Page 88 of Iron Unicorn

“How can I help you?” Aileen asked, climbing over the barricade.

I pointed at my new mare and her colt. “I’m taking that pair, and I wanted a breakdown of the injury.”

“It’s a hairline fracture with an abscess. The abscess should heal well once we can get her on antibiotics, but she was on a countdown to slaughter.”

Right. They would carve away the infection and keep the sound meat, and the animal would go to waste if the butchers had to wait thirty days from antibiotics being administered. “What’s your fee for doing the initial treatments?”

“The antibiotics? I’ll do that on the house if you’re bailing them out. The hairline fracture needs to be stabilized, but the prognosis is good. She’s been staying down, so she hasn’t overly strained her other legs. She wouldn’t be able to stay down much longer, but once she’s stabilized, she’ll be sound enough. The right talents can fuse the fracture without issue. That bill would be twenty grand.”

“It can be immediately fused?”

“Yep.”

Twenty grand was a small price to pay to avoid the long haul some breaks involved. My wallet would scream, but I had a credit card capable of handling the entire fee. “How long to make her trailer ready?”

“Three hours.”

I dug out my wallet, and as I had a mean streak ten miles wild and wanted to get a jab in the Montana monarchs for their contribution into my trip to Texas, I handed over the royal family credit card, my RPS business card, and the business card with the palace address on it, instructing her to use the palace address for billing purposes. “Thank you, Aileen. I’m Terry, and if you know a promising horse I can take home that’ll be ready for training sooner than later, I’d love if you helped me out.”

Aileen smiled, took my cards, and said, “I’ll process the payment for the vetting and get to work. Ah. RPS. That explains a lot. The mare and colt might be good for your line of work, though your kind tend to favor quarters.”

“They’re going to be freeloaders,” I admitted.

She laughed at that. “You haven’t checked their papers, have you?”

“Nope. I didn’t see a need to. I’ve got Eddie with me, and I’m saving you a whole lot of drama.”

Aileen crossed her eyes. “Good lord alive. I’m going to shave off some of that bill just for that. Where is that brat? I swear. Every time he comes, he makes a fuss.”

I bet he did. Grinning, I pointed in the direction I’d sent the royal troublemakers. “I sent him over to look at the other side of the barn first. Let’s remove all evidence of a colt having been in the slaughter pen, shall we?”

“Good call. That horse I was just looking at? Great pedigree and should go far with a good trainer. Her health is good, she’s smart, and she’s a bit of a spitfire. The owner is selling because she doesn’t have the time to work with her. She bred too many, and her last sales weren’t what she was hoping for. She’s also a bit of an idiot, doesn’t know nearly as much about quarter horse colors as she should for someone breeding good horses, and well, she’s a bit of an idiot.”

Bad luck happened to breeders, and sometimes, a large breeding season didn’t equate to profit. However, when a vet called an owner an idiot in front of a prospective buyer, there was something amiss. The color comment made me eyeball the yearling, which had a mouse gray coloration. I did the basic math: an apparent mouse gray with idiot owner who didn’t know her colors likely equated to a grullo. All I’d have to do was check if she had a black stripe down her back or the start of one, depending on if she’d shed out her coat yet. “When is she being auctioned?”

“Her buyout price is fifteen thousand, and her auction deadline is in an hour. She’ll probably go for six thousand on the block. There are a lot of decent animals up today, and the buyers are a bit cool right now.”

“Actual value?”

“Give her a half-decent trainer and six months, and you should get a solid fifty thousand for her, and most of that is on conformation and color.”

I winced at the losses the owner would be taking offloading even for fifteen thousand via the auctioneer. “Sire’s record?”

“You could turn that beauty into a career broodmare without an issue. Her parentage is solid, and both her dam and sire performed well.”

At a minimum, the mare would do wonders for the Montana RPS, guaranteeing I’d have a good home for her if I couldn’t wrangle a spot for her at a New York stable. “Registered?”

“She’s registered,” the vet confirmed. “The color on the registration is undoubtedly wrong, but that’s a DNA test away—one I’ll toss in for free if you decide to buy.”

“Charge her to the card. I’d rather not have to worry about competition, and if someone else had wanted her, they should have made use of the buyout.”

The vet saluted me with the credit card and said, “I’ll have Waylon ring you up for all three horses as soon as I clear the vet bill. Call the number on the Montana card if there’s issues with processing?”

“Just find me, and I’ll get them to open the card.”

His Royal Majesty of Montana would love me interrupting his charity event so I could buy horses. Not.

I’d do it anyway.

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