Page 61 of Trickster King

The sling complicated matters, as the filly couldn’t stand without help. Aware I courted trouble, I coaxed the mare into the stall and introduced her to the filly.

It broke my heart watching the foal try her best to clack her teeth for the mare.

“What’s she doing, Dad?” Eddie asked, climbing up onto the stall wall to observe. “She’s making funny noises.”

“She’s trying to tell Mutiny that she’s just a little baby,” I explained, wishing the boy would go to bed rather than join me in having a rough day. However, as Eddie wanted to help save the horses, I allowed it after conferring with his other fathers on the matter.

It’d taken us less than five minutes to confirm leading by example was worth the price of dealing with an overly tired child struggling to understand the realities of the world.

Life could be cruel, but sometimes, sacrifices needed to be made for the sake of another. Sleep was one such sacrifice. Even if we lost one or all of them, they would have someone with them until the end. With a lot of luck, we’d get them all through the next few days. Once back on their hooves, they’d see the other side of life, one filled with sunny pastures and no fear.

The filly kept clacking her teeth and stretching out her head towards the mare. Mutiny cast a rather doubtful look at her owner, who immediately offered praise and a treat. While the mare accepted the piece of carrot, she heaved a rather dramatic sigh.

The second miracle of the day came when Mutiny positioned herself so the filly could nurse, turning her head to keep an eye on the little one.

As the one least likely to be attacked, I got the job of supporting the filly’s head while she drank. While concerned she’d be too weak to nurse, the filly managed while the vet monitored. After a few minutes, the woman said, “So far, so good. Jerrod? Can we leave the mare in here?”

“As there will be people with her around the clock, yes.”

The vet turned her dark eyes to me. “Can you stay with them for the first few hours?”

“I can.” I’d need coffee in copious quantities, but if the little filly needed me around to buy her time for the mare to accept her presence, I would do what was needed. “Do you just want me to keep them calm?”

“Exactly so.” The vet’s attention turned to Mutiny’s owner. “Ready to test weaning your colt? He’s old enough he can take grain, and we can bring him in for sips if needed. We can keep him on the crossties outside of the stall so Mutiny can see him. With luck, she’ll send the colt off on his way and take the filly instead.”

“Sure thing, Gina. It’s worth a shot.”

Sometimes, a mare would take on another foal after hers was old enough to wean—or if hers died. The idea would work or it wouldn’t, but if it worked, I’d have a problem or three on my hands involving the owner. “What’s your rate for loaning your broodmare? I know this is going to make a mess of your breeding schedule if she takes on this filly.”

“Don’t you worry your head over it, Your Majesty. If she’s staying at the center, it’s a hop, skip, and a jump away, and I trust Jerrod to take good care of her. We got the same cursed fungus problem they’ve got here, so it don’t make no difference if she’s here or at my place. I don’t want a penny for helping that filly. She’s a long shot, and helping a long shot beat the odds is my kind of work. If she takes on the filly, she’ll have earned a season at pasture for some rest.”

I relaxed, and I tipped my hat to the man. “Call me Pat, please. At least someone around here might think I’m normal.”

With laughter in his voice, he replied, “Scotty. There ain’t anything normal about a man who takes eight horses away from death’s door in one fell swoop. That vet bill is gonna be something fierce.”

“That it will be, but they’re worth it. I really appreciate you bringing Mutiny over.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll go get her feed, and if she takes on the filly and lets that colt of hers move on, I’ll bring my trailer over in a few days to retrieve him. Hawkins said you picked up some other heads?”

“Sure did.” I pointed in the direction where my five new horses were being treated like royalty by the RPS agents waiting for a turn with the other rescues. “I’m going to see what I can do with a bunch of five hundred dollar horses.”

Jerrod snorted. “Don’t let him trick you, Scotty. I sold him Dynamite for five hundred.”

“Well, she’s going to do well for herself in the royal stables. What are you going to do with a jumping horse, Pat?”

“I’m taking her to the Grand Prix,” I replied, grateful to be able to talk about something other than the suffering of the rescues. “I’m going to do it while disguised. Nobody believes I can ride a jumper. I’ve got a little time before next year’s circuit starts, and with Dynamite? I don’t think I’ll have problems with the qualifiers. I’ll have to watch my points carefully and get into every race I can while tricking the wife, but I think I can manage.”

With a laugh, Jerrod came into the stall, praised Mutiny, and took his time going over the sling keeping the filly upright. “How much can we let her drink?”

The vet heaved a sigh. “The risk of colic is present among other issues, but the reality is, if she doesn’t drink as much as she can, she’ll die. The first two days are going to be the most dangerous. I can take the first shift and monitor her consistently. If I catch the colic as it starts, I can treat it. The problem is simple: there is only one of me.”

I grabbed my phone with my free hand, texted my wife that I needed enough vets willing to do a vigil over the foal to prevent colic and warned her we held responsibility for a loaned mare who was willing to nurse. Within a few moments, my wife acknowledged me, promised our vets were on the way, and that she’d call in some favors for my rescues. Satisfied with the conversation, I returned the phone to my pocket and focused on keeping the filly’s head steady while she drank. Before I had a chance to worry, she stopped on her own. “My wife says the royal vets are on the way, so there’ll be someone always around to monitor.”

The woman nodded. “That’s a lot more than she’s used to at one time. There’s no reason to keep her in the sling for now. She can rest in the straw and be more comfortable, and we’ll use the sling for feedings if we can’t hold her up. Call it every forty-five minutes.”

Forty-five minute care would drive everyone on duty crazy, but Jerrod went to work releasing the filly, instructing me to hold her up until he got the contraption’s straps out of the way. Mutiny observed us, and upon realizing we were removing the sling, she went to the pile of bedding, went down to her knees, and laid down.

If she would tolerate the filly beside her, I held some confidence the last-ditch effort would bear fruit. Taking care with the little one, I brought her over to the mare, cooed reassurances to both, and settled them together.

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