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  “Exactly, to identify the shedders before they can spread the virus.”

  “How long do they shed it?” Charles asked.

  “We don’t know for sure. Some for a few months. Some apparently for years.”

  Walter frowned. “Isn’t there any medicine we can give him to kill the virus?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Viruses are not killed by antibiotics or any other medicine. Anything strong enough to kill the virus will also kill the host.”

  “So you’re saying we just have to wait for his system to fight it off? That is, if it will. Otherwise our boy becomes a shedder.”

  “That’s about it.”

  Maria and Emily had finished restocking the truck and rejoined the group.

  “I thought there was a vaccine,” Maria said, and immediately covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry.” Her eyes showed surprise and embarrassment. She knew better than to break Kent’s cardinal rule that the girls remain silent when he was talking to clients.

  Emily gave her friend the side-eye. “Nice work, Maria.”

  Kent turned to Maria and said, “I’d like you all to meet Maria Castille. She is spending the summer with us. You may remember her as the Clinton College Equine Studies intern who rode on farm calls with me a year or so ago.” He gave her his best stern look. “Sometimes her curiosity gets the best of her. It bubbles out like a burp.”

  Even looking sheepish, Maria’s smile disarmed the crowd.

  “A vaccine?” Dr. Holmes said. “Yes, there is an EVA vaccine. But it has problems. In fact, any veterinarian who wants to use it has to get a special permit. That’s because there is some evidence that the vaccine can actually cause the disease. Also, remember that in Charter Oak’s case a vaccine would do no good because vaccines only block the invasion of a disease organism. Once the bug is in, it’s too late.”

  “Could we use the vaccine on the other horses at our farm?” Walter asked. “Which is worse, the disease or the vaccine?”

  “We could. We might. But usually we try to control the outbreak without it. We’ll be able to give you more info on that after we check out the other horses and get these tests back.”

  “What happens to Charter Oak now as far as breeding is concerned?”

  An uncomfortable look crossed Dr. Holmes’s face. “We’ll have to assume he’s a shedder until proven otherwise.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “First, he’ll remain in quarantine. We’ll inform the office of the New York Breeders Program that his negative status has been revoked. Then, in a month or so, if and when he appears to be healthy, we’ll begin provocative testing.”

  “Which is what?”

  “We get a group of inexpensive mares, test them for EVA to be sure they are negative, then we breed them to Charter Oak. After that, once a month, each mare gets tested for EVA. If any of them seroconverts, that is becomes positive, Charter Oak is a shedder. If not, he’s okay and gets released.”

  “I suppose the owner supplies the test mares.” Walter said.

  Dr. Holmes’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m afraid so.”

  Walter turned and put his hand on Charles’ shoulder. “Charlie, for the first time since we got Charter Oak, I’m glad he’s syndicated.”

  Charles smiled, but without much amusement. “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m also glad you talked me into all that insurance,” Walter added, with obvious relief in his voice.

  “You had to be talked into insuring a horse of this caliber?” Ed Holmes asked, disbelief in his voice.

  “Not exactly. The syndicate did intend to insure him, but for mortality and medical like most other horses. I must admit I was the chief advocate of that strategy. I figured we would save a bundle in premiums.” Walter gave Charles another thankful look. “Charles insisted that the risk was too great and argued, successfully, thank God, that we should insure him for loss of use. The premiums are more than three times as high, but now, it turns out, absolutely worth it.”

  For a split second admiration flashed into Kent’s mind. This was further evidence of Charles’s business acumen and knowledge of the horse world. Then that uncomfortable feeling returned to his stomach.

  CHAPTER 13

  Kent gave the old quarter horse one last reassuring pat on the neck.

  “Domino, ol’man, you’re going to be fine,” he told the horse, loud enough that the anxious middle-aged couple dressed in carriage driving attire and standing a few steps away could hear. “But in the future, you may have to back off this marathon thing. You ain’t as young as you think you are.”

