The faint scent of Mace lingered in the air, that peculiar spicy aroma that came from its source—the outer layer of nutmeg seeds. But the barn was so quiet I could hear the horses breathing, their rhythms as uncertain as the feeling that wound through my heart. All my life, I’d managed to muscle through trouble, always fighting. And winning. But lately I was realizing that my problems were getting bigger and my self-sufficiency smaller. I needed help. Real help. And standing among the snorting animals, when I closed my eyes to pray, my mind felt fuzzy from last night’s crying jag. From this morning’s blitzkrieg by an arson inspector and Hurricane Yuck. There was nobody to talk to about it, except an invisible element that was more real than what I could see or touch. It was the one who rescued me, who redeemed me, who saw each loose end, every question, all my worries—and knew every answer. I would never be able to explain it in rational terms, but when I was at my worst, that was when I clearly saw Jesus. The greatest inverse relationship in the universe: when I was weak, He was strong.
But He wasn’t a piñata. He was a mystery. And for all my pleading, the dots still refused to connect. When I opened my eyes, the horses were staring at me. And my stomach was growling. My breakfast sandwiches were inside my Coach bag. The foil was still warm. Unfortunately, the food had also warmed up the can of Coca-Cola I stashed in there, for emergencies, in spite of a long lecture from my wardrobe buyer Lucia Lutini. I turned my body to shield the expensive leather and popped the can’s aluminum tab.
One of the horses smacked his lips. He was cinnamon colored, and his long tongue swabbed over his whiskers. Then he smacked again, stretching out for the can.
“No way,” I told him. “Y’all are in enough trouble already.”
“Who’s in trouble?”
I jumped.
Ashley Trenner came around the corner. Her head was once again tilted with curiosity, draping the long platinum hair. “Who are you talking to?”
I lifted the Coke sheepishly. “I think that horse wanted some.”
“Oh, Henry.” She laughed and walked over to him. “This guy is Henry the Ate. All he thinks about is food.”
She reached out to pet him. The horse flicked her hands away, lunging for her neck. He knocked her off balance, but she only laughed. Gathering her hair with one hand, she presented the golden strands like a sheaf of wheat. Henry drew back his whiskery lips and started chewing.
Apparently my thoughts were written on my face.
“I know, crazy, huh?” she said. “It’s my strawberry shampoo. Drives him crazy.”
After Henry had finished grazing on her hair, Ashley wiped his saliva on her jeans. She gave him a pat on the nose, then picked up the bucket that Bello had tripped over. Henry eyed her hungrily as she filled the bucket at a spigot. She poured cold water into the deep hanging basins beside each stall. And she made a point of touching each horse. Brushing necks, scratching softly, murmuring words. I stood back, eating my breakfast and enjoying that vicarious pleasure that comes from seeing someone enjoy their work. Doing what they felt born to do. She was breathing hard but moving efficiently, now pulling hay from rectangular bales stacked against the wall, stuffing it into small nets. The horses gazed at her adoringly, like children watching for a favorite teacher. Except Henry. Having finished his water, he torqued his brown neck, snuck his nose under the empty metal basin, and flung it. The tin clattered across the barn floor.
Ashley turned, smiling. “Oh, Henry. You are such a handful.”
Grabbing the nets, she carried the hay down the gallery. But just like that first night, when I saw her struggling to make the hooks, she seemed surprised that her jumps didn’t make the hooks. She was breathing harder, her face flushed with effort. And I noticed a small potbelly that didn’t go with the rest of her lean physique.
I said, “You want me to help?”
She startled and turned suddenly. Transported by work and love, she had forgotten about me. But it was even more than that. She seemed woozy and put a hand on the wall to steady herself. I rushed over. Her pupils were dilating, black ink seeping into the blue ocean.
I took the nets from her hands. “Are you all right?”
“I just . . . need to sit down.” She sagged against the wall. Henry turned, licking his lips, but Ashley was out of his reach. I watched her carefully. She looked tired, weary, but otherwise all right. I took the nets and began hooking them beside the stalls. They didn’t weigh much, but the alfalfa scent of the hay was as green and cruciferous as broccoli. One of the horses, dark brown with a white spot on his forehead, nodded, as if thanking me before he bit at the net, pulling out the stiff stalks and chewing.
“I hate being this short,” Ashley said. “And I’m getting fat.”
“You look plenty healthy.” I hooked another net and wondered if she was one of those girls who tortured themselves to be skinny. I hoped not.
She reached over, picking up Henry’s basin. She walked over to the spigot, filled the water bucket, and gave Henry another full drink. She brushed his nose. “You can finally get rid of your thirst, Henry. That’s the good news. You can drink all the water you want.”
I hooked another net. “He couldn’t before?”
She shook her head. “Ever run on a full stomach?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Exactly.” She looked over her shoulder, down the gallery, waiting a moment. Then: “But Jimmy used to do mean stuff to them too. Like restrict their water for days, then let them drink until their stomachs were almost bursting. Right before a race.”
I phrased my next question carefully. “Wouldn’t that slow them down?”
She nodded.
Only two nets remained. I moved slowly. One subtle way to fix a race was to water-log a horse. No drugs, no evidence. Just a lot of urine. “Ashley, can I ask you something? What was in that brown bag?”
“The bag?” She reached up to her face, picking at a small red sore.
“Mr. Yuck said something about snake venom.”
She glanced over her shoulder again.
“I’m just curious,” I added. “All this stuff is so new to me. Aunt Eleanor wants me to learn everything.”
Her voice came at a whisper, but heated and urgent. “Stop asking questions.”
“I won’t tell anybody.”
“No, you won’t. And while you’re asking me, take my advice. Don’t ask Bill anything. Especially about his mud.”
“Bill—Cooper?”
“You didn’t ask him, did you?”
I shook my head.
“Good. Because he’ll go ballistic.”
“What’s the problem with the mud?”
“Are you listening?” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t ask.”
“Okay, got it.” I nodded. “Thanks for the tip.”
“You’re welcome. Now I have to get back. I told Bill I needed to use the bathroom. I wanted to make sure my horses were okay, after what just happened.”
It took willpower not to press her further. But I couldn’t risk alienating someone who knew so much. And who was now working for Cooper. Hooking the last net, I followed her pink shirt down the short gallery to Hot Tin. Juan was leading Stella Luna, saddled, and Cooper waited at the other end of the gallery. Tony Not Tony stood beside him. They were arguing, their voices loud.
“Try five percent,” said Tony. “At that price, you’re stealing from me.”
Ashley picked up the rake outside Stella’s stall and stepped inside.
“Four percent,” Cooper said.
“Four?!”
I pretended to watch Ashley rake the sawdust. She was catching the clotted bits of wood with the tool’s metal teeth. But her head turned, as though listening to the negotiations.
“Nobody rides for four percent,” said Tony. “He’s got to split that. Which means I’ll get two percent.”
“Better than zero,” Cooper said. “If you don’t like it, go whine to Yuck. He shut down that barn, not me. I got my own bills to pay. Like that stinkin’ vet. If I didn’t know better . . .”
Ashley stopped. She looked up. Our eyes caught.
“What?” Tony said. “You heard something?”
“Doc Madison.”
“What about him?”
“You haven’t noticed?” Cooper said. “The only guy making money this season is the vet. Seems a little weird, don’t you think?”