Jazzy lifted his head and looked out the stall. What did he remember? she wondered. This was going to take time. She smiled and thought, Damn the schedules and demands. She could hire more help. This was her life. She’d make the time.
She didn’t know how long she spent in the stall, brushing and talking to Jazzy. It was a stream of consciousness, sharing with the horse all the feelings pent-up about that horrible accident, her fears and the devastation of watching them inject him with drugs. How his legs kicked in the air, then went still. Tears flowed in torrents down her cheeks as she remembered. These were not tears of sadness, but of catharsis. At last, the dam was breaking. Through it all, Jazzy stood stoically and listened. She didn’t want to be rushed or interrupted. This was a private time of reconnection between her and Jazzy. A time to sort things out between them, to remember the past, and to familiarize themselves with the person and horse they were today.
It was Mother Nature who told Gerta it was time to get going. The wind was building up, shaking the leaves in the branches and sending great gusts through the barn. In the distance she heard the low rumble of thunder. She gave Jazzy a final pat, then left the stall and went to close the rolling entrance door of the barn. The air held water; rain was imminent. Then she went about the night check, moving from stall to stall to top off the water buckets and feed the last hay meal of the day. She took note of each horse, his or her attitude and condition, drawing on a lifetime of experience.
When she walked into Butterhead’s stall, she knew immediately that something was very wrong.
Butterhead was restless, shifting her weight as though in discomfort. Drawing closer, Gerta saw she was covered in a fine sweat and her breathing was rapid. Looking around the stall, she found no feces. She went immediately to the tack room and found the stethoscope. Walking at a fast clip, she returned to Butterhead and listened to her gut. She sighed with relief. Noises were churning. But a check of her gums revealed they were pale. Gerta felt sure it was colic.
She’d lost a horse to colic years back because she hadn’t caught it. She’d walked away, thinking she’d check on the horse after doing an errand. The horse had taken a sudden turn for the worse and died. Gerta had never forgiven herself for her negligence. Since then she’d been hyperalert for any possible symptoms of colic in her horses. Taking her phone from her pocket, she pulled up Grace’s number and hit the dial icon. Grace would have the number of the local vet. Nothing happened. She looked closer: the phone wasn’t dead, but there was no service.
“Scheisse,” she swore. Pausing, she noticed that the music had stopped. The Internet was out. It had to be the storm, she thought. Grace had told her how every storm knocked out the connection. Gerta pinched her lips as her heart raced. Time was of the essence. She had to get word to Angel. Someone had to call a vet.
“Don’t you worry,” she told Butterhead. “I’ll be right back.”
Her leg might be gimpy, but she’d have to make it back to the house as fast as she could. Even if it was uphill all the way. She closed the stall gate behind her and walked quickly to the barn door. Grunting with the effort, she slowly rolled the big barn door open just as the sky opened up. The rain was torrential, a whiteout of water that looked like someone standing on the roof was emptying buckets. The pounding on the roof was deafening. She put her fingers to her cheeks. What to do . . . what to do.
Gerta set her chin and went back to Butterhead’s stall, determined not to lose her. Butterhead was swishing her tail and her ears shifted back in warning as she approached. She was in pain and didn’t want Gerta near.
“I know you don’t feel like walking,” Gerta said evenly as she opened the gate. “And it’s a shitty night for it, but it’s what we’re going to do.” She picked up the halter from the peg on the wall and slowly moved toward the horse. Butterhead’s ears laid back, but Gerta continued with calm, measured movements, speaking soothingly to her all the while. She slipped the lead rope over the mare’s neck in one smooth move, then the halter over her nose.
Making clucking noises, she walked Butterhead at a slow pace back and forth along the hall, but it was too short. She needed more room to walk her. Outside, the powerful rain had passed as quickly as it had come. There was only a drizzle now.
“Come along, Schatzi. We don’t mind a little rain, do we?”
She led Butterhead out of the barn, feeling the cool mist on her face. She guided the horse farther out, feeling her boots sink deep into the mud, trampling the grass. She looked up at the clouds. They were rolling fast, bringing the hurricane. Her leg would punish her later, but she had to walk the horse for at least fifteen to twenty minutes. It is what it is, she thought. She could only hope that when she returned the Internet would be back on.
* * *
Angel was looking for Gerta. She had been gone for a long time and no one seemed to care. He didn’t feel right that she—a woman—was taking barn duty tonight, especially during this storm. It pricked his conscience. Not to mention his manliness. The others sat at the dining table and talked over plates rimmed red with spaghetti sauce and littered with bits of pasta and bread. Charles kept the wine flowing, and everyone seemed to be ignoring the rush of wind and the frantic swaying of the great trees outside the windows. If anything, the storm heightened the emotion of the evening, making everyone laugh harder, louder, as if in defiance.
In the family room the omnipresent weather station showed current pictures of the hurricane. Angel watched as the meteorologists traced the cone of Hurricane Noelle’s path. The hurricane had hit the Florida Keys as a Category Four and was now moving north along the Florida coast. He returned to the dining room and stuck in his head. The candles had burned low. The guests were relaxed in their chairs, sated, and their eyes glistened in the candlelight. Angel knocked on the doorframe, drawing their attention.
“Oh, sit down,” called out Hannah with a hint of frustration. “Your pacing is making us nervous.”
Angel looked directly at Hannah. “Come, look. You should come see this. Palm Beach . . . it’s, like, getting pounded.”
Wood chairs pushed back as one as everyone rose and hurried to the living room. They clustered around the television as Charles reached for the remote to turn up the sound.
The news showed pictures of Palm Beach getting the brunt of the storm. Hurricane Noelle was whipping the palm trees, scattering beach chairs and sending them flying. The weatherman stood in a covered patio, rain and wind battering him. He was fighting just to stand as he made his report.
“I hate it when they do that,” Elise said, making a face. “He should just go inside and tell us what’s happening. Do they think it makes it more exciting? It’s just stupid.”
Grace came to put an arm around her shoulders. “Your farm will be fine,” she said in a reassuring voice. “Your mother builds a strong house.”
“No one ever expects a hurricane to hit home,” Elise said softly.
“But look,” Charles said reassuringly, “it’s dropped to a Category Three. Florida has weathered a lot worse.”
“Dad, a Cat Three is still one hundred eleven miles per hour,” said Moira.
Angel looked to Hannah and offered a smile of reassurance. Her Palm Beach condo faced the ocean.