“Tucker, it’s Zach. Get over here! I think Rosebud may have colic.”
“ASAP.” A vet accustomed to middle-of-the-night emergencies, Tucker suddenly sounded wide-awake. “Be there in five.”
Zach tossed the phone and hurried back to the living room, furious that he hadn’t realized sooner that something was seriously wrong. He’d known the loose, frequent bowel movements were out of the ordinary, but he hadn’t thought for a second of colic. Normally horses’ bowels became inactive with colic. Oh, God. Colic was one of the leading causes of equine death. Not Rosebud, please, not Rosebud.
Zach sank to his knees beside his horse and visitor. Dimly he registered that Miss Bolero was not only doing exactly as he’d instructed, but she was also stroking Rosebud’s tummy, as if she understood the pain the mini was in. That earned her a couple of points, even if she had popped up at his ranch for what he suspected were self-serving reasons. Zach shoved her hands aside to palpate the mini’s belly, which still felt hard. Judging by the way Rosebud looked at her flank, she was in agony.
An awful thought struck Zach. Tucker would assume Zach would meet him in the arena. He surged to his feet and ran to the kitchen, sliding to a stop when he saw headlights slant across the walls and heard a truck door slam. His brother-in-law had made record time driving over from Sam’s place. Tucker hurried in, his dark hair tousled, his rangy body clad in jeans and a ratty leather jacket. A flash of bare chest and a crookedly buttoned shirt offered mute evidence that he had dressed in a hurry. “Where is she?”
“Living room. I was afraid you’d go to the stables.”
“News travels fast in this family. I’m aware that Rosebud is an indoor horse.” He tossed his bags onto the table. “Move her in here on the slate in case it gets messy.”
Zach went to collect his charge, his stomach twisting with anxiety as he gathered her in his arms. Barely aware of the woman who trailed behind him to the kitchen, he realized that he’d fallen in love with this little horse. As Zach set her on the slate floor, Tucker went to work, taking Rosebud’s temperature and pulse, then feeling her belly.
“Symptoms?” he barked at Zach.
“Stomping her feet, stretching like she needs to pee, and kicking at her stomach, all classic signs. I could hear intestinal noises, though. With colic, I usually can’t.”
“Anything else?” Tucker pressed a stethoscope to the mini’s side.
“Frequent bowel movements, all loose, more like cow patties than horseshit.”
Tucker sat back on a boot heel and arched a brow. “That’s unusual with colic.”
“I know.” Zach raked a hand through his hair and dimly realized that his unwanted guest stood beside him, her pretty, delicately sculpted face taut with concern. “But I think it’s colic, Tucker. She’s got belly pain. I’m sure of that.”
Tucker ran a hand along the mini’s neck. “Well, hell.” He frowned in thought. Then he shot a sharp glance at Zach. “You still got the shit?”
“The what?” Zach realized he was getting the mother of all headaches.
“The shit,” Tucker repeated. “I want a look at it.”
“I scraped some of it off the doormat into the outside trash can. Are you kidding?”
“No. Go get it.” Tucker pushed to his feet. “Do you have a bucket?”
“Mop bucket, in the laundry room.”
Tucker was already heading that way. Zach turned to tell the woman to keep Rosebud on her feet. Unnecessary . His guest picked up on things fast, and her concerned expression as she stroked the mini’s belly told him he needn’t worry about Rosebud rolling while he was gone. Despite her pain, the mini was nosing the woman for comfort, and her ears twitched in response to the soft words of reassurance.
Zach rushed outside. Fishing through trash with a flashlight to retrieve runny manure wasn’t a plum assignment, but he finally got a sizable amount scooped into a gallon-size freezer bag. Leave it to Tucker not to specify how much he needed.
When Zach reentered the house, he found Tucker at the sink, filling the mop bucket with water. The woman still knelt beside Rosebud, holding her up with the brace of an arm under her belly and talking softly, as if calming horses in physical distress came naturally to her. As Tucker swung the oversize container to the floor, he motioned Zach forward and jabbed a thumb at the Baggie of shit. “Dump it in,” he instructed.
Zach looked at him quizzically. “Do what?”
Tucker grinned. “We’re gonna make some horseshit soup, bro. Dump it in.”
