Part 2
Walt walked back through the stockyard with the empty part of his wallet pressing against his chest. He passed the equipment tables without looking at them. At the far end of the lot, he had to stop and remember where he’d parked.
He found the truck and trailer beside a row of old implements. The trailer had come along in case he found something else the farm needed. He checked the floor, cleared a loose piece of wire from the corner, and drove it around to the cull pens.
Loading her took close to half an hour.
The broker wanted him to tighten the rope and keep moving. Walt stood beside the mare instead, giving her time to look at the ramp. He spoke whenever her breathing quickened and went quiet when she tried a step.
“Your foot first. The rest can wait.”
She tested the boards, withdrew, tried again. By the time she was inside, sweat had darkened the hair beneath her mane. Walt fastened the trailer without letting the broker touch her.
On the road, he kept one eye on the mirror. Seventeen miles should have been a short trip. He stretched it to nearly an hour and a half, easing across patched pavement and braking well before every bend.
Cars collected behind him. One driver laid on the horn before passing. Walt waited until the car was gone, then slowed for a rough place he knew was coming.
A dull knock from the trailer made him grip the wheel. He listened for another one, watching for movement that would tell him she’d gone down. Nothing followed except the familiar rattle of the empty partition.
He didn’t loosen his hands until he turned between his own gateposts.
The house stood above the fields, with flaking paint beneath the windows and a porch corner he’d been meaning to shore up. Beyond it, the main barn doors hung unevenly on their track. Through one open door he could see Evelyn’s old green jacket still on its nail beside the feed bins.
He drove past.
The big barn was drafty, and every corner held something he hadn’t found a place for. Evelyn had sheltered cats there. One winter, she’d filled the tack room with jars because the pantry shelves couldn’t hold another quart. Walt could still remember her making him promise not to stack tools on the lids.
Behind a stand of oaks sat the smaller shed, unused for foaling in twelve years. Its roof was sound and its walls close-fitted. A damaged corner needed attention, and dust clouded the windows, but it could be made snug.
He parked beside it and left the mare in the trailer while he worked.
There were a few bags of clean shavings in the main barn. He carried them over, broke them open, and shook them across the floor. Soft hay went on top. He covered a cracked pane with cardboard and tape, checked the latch, and rigged a light where the mare couldn’t reach the cord.
When he returned to the trailer, she hadn’t moved.
Walt climbed in slowly. He put a hand against the wall before touching the rope, giving her time to hear and see him.
“No dragging,” he said. “You’ve had enough of that.”
He lowered the ramp and stood at her shoulder. Dusk settled outside. A mosquito worked along his collar, and he resisted the urge to slap at it.
The mare inched forward.
Her first step onto the ramp made a hollow drumming sound. She recoiled, pulling her head high, and Walt let the rope slide rather than catch her short. He talked until she lowered her nose again.
She made it halfway down before the injured leg failed to hold her.
Walt saw her shoulder drop. He pushed himself against her side, trying to turn the fall, his boots slipping at the foot of the ramp. For an instant her ribs drove hard against his upper arm, and he knew he couldn’t support her.
“Stay up,” he said through his teeth. “Come on. Stay up.”
She found a foothold with a hind leg. Her body lurched against him once more, then steadied.
Walt remained where he was until she could stand without leaning. He had scraped his wrist somewhere; he didn’t notice until later. He eased away and let her take the last few steps into the shed.
She stopped on the fresh bedding. Her head hung low, and her sides moved with each breath. She didn’t investigate the stall or reach toward the hay.
Walt unclipped the lead.
“This is where you’re staying,” he told her.
He brought water from the house with the chill taken off it. She ignored the bucket at first. When she finally drank, he held it high enough that she didn’t have to bend as far. Water ran from her chin onto his sleeve.
He offered a little oats. She left them. He softened a smaller amount with warm water, waited, then took that away too.
There would be time to ask for more if she lived through the night.
Under the hanging light, Walt cleaned the injured leg. He worked with a rag and water warmed on the stove, rinsing away dirt in several changes of the bucket. The skin beneath was hot and sore. There was a smell he didn’t like, and crusted places that needed cleaning, but he found no exposed bone or obvious instability.
“Maybe we’ve got a chance,” he said.
He knew better than to call that a diagnosis.
He had spent his life around livestock, much of it on nights when help was an hour away. He knew how to keep a bandage smooth and how to leave room for swelling. He also knew how easily an animal could be hurt by a man who mistook experience for certainty.
He used a warm salt compress gently, then dressed the sore places and wrapped the leg. Once, his fingers crossed a tender spot and her whole flank tightened. She neither kicked nor tried to pull away.
Walt stopped until she relaxed. Then he finished with slower hands.
