Roughstock (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) by Laura Crum

lift a leg-and a knot twisted in my stomach. Blue looked very old and fragile, and he was getting weaker. Some day soon, the time would come.
    I could hardly bear the thought. Blue had been a part of my life for so long I almost couldn't imagine who I would be without him. Was this the way Bronc felt about Jack, I wondered suddenly. As if he himself were incomplete, no longer the same person, now that Jack was gone.
    Of course, Bronc hadn't acted very upset about Jack, but then he wouldn't. Men like Bronc felt that to show or even acknowledge emotion was a sign of weakness. Bronc's whole way of being demanded that he deny all vulnerability and be tough and carry on. Yet the old man had been grieving in his own way. I had felt it in my gut, though he'd given no overt signs.
    And Travis, I wondered, how was Travis taking it? Bronc said he had gone to town. Was Trav even now at some bar, drinking himself under the table?
    Blue stumped up to me and sat, leaning against my leg. I squatted down next to him and put my arm around him, rubbing his chest. He leaned harder, showing his appreciation, but I noticed he didn't smile. That dog "smile," an open-mouthed, happy pant, hadn't been on his face in a long time. Another sign.
    I walked slowly up the stairs, accommodating myself to Blue's pace, and let both him and the cat into the house, then went straight to the refrigerator and poured myself a glass of wine. Call me weak-minded, but reminders of mortality always make me want a drink. First that talk with Bronc about Jack, and now the obvious fact that Blue was getting near his end.
    At the moment what I wanted was to forget, and I chose the time-honored method. Three glasses of wine, a scanty dinner of soup and bread, and I rolled into bed in the pleasant stupor of mild inebriation, no longer worried about death or anything else.

 
    TEN
    At eight o'clock the next morning I was driving down the road to Lonny's, Blue sitting on the seat beside me, alive for one more day, anyway. Turning into Lonny's narrow driveway, I pulled up next to his bam. Automatically my eyes skimmed over his two horses, Burt and Pistol, finishing their breakfast hay in the corral nearest the bam, and moved on to the next corral. There were two horses in this pen, too, one bay, one light brown, heads down, nibbling at the last few pieces of alfalfa. I climbed out of my truck, fetched two halters from the bam, and went to catch them.
    Heads lifted at my approach, ears pricked forward. Gunner, the bay, nickered, a deep huh-huh-huh sound, and walked to meet me. A second later Plumber gave his shriller, higher-pitched nicker and followed Gunner in my direction. I leaned on the gate, watching them.
    Gunner looked more like one of the Budweiser Clydesdales than the well-bred Quarter Horse he was. His winter coat was especially thick and shaggy and he grew long feathers on his fetlocks, just like a draft horse. With his heavy black mane and tail, big white blaze and high white socks, he would have fit right into the beer wagon team.
    Of course, I could have prevented all this shagginess by keeping him blanketed and in a stall. But I felt horses were happier living in a more natural way, and in the mild Santa Cruz climate a few oak trees were adequate shelter for animals who had been allowed to grow their winter coats.
    So Gunner and Plumber lived here in their half-acre pen on Lonny's property, next to the corral where he kept Burt and Pistol. The pen was built of brand-new metal pipe panels-panels that had, as it happened, eaten up most of my savings account. But pipe fencing is one of the safest and most trouble-free sorts available for horses, and I felt it was worth the investment.
    Plumber edged up to greet me as I blew into Gunner's nostrils, and I rubbed the cocoa-colored gelding on his forehead, tracing the small white star, at which Gunner pinned his ears jealously. Plumber was much neater-looking than Gunner; his winter coat was fairly short and shiny, and