  “Thanks, Doc. We get your point,” the man said. “I guess we figured Domino would go on forever. He loves marathons. He’s been coming here to the Ledyard Competition for the last fifteen years.”

  “It happens to the best of us,” Kent said, trying to keep it light. The owners felt bad enough already. They didn’t need to be scolded. “He just overdid it. He doesn’t want to admit his age. Sometimes I have the same problem. Better have him stick to the ring events from here on out.”

  “We can deal with that,” the woman said. “We’ll help him make the adjustment into old age.” She elbowed her husband. “Like you say, Doc, ‘It happens to the best of us.’ We just want him to be all right.”

  “Walk him until he cools down. The shot I gave him will keep him from stiffening up. Make sure he gets lots of water and electrolytes.”

  They thanked him again, and led Domino away.

  Kent was confident the old horse would be fine. It was the kind of outcome he liked — happy horse, happy owners. Humming Stars and Stripes Forever, he marched back toward the show’s veterinarian station.

  A few weeks had passed since the Charter Oak crisis, and, while he still anguished over Simpatico’s death, the day-to-day routine of his life had pretty much returned to normal. Today was a perfect early summer day, and he was volunteering his services at the driving competition. Emily and Maria were wandering around somewhere, and Aubrey had said she and Barry were planning to attend. He’d find them. What could be better?

  The Ledyard Carriage Driving Competition was Kent’s favorite equine event of the year. It was held each summer on the rolling lawns of the historic Ledyard estate overlooking Huron Lake. It drew the best driving horses and the most elegant horse-drawn vehicles in the eastern United States to Jefferson for three days of show-ring classes, obstacle courses, and a marathon. For Kent, being the veterinarian-on-duty was more play than work since the ailments tended to be minor and there were long lapses for him to visit with friends he saw only once or twice a year.

  He heard the screams before he actually saw the runaway. Instantly, the peaceful murmurings of the horseshow turned into pandemonium. Spectators dove for cover like the crowded street scene of a cheap sci-fi movie.

  The runaway was a young Hackney gelding. Gray. Sleek with Sho-Sheen, running full-on, and wild-eyed with adrenelin. He was between the shafts of a beautifully restored cariole that bounced and pitched behind him. Its rattling frame and flailing reins egged him even faster. Kent could see that the seat of the delicate two-wheel carriage was empty.

  The pony charged through the exhibitors’ area, miraculously avoiding rows of horse vans, trailers, and buggies. Nearby exhibitors held tight to their own horses, speaking calming words, and struggling to control them as they reared and snorted in response to the excitement. One of the cariole’s wheels slammed into a metal watering trough, sending out a low ring like a Chinese gong. The Hackney sped up.

  Kent rose on his toes for a better look. The pony’s head was as naked as a mustang — he’d slipped his headstall. Kent watched the cariole go up on one wheel as the pony made a galloping turn out of the exhibitors’ area and onto a long macadam driveway that led from the mansion’s portico to the highway. If the pony made it to the busy road, there would be a disa
ster for sure.

  Kent spun to his left, and at a dead run he cut between two horse trailers, vaulted a split-rail fence, and pawed his way through a swath of pines that separated the lawns from the driveway. If he could get to the driveway in time, he might be able to intercept the pony.

  He was in full stride when he broke out of the trees, jumped the ditch and landed on the drive a heartbeat in front of the pony that was coming at him like an F-16 fighter jet on a runway. He raised both arms and yelled, “whoa!” But it was too late. The pony was too close and moving too fast. Kent sidestepped an instant before he would have been trampled, grabbed the left shaft as it brushed by, and held on.

  He might as well have grabbed an F-16. He was yanked off his feet and dragged along the macadam, inches away from hammering hoofs and churning wheels.

  He shouted, whoa! half a dozen more times, but it was useless.

  If he could use his body weight to turn the panicked pony, he might be able to prevent the horse-automobile crash that no doubt would occur if they reached the highway.