Zach did as he was told, wondering if Tucker’s brain was still half-asleep. He really questioned his brother-in-law’s sanity when Tucker grabbed a wooden spoon from a caddy near the stove and started stirring the concoction. Rubbing his temple, Zach made a mental note to throw the spoon away later. He glanced at his stranded visitor, expecting her to look a little green. Instead she seemed to be focused on Rosebud, speaking softly and stroking the mini with gentle hands. Rosebud’s eyes were nearly closed, and she leaned against the woman as though she couldn’t get close enough.
Pretty lady, Zach noted distractedly. Normally he went for blondes, but this gal’s hair, glimmering red in the light, was a beautiful color. She didn’t appear to be wearing cosmetics, either. Not possible. No woman could look that good without makeup.
When the poop and water were mixed, Tucker returned to Rosebud’s side, elbowing the woman out of his way. As he soothed the mini with capable hands, he said, “Zach, I don’t make house calls for free, and I smell coffee brewing. Get the whiskey. It’ll be a while before the soup settles, and I could use some Irish coffee.” He opened a bag and pulled out a syringe and bottle of Banamine. After giving the mini an injection, Tucker caressed her with gentle hands. “There you go, girl. That’ll ease you up soon.”
Zach stepped into the downstairs bathroom to wash and disinfect his hands. Then he collected three mugs from a cupboard. “Call me a dumb cluck, Tucker, but why, exactly, are we making horseshit soup?”
“To see what settles at the bottom.” When Zach set a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the table, Tucker poured himself some whiskey. He waved the bottle at the woman, who shook her head hastily and grew even paler. Zach wondered why as he sloshed some coffee into all three cups, then fetched some creamer, sugar, and one spoon.
After mixing his Irish coffee, Tucker settled back on the chair and crossed his feet. “How long you had Rosebud, Zach?”
Zach detached the rein from Rosebud’s harness, looped it over the mini’s neck, and began walking her around the kitchen. Walking a horse sometimes helped with colic. The woman left the table and went to stand with her hip resting against the countertop. “I finished working with the dog trainer a little over two months ago and then started looking for a mini. It took me three weeks or so to come across Rosebud. I’d say I bought her six weeks ago, give or take.”
“You toss her hay on the ground instead of putting it in a feeder or on a mat?”
“Never.” Zach turned. “I’m careful my horses don’t ingest a lot of dirt. We don’t have much sand in our soil, but I’m—” Zach broke off and shot a worried glance at Rosebud. “You think she’s got sand colic?”
“Long shot. As you say, our soil isn’t that sandy.” Tucker took a sip of spiked coffee. “I agree with you, though. Way she’s acting, could be colic. Frequent, loose stools aren’t symptoms. One exception is when there’s sand in the intestines.”
“I’ve never had a horse get sand colic. How serious is it?”
“Like all colic, it can be deadly.”
“Oh, no,” the woman whispered.
Tucker smiled slightly. “On a bright note, though, it’s often easily treatable.”
“I’m sure she hasn’t eaten any dirt. Not on my watch, anyway.” Zach changed directions again. “She loves grass, but I make sure it’s thick and tall, not patchy.”
“Sand can build up in the intestines over time. If her other owner tossed her hay on the ground, she may have ingested
sand, and it could just now be causing her trouble.” Tucker checked his watch. “We’ll give it an hour and see what settles in the bucket. If we find a lot of sand, we’ll go from long shot to probable, and I’ll treat her accordingly.”
Rosebud flopped down and started to roll. The woman leaped forward, and Zach’s heart twisted with fear even as Tucker came to his feet so fast he spilled his drink. “Get her up! Get her up!”
Zach didn’t have to be told twice. He grabbed the struggling Rosebud and forced her back to her feet. When a colicky horse rolled, the guts could twist in a millisecond, and intestinal death would be swift. Many horses died from that complication, even with immediate surgery.
“Hold her there,” Tucker said.
The woman came to kneel near Zach, her slender hands catching Rosebud under the chin and bracing her head. Zach was so worried about his horse that he no longer cared why the gal was there, only that she seemed to have a way with animals. Rosebud responded to her touch with chuffs and grunts, as if trying to convey in horse-speak that the pain in her tummy was horrible.
