did them without
question. When the paramedics appeared, backing the ambulance down the narrow
trail, I called Lindsay’s parents and left a message, promising to meet them at
the hospital.
Lindsay was stirring as they examined her,
but the paramedics wouldn’t let me hover and told me to stand several feet
away. I answered their questions as best I could, indicating the hole that I
thought was the culprit. Randall was crouched over it, examining the gouge with
the aid of his cell-phone light.
The paramedic was appalled. “That’s a hazard,”
he said, and he looked at me in horror. “This should have been clearly marked
off.”
“I know,” was all I could say.
I must have looked properly penitent,
because his “I’ll have to report this,” was almost apologetic.
I nodded and when he was finished with me,
I wandered off to stand by Randall. I thought I ought to thank him for coming,
for helping, but the gratitude was lost in a tangle of guilt, anger, and fear.
I stood there, numbly watching his light play over the freshly disturbed dirt.
When he looked up at me, I thought, He’s
going to say it. He’s going to remind me that this is my fault. And it is.
But when he spoke, Randall said, “There’s
something wrong about all of this, Warwick. There’s something very wrong about
this.”
The paramedics called me away – they were
leaving. Did I want to ride along? I did, and sat in the back of the cab,
watching as a paramedic - a competent looking woman with a professional’s
detachment - examined my assistant. I thought she was too calm, too
dispassionate, and I remember thinking how fragile and young Lindsay
looked, swathed in temporary bandages, her tee-shirt torn to reveal extensive
bruising.
When we arrived at the hospital, doctors
whisked Lindsay down the hall and I was left to address her parents in the
waiting room. They arrived twenty minutes after I did, frantic and full of
accusations.
I’m ashamed to say that I wasn’t entirely
up front at first. I explained that Lindsay’s horse had tripped on the path and
thrown Lindsay, and I thought that her arm was broken. I didn’t mention the
hole – there are plenty of reasons why a horse would stumble.
But Lindsay’s father wasn’t a horseman,
and he had the layman’s idea that a horse was like a machine and should work at
a certain speed with a certain amount of reliability. Accidents were caused by
mechanical failures, something that was both measurable and remedial.
When he asked, “What caused the trip?” I
had no choice but to confess.
“Someone has been digging on the trail,” I
said. “They left an unmarked soft spot. The horse stumbled on that.”
They stared at me.
“One of your people?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. I don’t know who did
it.”
He looked at his wife, whose welling eyes
were spilling over.
“How could this happen again?” she asked, as
though pleading with me. “I thought that was all over, I thought that ended
with Michael.”
The lump in my throat made it difficult to
answer the question. “I thought so too.”
“And what is Chase Farms going to do about
this?” Lindsay’s father demanded.
Lindsay’s doctor entered in time to save
me from answering the question. Lindsay was unconscious, and had suffered a
concussion and a broken arm. They reset the arm bone and expected her to
recover full use of it. The medical staff wanted her to stay overnight for
observation, and afterwards, she would be on bed rest for at least a week.
“What about her competitions?”
I’m pleased
suffered a clean break that very nearly sealed his fate.
“Get Missy back to the paddock and call
the vet,” I ordered. “Walk her slow and watch that leg.”
My voice was gruff, abrupt, but Ellen was
too grateful to have something to do to notice. She disappeared while I talked
to the operator and relayed their instructions to Randall, who did them without
question. When the paramedics appeared, backing the ambulance down the narrow
trail, I called Lindsay’s parents and left a message, promising to meet them at
the hospital.
Lindsay was stirring as they examined her,
but the paramedics wouldn’t let me hover and told me to stand several feet
away. I answered their questions as best I could, indicating the hole that I
thought was the culprit. Randall was crouched over it, examining the gouge with
the aid of his cell-phone light.
The paramedic was appalled. “That’s a hazard,”
he said, and he looked at me in horror. “This should have been clearly marked
off.”
“I know,” was all I could say.
I must have looked properly penitent,
because his “I’ll have to report this,” was almost apologetic.
I nodded and when he was finished with me,
I wandered off to stand by Randall. I thought I ought to thank him for coming,
for helping, but the gratitude was lost in a tangle of guilt, anger, and fear.
I stood there, numbly watching his light play over the freshly disturbed dirt.
When he looked up at me, I thought, He’s
going to say it. He’s going to remind me that this is my fault. And it is.
But when he spoke, Randall said, “There’s
something wrong about all of this, Warwick. There’s something very wrong about
this.”
The paramedics called me away – they were
leaving. Did I want to ride along? I did, and sat in the back of the cab,
watching as a paramedic - a competent looking woman with a professional’s
detachment - examined my assistant. I thought she was too calm, too
dispassionate, and I remember thinking how fragile and young Lindsay
looked, swathed in temporary bandages, her tee-shirt torn to reveal extensive
bruising.
When we arrived at the hospital, doctors
whisked Lindsay down the hall and I was left to address her parents in the
waiting room. They arrived twenty minutes after I did, frantic and full of
accusations.
I’m ashamed to say that I wasn’t entirely
up front at first. I explained that Lindsay’s horse had tripped on the path and
thrown Lindsay, and I thought that her arm was broken. I didn’t mention the
hole – there are plenty of reasons why a horse would stumble.
But Lindsay’s father wasn’t a horseman,
and he had the layman’s idea that a horse was like a machine and should work at
a certain speed with a certain amount of reliability. Accidents were caused by
mechanical failures, something that was both measurable and remedial.
When he asked, “What caused the trip?” I
had no choice but to confess.
“Someone has been digging on the trail,” I
said. “They left an unmarked soft spot. The horse stumbled on that.”
They stared at me.
“One of your people?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. I don’t know who did
it.”
He looked at his wife, whose welling eyes
were spilling over.
“How could this happen again?” she asked, as
though pleading with me. “I thought that was all over, I thought that ended
with Michael.”
The lump in my throat made it difficult to
answer the question. “I thought so too.”
“And what is Chase Farms going to do about
this?” Lindsay’s father demanded.
Lindsay’s doctor entered in time to save
me from answering the question. Lindsay was unconscious, and had suffered a
concussion and a broken arm. They reset the arm bone and expected her to
recover full use of it. The medical staff wanted her to stay overnight for
observation, and afterwards, she would be on bed rest for at least a week.
“What about her competitions?”
I’m pleased
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