  He leaned out, letting his legs scrape along the ground to increase drag. It started to work. The pony veered to the left a few degrees, and may even have slowed.

  If they had just had a few more feet — but they didn’t.

  Steel clad hooves skated onto the macadam surface. Cars parked on the shoulder blocked their way a few yards ahead. Kent held a split-second longer, then released, rolled to avoid the cariole’s wheels, and came up in the ditch just in time to witness the spectacular crash.

  The pony jumped in a valiant attempt to clear a parked Lexus. He went up, in Grand National form, and had enough height that he probably would have made it over the hood, had it not been for the carriage he had in tow. It caught on the car’s front quarter panel. The pony stopped dead in mid-flight, then crashed down and through the windshield.

  Kent groaned and looked away, then back.

  The pony’s struggling made it worse. Horse blood, auto glass, and cariole splinters flew in all directions.

  Kent ignored his skinned palms and the aches that were exploding all over his body. If he didn’t get the thrashing pony’s legs out of that windshield, the little horse would shred himself beyond hope.

  He charged forward, fishing for the Barlow knife in his pocket, as he ran. By the time he reached the carriage, his blade was ready. He scaled the Lexus’s demolished hood dodging hooves and slashing harness like a bushwhacker.

  Get control of the head, he reminded himself. That’s the only way to control a crazed horse.

  When he was close enough, he lunged, grabbing the pony’s flailing head in a bear hug. He pulled it to his chest, and then let his full weight press it to the hood. The pony grunted loudly but relaxed, seemingly glad to be in Kent’s arms.

  Out of the corner of his eye Kent caught sight of a dozen other horsemen rushing to help.

  “Get the carriage out of the way,” he shouted, and held on.

  When he heard someone yell, all clear, he began giving instructions in a calmer voice.

  “Okay. He’s too heavy to lift. We’ll have to roll him to get his legs free, then we can lower him to the ground. Grab a hold wherever you can, but don’t get kicked. The poor guy is terrified. He can put you in the hospital or worse. Ready? On three. One, Two, Three.”

  Within minutes, they had the pony off the windshield and on the grass. To everyone’s astonishment, he was able to stand on his own. Barely.

  Several onlookers slapped Kent on the back, others yelled congratulations, but Kent ignored them. A halter appeared out of the crowd and he helped a woman strap it on the pony.

  He took a few steps back and assessed the trembling, blood-soaked little horse. “He’s going into shock.”

  “I never saw one torn up so bad,” the woman with the halter said.

  Kent manipulated one of several flaps of skin draping from lacerations on the pony’s legs.

  “He’s a mess, all right.”

  Maria and Emily arrived and handed him his grip.

  “Sorry, Doc. We’d have been here to help sooner, but we were on the far side of the ring watching the show,” Maria said.

  “That’s not your fault. I’m glad you thought to bring my grip.”

  He pulled a vial and a syringe from his grip. “This will help the shock,” he said, as he injected. “Anybody know who the owner is?”

  A thirty-ish man pushed through the crowd. He had perfectly moussed, razor-cut hair, and was wearing a crisp Oxford shirt with expensive khakis.

  Kent instantly dubbed him Slick.

  “We are. I mean, she is. Patina Dewey,” Slick said, and he motioned toward a woman behind him. She was a mix of designer clothes, expensive jewelry, and plainness.

  “Florentino,” Patina said, moaning his name. She kissed the pony’s muzzle. With her cheek pressed against the pony’s face, she said to Kent, “I took his headstall off while he was still hitched.”

  “What an idiotic thing to do,” Slick said, and rolled his eyes.

  “He’s always so good,” she said back to him.

  “You broke a basic rule of horsemanship!”

  “How was I supposed to know that someone would let a bunch of dogs run loose?”

  Kent didn’t speak, Slick was saying it all, and being plenty hurtful about it. But for a second Kent’s thoughts shifted to Lucinda, and how she had protested being left at home that morning as he prepared for a day at the show. He had literally had to tug her, whining and giving him every pitiful expression she could muster, from her usual perch on the seat of the truck. He had almost given in, now he was glad he hadn’t.

