Page 104 of Brighton

“In what way?” I call from inside the trailer as I ready it for transport.

“They’re thin and skittish and—” His words cut off mid-sentence.

His eyes cut back and forth against the ground. I see the green vine, one that wasn’t there during the months of drought. I follow it and Braxton around the barn and back toward the open pasture land behind the barn.

“Shit.” I missed it. How did I fucking miss it?

“Yeah. Think he knew?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. But I should’ve.” I hang my head, staring at my boots, before lifting my chin to the sky and releasing a deep-buried scream.

Potatoes.

Fucking Potatoes.

He was growing potatoes in his garden.

“Glycoalkaloid poisoning.”

“You know that it’s hit or miss based on consumption.” He looks around the area.

I nod, frustrated that I missed something so simple.

“Solanine wouldn’t show up on standard bloodwork.”

“It would if I had tested for it.”

“Bright.”

“Don’t.” I pace away and scream again.

I watched those beautiful animals struggle.

I watched them fight for their lives.

And I didn’t help.

I walk back with renewed determination. We know what it is. I can fix it.

… If it’s not too late.

“It’s reversible. Seriously, Bright, they need a week and should be fine.”

Should.

“Yup. Let’s do it.” I head to the stables and start with the most docile—or most sickly, who knows which—and place the lead around her neck. “Come, sweetie. We’re going to get you well. No more eating bad stuff, okay? It’s going to be fine.”

I’m telling myself this as much as the mare.

We load up all of them, and before pulling out, I walk the property one last time. The garden has potatoes, dead corn, peppers withered on the vine—it is Texas after all, what looks like squash or zucchini vines set to rot, onions shoots, and broccoli. At any point, half of those things would be toxic to these horses.

Either Lager wasn’t paying attention, or he didn’t care. I’m guessing number two. Or he wasn’t well enough to put it all together.

I walk the paddock and pasture calming my angry mind and pissed off heart. When I get back to the truck, Brax has closed up the barn and taken the driver’s seat.

He says nothing, very un-Brax-like, and slowly pulls away from Rich Lager’s house. I don’t have to see that man anymore, or be intimidated by him, or worry. The sigh that leaves me must come from my toes.

The relief is overwhelming.

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