Quality Arabians .
Vale, from Valerie, I guessed.
The third time I passed the driveway, it was on purpose. There was a tack shop, Dark Horse Saddlery, just a little farther down the street, and I went there first, on the theory that a horsewoman who lived this close to a tack shop would probably buy some of her equipment there.
I picked up a new lead rope, a bucket of horse treats, and a jar of Hooflex. Then I left them on the counter while I went into the back room to look at the advertisements.
Business cards and flyers covered one wall. The other three were obscured by boxes of riding boots and helmets. I scanned through ads for equine massage, riding lessons, Quarter Horses, and Jack Russell Terriers, until I came to a stack of business cards that read, “ValeSong Stables. Pure Egyptian Arabians. Training, Breeding, Sales. Victory’s Flame at stud.”
I unpinned the stack, stuffed one into my pocket, and re-pinned the others. Then I went back out front to show it to the girl behind the counter, a gangly girl with work-callused hands, long black hair, and features like a Greek statue.
“I’m looking for a good endurance horse. This place any good?” I pulled out the card and showed the girl the name.
“ValeSong? Sure. I guess so. I jump Thoroughbreds myself.” She pointed to a photo under the glass countertop of herself on a light bay mare. “That’s me and Moxie.”
“Moxie. Good name.”
“Yeah. She’s still young, but she’s got a lot of promise. My trainer says we might be able to make Grand Champion at Shel-byville in a couple of years.”
Shelbyville is Horse City. They have the big Tennessee Walking Horse Festival there every year, although that’s come under fire because of the “soring” controversy. As far as I’m concerned, anybody who sores a horse should have to walk across hot coals, then race around a half-mile track with ten-pound shoes strapped to his feet. My Walker is flat shod, and his walk is just as pretty as God made it, which is pretty enough for me.
But Moxie was no Walking Horse, so I suspected the girl was talking about one of the specialty or all-breed shows held there almost every weekend.
“That would be something,” I said. “You ever see this Valerie at a show?”
“Sure. Victory’s Flame won High Point Champion three years in a row at the Festival of Horses.”
“Know her?”
“Victory’s Flame?”
“Valerie Shepherd.”
“She comes in here a lot. Being so close and all.”
I gave her a grin I hoped said Harmless, Friendly, and Not Too Bright. “The reason I’m asking is, if I’m going to consider buying a horse from her, I’d want to know if she’s any good.”
“You mean, as a breeder, or a trainer?”
“Both. Either.”
“Well . . .” She picked at a corner of a photograph that protruded from beneath the glass. “I don’t really have a lot of dealings with her, you know. But she does real good at the shows.”
“Any complaints?”
“There’s always complaints. Some people are never happy. There was something about a horse being abused once, but she fired the guy who did it. And one woman came in and said Ms. Shepherd came on to her husband. But who knows? Could just be gossip. Or paranoia.”
I gave a sympathetic nod. “Plenty of that to go around. You think I could talk to any of these people?”
“We don’t take their names. But the guy who used to work for her comes in here sometimes. I could give you his name and number.”
“The one she fired?”
“Uh huh. He’s training for himself now. Does good business, from what I hear.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand it myself. Would you hire a trainer who was fired for beating a horse?”
“Nope.”
“That’s what I thought.” She wrote the name and number down for me. Asa Majors.
“Ms. Shepherd and her husband run the place?” I asked, fishing.
“Actually, I think she got the place as part of her divorce settlement.”
“Jeez.” I grinned.
Vale, from Valerie, I guessed.
The third time I passed the driveway, it was on purpose. There was a tack shop, Dark Horse Saddlery, just a little farther down the street, and I went there first, on the theory that a horsewoman who lived this close to a tack shop would probably buy some of her equipment there.
I picked up a new lead rope, a bucket of horse treats, and a jar of Hooflex. Then I left them on the counter while I went into the back room to look at the advertisements.
Business cards and flyers covered one wall. The other three were obscured by boxes of riding boots and helmets. I scanned through ads for equine massage, riding lessons, Quarter Horses, and Jack Russell Terriers, until I came to a stack of business cards that read, “ValeSong Stables. Pure Egyptian Arabians. Training, Breeding, Sales. Victory’s Flame at stud.”
I unpinned the stack, stuffed one into my pocket, and re-pinned the others. Then I went back out front to show it to the girl behind the counter, a gangly girl with work-callused hands, long black hair, and features like a Greek statue.
“I’m looking for a good endurance horse. This place any good?” I pulled out the card and showed the girl the name.
“ValeSong? Sure. I guess so. I jump Thoroughbreds myself.” She pointed to a photo under the glass countertop of herself on a light bay mare. “That’s me and Moxie.”
“Moxie. Good name.”
“Yeah. She’s still young, but she’s got a lot of promise. My trainer says we might be able to make Grand Champion at Shel-byville in a couple of years.”
Shelbyville is Horse City. They have the big Tennessee Walking Horse Festival there every year, although that’s come under fire because of the “soring” controversy. As far as I’m concerned, anybody who sores a horse should have to walk across hot coals, then race around a half-mile track with ten-pound shoes strapped to his feet. My Walker is flat shod, and his walk is just as pretty as God made it, which is pretty enough for me.
But Moxie was no Walking Horse, so I suspected the girl was talking about one of the specialty or all-breed shows held there almost every weekend.
“That would be something,” I said. “You ever see this Valerie at a show?”
“Sure. Victory’s Flame won High Point Champion three years in a row at the Festival of Horses.”
“Know her?”
“Victory’s Flame?”
“Valerie Shepherd.”
“She comes in here a lot. Being so close and all.”
I gave her a grin I hoped said Harmless, Friendly, and Not Too Bright. “The reason I’m asking is, if I’m going to consider buying a horse from her, I’d want to know if she’s any good.”
“You mean, as a breeder, or a trainer?”
“Both. Either.”
“Well . . .” She picked at a corner of a photograph that protruded from beneath the glass. “I don’t really have a lot of dealings with her, you know. But she does real good at the shows.”
“Any complaints?”
“There’s always complaints. Some people are never happy. There was something about a horse being abused once, but she fired the guy who did it. And one woman came in and said Ms. Shepherd came on to her husband. But who knows? Could just be gossip. Or paranoia.”
I gave a sympathetic nod. “Plenty of that to go around. You think I could talk to any of these people?”
“We don’t take their names. But the guy who used to work for her comes in here sometimes. I could give you his name and number.”
“The one she fired?”
“Uh huh. He’s training for himself now. Does good business, from what I hear.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand it myself. Would you hire a trainer who was fired for beating a horse?”
“Nope.”
“That’s what I thought.” She wrote the name and number down for me. Asa Majors.
“Ms. Shepherd and her husband run the place?” I asked, fishing.
“Actually, I think she got the place as part of her divorce settlement.”
“Jeez.” I grinned.
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