Tucker snatched a towel and dabbed at his soaked thigh. “Even if it is sand colic, I think we’ve caught it in time. If the preliminary treatments don’t work and she goes south, I’ll open her up and remove the impaction. That can be risky. If the quantity of sand in the gut is large, it can weaken the walls and make them more prone to tearing. But surgery is my specialty. I won’t lose her unless something goes horribly wrong. Just make sure to keep her on her feet.”
“You don’t have to tell me that! This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with colic.” Zach immediately regretted his sharp tone. “Sorry. I don’t mean to snap.”
“I’m keeping in mind you’re plenty upset right now.”
Zach released a shaky breath. He loved all his horses, but with Rosebud, he was beyond upset. Maybe it was because of her size, but he felt more protective of her. “What are the preliminary treatments for sand colic?”
Tucker checked his watch. “Let’s see what we find before we get in too deep.”
Zach took an unhappy sniff of the odor arising from the bucket. The house would smell for days, but it was too cold outside to open a window. Still, it was worth it if they saved Rosebud. For him, the minutes that followed were the longest of his life. Rosebud, relaxed by the Banamine, stopped trying to roll, but even with the medication to ease her pain, Zach could tell she still didn’t feel well. He also knew how quickly a horse with colic could die. Sometimes there was absolutely nothing a vet could do.
The woman rose to her feet and started to pace, her stiff, agitated movements mirroring the gigantic knot of anxiety in Zach’s stomach. At some point, she introduced herself, but Zach was so distracted that he promptly forgot her last name. Miranda. She didn’t look like a Miranda. Big name, little gal. The two didn’t fit.
Cookie returned to the house, briefly informed the woman that he’d fixed her car, and then demanded to know why Tucker’s truck had shot past him at about sixty miles an hour. Zach didn’t have to explain after Cookie clapped eyes on Rosebud. Once assured they were doing everything they could, the old foreman turned to the woman and told her that one of her battery cables had been shaken loose. Out in ranch country, where roads were often unpaved and rough, that wasn’t uncommon. What Zach did find unusual was that the woman didn’t offer to leave when she learned that her vehicle was running again. Instead she hovered near Rosebud, kneeling beside her when there was room, speaking softly in a tone that the mini seemed to understand.
Zach wondered about her motives, but not her concern. It was obviously genuine. He’d gotten several phone calls from people who wanted to purchase Rosebud, but nobody had yet had the brass to show up on his doorstep. Had this lady staged the car trouble to gain access to the ranch proper and make an offer for Rosebud in person?
At any other time, the possibility might have upset Zach. He detested subterfuge and liars. But he was too worried about his horse right then to focus on it. What mattered to him was that she’d pitched in without hesitation, and it was obvious that Rosebud had accepted her. Horses had good instincts about people.
Cookie helped himself to a mug of coffee, splashed in a generous amount of whiskey, and took a seat at the table. Judging by the worried expression on the foreman’s craggy face, he’d become as fond of Rosebud as Zach was.
At last, Tucker carried the bucket out to the porch and poured off most of the water. When he reentered the kitchen, he tipped the container toward the light. “Sand. Not much, only about a half teaspoon. Normally I’m not alarmed unless I see a tablespoon. But she’s tiny, so I’m guessing this is a lot for her.”
Zach crouched beside his horse. Rosebud pressed her forehead against his arm. Zach swallowed hard. “Now what?”
“I’ll start by administering psyllium via a nasogastric tube. You got any psyllium?”
“Out in the stables.” Zach patted Rosebud’s shoulder. “I’ll go get it.”
Minutes later, Tucker gave Rosebud psyllium mixed with water. He chose a nasal tube normally used with newborn foals. Rosebud accepted the treatment like a grand little lady, not resisting when Tucker fed the tube into her nose. Her resigned behavior brought a sting of tears to Zach’s eyes. It broke his heart to think she might die.
“She’s little, man. Don’t give her too much.”
Tucker nodded. “I’ve reduced the amount according to her size.”
“What’ll it do?” Zach asked. “The psyllium, I mean?”