An old trough, turned upside down and covered with a wool blanket, made a seat. He settled onto it with his back against the wall. Through the open shed door, the kitchen window showed as a dark rectangle across the yard.
Inside that house, the clock could be heard from every room. Evelyn’s chair stood where the afternoon light reached it. He’d taken to sleeping along the very edge of the bed, as though she might still need the other half.
He checked the water instead of going in.
Near midnight, the mare made a low sound and shifted. Walt leaned forward, ready to rise. She set her good front foot in a new place and remained standing.
He stayed bent over his knees, listening until his own breathing settled.
Two days later, a familiar pickup pulled alongside the shed. Curtis Voss sat behind the wheel longer than usual before climbing out. His dairy was a couple of miles away, and he wore the same battered cap to milk, mend machinery, or attend a funeral.
He rested his scraped hands on the half door.
“I heard you bought trouble.”
Walt was loosening the mare’s wrap. “You could’ve heard that about anything I own.”
“Feed store says she’s mostly bones.”
“Generous of them to leave out the dirt.”
Curt looked over the door at the mare. A hint of amusement left his face. Walt kept his attention on the bandage, feeling for a change in the heat.
It was still swollen. It was also a little less hot than it had been.
“Walt.”
“Don’t start talking soft.”
“I can talk plain. You’re late on the taxes. Fence is down below the house. Tractor won’t run.” Curt shifted his forearms on the door. “You can’t afford another thing going wrong.”
Walt laid the old dressing in a pan and reached for a clean one.
“She was already going wrong.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know.”
The mare lowered her head while he worked. Walt smoothed the last fold, checked the fit, and stood with one hand on his own knee.
“I took her on,” he said. “I’ll see it through.”
Curt looked toward the window patch. He rubbed his jaw, then pushed himself away from the door.
“There’s senior horse feed in my barn. Two sacks got split. Wouldn’t get a dollar for them now.”
Walt straightened a little. “I haven’t got a dollar to spare.”
“Then we’ve saved ourselves some figuring.”
He started toward the truck, stopped, and looked back.
“Does she have a name?”
Walt had avoided that question even when he was alone. He glanced at the mare, who stood with her eyes nearly shut, following their voices with one ear.
“April.”
Curt looked at the fallen leaves outside the shed. “Your calendar’s off.”
“Evelyn’s favorite month.”
Curt reached for the door handle without another word.
The feed arrived that afternoon. Walt mixed a small portion with warm water until the pellets broke apart. He held a little on his palm, keeping the rest of the pan out of the mare’s way.
April sniffed, turned her head, and waited for him to leave.
Walt braced his elbow against his side.
“I can stand here,” he said. “Nothing on my schedule.”
Several minutes passed. At last she turned back, brushed his palm with her lips, and took a mouthful. He watched her chew before offering any more.
The next morning, she ate a little from the pan.
After that, the days acquired an order. Water before his own coffee. Small meals spaced through the day. Bedding lifted and replaced wherever it grew damp. Dressings washed and hung along the porch, where Evelyn used to put seed trays in spring.
He learned to check the knee before asking her to move on a wet morning. He learned how much feed she could manage, and how long to wait before deciding she’d finished. One day she cleaned the pan. On another, he found the pressed hollow where she’d rested in the bedding.
When he reached toward her face, she began to hold still without flinching.
Three weeks after the sale, her ribs were still visible and her gait still hurt to watch. But she lifted her ears when his boots crossed the threshold. Once, while he brushed loose hair from her neck, she laid her muzzle against his shoulder and kept it there.
Walt changed hands with the brush so he wouldn’t make her move.
He finally called the veterinarian.
Money had delayed him, and pride had helped it along. April needed medicine he couldn’t supply, blood tests, and somebody who could tell him what was happening inside that leg. When the veterinary truck arrived on a cold Monday near the beginning of October, he was waiting at the shed door with his hands wiped clean.
Dr. Leah Sutton climbed down carrying a clipboard. She looked about thirty-five, with dark hair tucked through a cap and old mud dried around her boot soles. She’d bought Dr. Barlow’s practice the winter before. Plenty of people in the county still spoke of her as though she were filling in for him.
“Walter Dempsey?”
“Walt’ll do.”
“Leah Sutton.” She offered her hand. “Thanks for the directions. Your last bend looks just like the one before it.”
“Most folks drive past.”
“I considered it.”
He shook her hand. “You answered when I called.”
“For now, I’m the doctor and the office staff.”
They walked toward the shed. She noticed the clean buckets, the drying wraps, the patched window. Walt reached for the latch.
“Curt gave me a fairly grim description,” she said. “He thought this might be a visit to put her down…”
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