  “That’s why it’s a rule — because you never know what’s going to happen,” Slick said. “What a mess. What do you think, Doc, put him down?”

  “No!” Patina wailed.

  Kent bent, hands on knees. He studied the tattered legs a moment more. Finally he straightened and said, “I think we can put him back together.”

  Slick grimaced. “That will cost a fortune.”

  “We’ve got to try,” Patina said.

  Slick shrugged.

  They led Florentino carefully to an area of relative seclusion between two horse trailers. Emily held the pony, Maria assisted, and within minutes Kent began the arduous process of cleaning, debriding, and suturing the wounds.

  “Where’s your home?” he asked Patina, as he sewed.

  “Ohio.”

  “Must be your first time at the Ledyard Competition. I think I would remember you.”

  “It is. We thought we’d kill two birds with one stone,” she said, her voice still coated with guilt.

  “How’s that?”

  She squatted for a closer look, but grimaced each time Kent drew Florentino’s skin together. “We dabble in driving horses as a hobby. Mostly Hackneys. Florentino is the best.”

  Kent put in a few more stitches. “So what’s the two birds with one stone?”

  “The Hackneys are for fun, and they add some color on our farm, but our real business is Thoroughbreds. Racing.”

  “Oh.”

  “Actually, it’s my father’s farm. I run it. John, he’s our trainer. He helps me.” She looked around, then nodded toward Slick who was on the periphery of the crowd that had gathered to watch Kent work.

  He noticed John chatting with Aubrey. Too close. All smiley. Too much eye contact. Aubrey feigned interest.

  An hour-and-a-half after he started, Kent smoothed the last piece of tape over the last bandage. As he stretched the kink out of his back, he said, “There you go, Ms. Dewey. He’s back together and ready to do it again.”

  “God. I hope not.”

  Kent patted Florentino’s neck. “Take him home. Have your vet check him in a day or so. I’ll send you with some antibiotics and pain meds, and some notes on what I did.”
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  “I can’t thank you enough, Doctor Stephenson. For the last year or so, John and I have been reading such good things about the New York sires that we decided to see for ourselves. So we entered the driving competition as an excuse to come east and look at stallions for our mares.” Her expression darkened. “That was before our first choice died.”

  “Simpatico, you mean.”

  “Yes, terrible news. Then we heard about Charter Oak.” She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “I guess as long as we’re here we’ll look around, but I’m afraid it’s back to Kentucky. Again. Too bad, I’m getting tired of their bloodlines and their hubris.”

  Kent’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to give you a little free advice — don’t be too quick to give up on New York horses. Yeah, we lost Simpatico and Charter Oak may be out, but the New York breeding program wasn’t built around two horses. We can still go head-to-head with Kentucky or any other state.”

  Patina’s eyebrows lifted. “You sound confident.”

  “I am. And with good reason. Funny you used the word hubris. While you’re here, I’d suggest you check out Simpatico’s son, Hubris. He’s at VinChaRo Farm. As a matter of fact, Aubrey Fairbanks, the farm manager, is the one John is talking to.”

  Patina glanced toward her trainer and Aubrey. “Hmm. Maybe he really is conducting business. I’ll go see.” She rose on her tiptoes and gave Kent a peck on the cheek. “Thank you again for saving my Florentino. You’re the best.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Well, I’m glad you are. And thanks for the Hubris tip, too.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  Kent’s conversation with Patina Dewey swirled in his head as he scrubbed himself in the restroom behind the show office. He threw on the spare shirt and pants he kept in the mobile unit — wrinkled, but clean. Emily bandaged his palms and the show secretary came up with some aspirin. Was the New York program that decimated? Could the loss of two stallions have such impact? Would Hubris be able to pick up the slack? “Let it go, Kent,” he said under his breath. He knew better than to try to second-guess the horse breeding game.