“The idea is to get a lot of digestible fiber into her gut to aid in motility and water retention. Psyllium forms soft stools that move along the intestinal walls. Our aim is to get rid of the loose stools, form solid ones, and get lots of water into her. You ever built castles on the beach? Wet sand breaks apart. To shape a castle you need damp sand, because it packs and forms shapes. Right now, she has perfect castle-building sand in her gut. It packs down like concrete. We want to get it really wet and keep adequate amounts of psyllium moving through so she can pass it. Lots of water, lots of psyllium.”
Zach released a shaky breath. “She’s not big on water. I give her fresh water several times a day, but she doesn’t drink that often.”
“Try room-temperature water,”Tucker advised. “Some horses don’t like it real cold.” He arched an eyebrow at Zach. “You got any Gatorade in the house?”
“Yeah, I’ve got some.”
“You got any strawberry flavor?”
While Zach stepped to a cupboard to check, Miranda picked up Rosebud’s drinking bucket and, without being asked, filled it with warmer water. “Yeah, I’ve got several bottles,” Zach said over his shoulder.
Tucker inclined his head at the bucket the woman set on the floor. “Thanks, uh ...”
“Miranda.”
“Miranda. Right. Zach, lace that with a whole bottle of strawberry. What do you want to bet she goes for it like I do Jack Daniel’s?”
Zach produced a laugh, but it took effort. He’d never forget this night. His hands shook as he mixed Rosebud’s spiked water. He doubted she’d drink the stuff, not with a bellyache. But when the psyllium had been administered and Zach nudged the bucket in front of the mini, she started sucking water as if she’d just crossed the Mojave.
“I’ll be damned.”
“She loves it,” Miranda chimed in.
“I ain’t never seen the like,” Cookie said.
Tucker chuckled. “Stock up on strawberry Gatorade.” He patted Rosebud’s back. “She sure is cute, Zach. Don’t let Sam meet her. I’ll end up with a horse in the house.”
Zach wanted to turn loose of his fear and pretend everything would be okay, but over the years, he’d lost two horses to colic, and he had never forgotten the agony of it, not only for his horses, but for himself as well. “You think she’ll live to meet Sam?”
Tucker began repacking his medical bags. “Truth?”
Zach swallowed hard. “Of course, truth. You’ve always told it to me stra
ight.”
“This little lady is special to you. Maybe the truth is a bit harsh right now.”
“Give it to me.” Zach’s voice twanged in his ears like a taut fiddle string.
“Colic is a bastard. Her symptoms seem fairly mild to me, but if that sand forms an impaction, she could turn in a New York minute.” Tucker snapped the bag closed. “Watch her like a hawk. Continue to dose her with Banamine to keep her comfortable.”
Zach’s brain froze. “How much do I give her?”
“Get a grip. You’ve dosed dozens of big horses. Figure out her weight and do the math.” Tucker studied Zach’s face. “Okay, okay, I’ll write down the amount. Keep offering her water laced with Gatorade.” He glanced at his watch. “Every four to five hours, give her more psyllium.” Tucker jotted down the instructions and handed Zach the paper. “If she turns south, call me. We’ll take her in, and I’ll open her up.”
Zach’s stomach lurched. He stared at Rosebud’s fluffy forelock. The first time he’d clapped eyes on her, that mass of flyaway hair had struck him as being the silliest thing he’d ever seen on a horse. Now he thought it was beautiful, and the thought of shoveling dirt on top of it as it disappeared forever made him feel as if he might puke.
“Cookie, can you spell Zach during the night?” Tucker asked.
“Darn right,” the foreman said. “If he calls, I’ll be back over here in two shakes.”
Zach sighed. “Cookie will have his hands full overseeing the hired hands tomorrow. I’ll just pull an allnighter. If Rosebud isn’t better by morning, I’ll have someone come over from the stable to watch her while I grab some sleep.”
“If Rosebud isn’t better by morning, she’ll be at my clinic,” Tucker stated.
Zach nodded. He thrust out his hand. “Thanks for coming so fast, Tucker.”
“That’s my job,” Tucker replied as they clasped and shook, “and the only thanks necessary is the check you’ll soon be signing to cover my fees.”
Zach managed a shaky laugh. “Don’t gouge me, you mercenary son of a bitch.”
“Ah, well,” Tucker said as he ambled toward the door, “I reckon since you’re my wife’s brother, I can give you a ten-percent discount. I’m less than three minutes away. I’ll sleep with my pants on. If she gets worse, call me.”