Page 105 of Iron Unicorn

“You poor sweet lady,” I murmured to her, stepping closer so she wouldn’t have to take any steps.

She sniffed my fingers, and once I was confident she was willing to have me touch her, I stroked her nose.

“We called the vets,” Kasey, the younger of the two men, said. He sighed, rested his arms on the rail, and shook his head. “They might have to take her in for an operation to realign her hind end and begin the process of restoring her muscles.”

“If she needs it, she needs it.” If I didn’t have enough to pay for it out of pocket, I’d work overtime and impose on everyone I could until I got the money needed to take care of her. “What happened when we started the test?”

“Bless her heart, she tried to bust out of her stall. When we didn’t let her out, she kicked a bit. You’ve got an angry mare and a grumpy filly down the way, too.”

A horse squealed, and something thumped a moment later. “Let me guess. That’s the mare.”

“You would be correct.”

I regarded the mare’s hooves with more than a little regret. A good farrier would be able to start reversing the damage, but I could spot where she’d been forced to wear stacks. Aware I needed to contain my fury, I asked her to lift a front hoof and searched for the scarring and other damage associated with chemical soring.

Sure, enough, knowing what to look for, I spotted the telltale signs of scarring from some irredeemable asshole bathing her lower legs in chemicals to force her to adopt the unnatural gait desired in big lick circuits. “Olivia? While I reassure the horses, can you see about getting a farrier out here for the Standardbreds? The others need done, too, but I want to get some of this discomfort alleviated if possible. Maybe call the auction barn for recommendations for a farrier who has handled soring victims before?”

“Sure.” Olivia got out her phone, scrolling through her contacts before placing a call.

Afraid I’d traumatize the horse even more, I retrieved the halter hanging outside her stall and a lead line, easing it over her head so I could take her with me. She nuzzled me and lipped at my shirt, and I praised her and soothed her.

It took some coaxing, but I got her to leave her stall, another sign she’d been used in a big lick competition.

The big lick horses tended to live out their days in a stall unless being trained or at a show.

I went for the mare first, aware she inevitably taught her colt bad habits. I approached, smiled at her antics, and said, “And what are you doing, Trouble?”

The mare bobbed her head, spun around, and came over to the stall door, thrusting her head over the ledge. I petted her, offering reassurances. In time, I would teach her better manners and how to be a true angel of the barn, but she needed some time and the understanding she wasn’t going be dumped.

Olivia followed, and she petted my Standardbred’s shoulder. The mare regarded the woman with worry, and I comforted her before the princess noticed. After a few moments, Olivia hung up and said, “The barn is going to contact the local farriers with soring experience and send one our way. It might take a few hours to find one who can shuffle their schedule, but they promised we’d have someone over today.”

It would do. “Thanks, Olivia.”

She smiled. “Going to name her Trouble?”

“I may as well, because I know trouble when I see it, and she’s definitely going to cause me some trouble. I may as well name her appropriately.” I stroked Trouble’s nose and checked on her colt, who took a nap along the stall door. “We got lucky with him. The auction barn did great by them despite everything.”

“Yeah. They were thinking about bailing Trouble out just to make sure the colt had a chance. Have you checked their papers yet?”

“I haven’t. I’ll review the paperwork when it’s time to export them. I didn’t buy them for their breed.”

“They’re purebred.”

As Trouble seemed to need attention in high quantity, I took the time to give her a kiss on the nose and otherwise praise her for her display of affection. When I tested heading to the stall next door, she cooperated, keeping an eye on me but staying calm. “She isn’t a quarter, an Akhal-Teke, or a Standardbred. She’s not a Rocky Mountain, nor is she an Andalusian or similar. I’d guess European of some sort? She’s got the clean lines of one of those fancy breeds they like in England. She’s not an Arabian.”

“She’s a Cleveland Bay,” Olivia announced.

I regarded the princess through narrowed eyes. I’d heard of Cleveland Bay horses before; the wedding in London had used a carriage drawn by the breed due to their excessive rarity and the monarchy’s historic tie with the breed. I backpedaled and went to stare at Trouble. “Repeat that?”

“She’s a Cleveland Bay,” the princess repeated.

I pulled out my phone, searched for the Cleveland Bay registry, and checked on the number of living horses eligible to be bred. “The breed with only seven hundred stallions and mares left?”

“She was bred via artificial insemination utilizing frozen semen. In an effort to preserve the species, they used semen gathered and frozen from a stallion before the magic hit. The semen had remained frozen until now. The stallion and the entirety of his bloodline died shortly after.”

I did the mental math regarding the situation, and what I determined shocked me enough I could only stare at Olivia at a complete loss of what to say.

I’d plucked a priceless horse from a slaughter pen, one that could revive genetic diversification in a dying breed. I wanted to start cursing, but with an abused Standardbred in need of calm quiet along with the other rescues in the barn, I reined in my temper.

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