boy.
Joan Dyer and Liz Hammond came with him to pickthe horse up. He and Liz had always got on well, despite having rival practices. She was a big, hearty woman of about his age and Logan was glad to have her along because he always found Joan Dyer, on her own, a little heavy going.
Joan, he guessed, was in her mid-fifties and had that sort of stern, weathered face that always made you feel you were being judged. It was she who drove, apparently content to listen while Logan and Liz chatted about business. When they got to Cornell, she backed the trailer expertly right up to Pilgrim’s stall. Dorothy got a shot of sedatives into him, but it still took them an hour to get him loaded in.
These past weeks Liz had been helpful and generous. When she got back from her conference she’d come over to Cornell, at the Macleans’ request. It was obvious they wanted her to take over from him—a sacrifice Logan would have been all too happy to make. But Liz reported back that Logan had done a great job and should be left to it. The compromise was that she was to keep a kind of watching brief. Logan didn’t feel threatened. It was a relief to share notes about a difficult case like this.
Joan Dyer, who hadn’t seen Pilgrim since the accident, was shocked. The scars on his face and chest were bad enough. But this savage, demented hostility was something she’d never before seen in a horse. All the way back, for four long hours, they could hear him crashing his hooves against the sides of his box. They could feel the whole trailer shake. Joan looked worried.
“Where am I going to put him?”
“What do you mean?” said Liz.
“Well, I can’t put him back in the barn like this. It wouldn’t be safe.”
When they got back to the stables, they kept him inthe trailer while Joan and her two sons cleared one of a row of small stalls behind the barn that hadn’t been used in years. The boys, Eric and Tim, were in their late teens and helped their mother run the place. Both, Logan noted as he watched them work, had inherited her long face and economy with words. When the stall was ready, Eric, the older and more sullen of the two, backed the trailer up to it. But the horse wouldn’t come out.
In the end Joan sent the boys in through the front door of the trailer with sticks and Logan watched them whacking the horse and saw him rear up against them, as terrified as they were. It didn’t seem right and Logan was worried about that chest wound bursting open, but he couldn’t come up with a better idea and at last the horse backed off down into the stall and they slammed the door on him.
As he was driving home that night to his wife and children, Harry Logan felt depressed. He remembered the hunter, that little guy in the fur hat, grinning down at him from the railroad bridge. The little creep was right, he thought. The horse should have been put down.
Christmas at the Macleans’ started badly and got worse. They drove home from the hospital with Grace carefully bolstered across the backseat of Robert’s car. They hadn’t got halfway when she asked about the tree.
“Can we decorate it soon as we get back?”
Annie looked straight ahead and left it to Robert to say they’d already done it, though not how it was done, in a joyless silence late the night before with the air between them bristling.
“Baby, I thought you wouldn’t feel up to it,” he said.Annie knew she should feel touched or grateful for this selfless shouldering of blame and it bothered her that she didn’t. She waited, almost irritated, for Robert to leaven things with the inevitable joke.
“And hey young lady,” he went on. “You’re going to have enough work to do when we get home. There’s firewood to cut, all the cleaning, food to prepare . . .”
Grace dutifully laughed and Annie ignored Robert’s sidelong look in the silence that followed.
Once home, they managed to summon some little cheer. Grace said the tree in the hall
Joan Dyer and Liz Hammond came with him to pickthe horse up. He and Liz had always got on well, despite having rival practices. She was a big, hearty woman of about his age and Logan was glad to have her along because he always found Joan Dyer, on her own, a little heavy going.
Joan, he guessed, was in her mid-fifties and had that sort of stern, weathered face that always made you feel you were being judged. It was she who drove, apparently content to listen while Logan and Liz chatted about business. When they got to Cornell, she backed the trailer expertly right up to Pilgrim’s stall. Dorothy got a shot of sedatives into him, but it still took them an hour to get him loaded in.
These past weeks Liz had been helpful and generous. When she got back from her conference she’d come over to Cornell, at the Macleans’ request. It was obvious they wanted her to take over from him—a sacrifice Logan would have been all too happy to make. But Liz reported back that Logan had done a great job and should be left to it. The compromise was that she was to keep a kind of watching brief. Logan didn’t feel threatened. It was a relief to share notes about a difficult case like this.
Joan Dyer, who hadn’t seen Pilgrim since the accident, was shocked. The scars on his face and chest were bad enough. But this savage, demented hostility was something she’d never before seen in a horse. All the way back, for four long hours, they could hear him crashing his hooves against the sides of his box. They could feel the whole trailer shake. Joan looked worried.
“Where am I going to put him?”
“What do you mean?” said Liz.
“Well, I can’t put him back in the barn like this. It wouldn’t be safe.”
When they got back to the stables, they kept him inthe trailer while Joan and her two sons cleared one of a row of small stalls behind the barn that hadn’t been used in years. The boys, Eric and Tim, were in their late teens and helped their mother run the place. Both, Logan noted as he watched them work, had inherited her long face and economy with words. When the stall was ready, Eric, the older and more sullen of the two, backed the trailer up to it. But the horse wouldn’t come out.
In the end Joan sent the boys in through the front door of the trailer with sticks and Logan watched them whacking the horse and saw him rear up against them, as terrified as they were. It didn’t seem right and Logan was worried about that chest wound bursting open, but he couldn’t come up with a better idea and at last the horse backed off down into the stall and they slammed the door on him.
As he was driving home that night to his wife and children, Harry Logan felt depressed. He remembered the hunter, that little guy in the fur hat, grinning down at him from the railroad bridge. The little creep was right, he thought. The horse should have been put down.
Christmas at the Macleans’ started badly and got worse. They drove home from the hospital with Grace carefully bolstered across the backseat of Robert’s car. They hadn’t got halfway when she asked about the tree.
“Can we decorate it soon as we get back?”
Annie looked straight ahead and left it to Robert to say they’d already done it, though not how it was done, in a joyless silence late the night before with the air between them bristling.
“Baby, I thought you wouldn’t feel up to it,” he said.Annie knew she should feel touched or grateful for this selfless shouldering of blame and it bothered her that she didn’t. She waited, almost irritated, for Robert to leaven things with the inevitable joke.
“And hey young lady,” he went on. “You’re going to have enough work to do when we get home. There’s firewood to cut, all the cleaning, food to prepare . . .”
Grace dutifully laughed and Annie ignored Robert’s sidelong look in the silence that followed.
Once home, they managed to summon some little cheer. Grace said the tree in the hall
Similar Books
