My Novel

Here's Chapter One. Hope you like it.

Chapter One

The champion quarter horse lay on his side with staring and

sightless eyes. His bay coat shone. It looked as if, in the last

throes, he’d rammed into a side wall of his stall, slid down it,

and died.

His head was tilted up at an odd angle.

For a moment, Connie Holt contemplated the still body.

She remembered the last time she’d seen Woolwine. He was

running joyously in the summer pasture, first in one direction,

and then veering off to run even faster in the opposite

direction, his black tail streaming behind him. This loss of

freedom, innocence and beauty caused her throat to throb—

the prelude to tears. Connie had seen many dead horses in her

work and always had this reaction. She’d learned to swallow

hard and get on with the job at hand. But this death was

especially poignant, for it was clear that Woolwine had been

terrified by what was happening to him.

In the midst of his panic, he’d kicked a hole in the back

wall.

Connie dressed quickly in her working gear. First, she put

on warm thermal underwear, and then an oversize dark blue

turtleneck, followed by a baggy wool sweater. She pulled jeans

over her long legs. Next came comfortable boots permanently

stained with stable muck. When she took a perfunctory glance

in the mirror, she saw that her thick red hair had mutinied

again. Marge at the Clip n’ Curl knew just what to do with it,

but Connie hated the bother of getting her hair cut. No time to

brush the snarls out tonight. Her favorite working hat would

take care of the problem. She jammed on the old Stetson she’d

picked up in Dallas visiting her son, then grabbed her fleecelined

coat, which had seldom failed to keep her warm in many

a dank stall. The wind stung her face as she opened the door of

her truck.

The weather was unseasonably cold for November in

Central Virginia. People who lived in the James River valley

were usually protected from rugged weather by the bulwark of

the Blue Ridge Mountains. If a little snow fell, it generally

melted on contact. The biggest danger was an ice storm and

the inevitable slick roads.

It took a long time to get to Rod’s farm. She drove warily

up US 29, passing wrecks of cars and trucks and frantic people

trying to clear the road and get the injured to the hospital.

Connie remembered it was the day after Thanksgiving. It’s

time to mail the Christmas presents to the kids, she thought.

Danny lived in Texas, Ellen in New Hampshire.

Her thoughts turned to Rod Payson and his problems. At

one time, Payson had as many as ten stallions for breeding

purposes. He trained and boarded as well, so his operation at

Payson Stud was extensive: indoor and outdoor rings, two

hundred acres of hilly pasturage.

Since Donna’s death, Connie had been told, Rod had

downsized his operation. But he had hung on to Woolwine, his

most valuable horse. Everyone knew about Rod’s prize stallion

and how much he was worth. Jase Tyree had documented the

horse’s superb condition. Cary had approved coverage for a

quarter of a million, based on Woolwine’s show record as a

three-time prize winner of the Grand National Quarter Horse

Competition, and his projected stud honors. Connie’s mind

was full of questions. How could such a healthy horse die? Who is the

dead man? How does he fit in?

Connie turned onto the series of steep and winding roads

that led toward the mountains and Rod’s farm. In summer, the

mountain ridges were covered with lush, blue-green vegetation.

Driving within their confines made her feel serene and

protected. But she didn’t like the blue mountains in

November. In winter’s icy sterility, they inspired only

melancholy.

A police car with flashing lights and idling motor was

parked in front of the show barn where Rod kept Woolwine.

Someone had turned on all the lights in the barn, and the

unaccustomed blaze of light when it should have been quiet

and dark was confusing the animals. They moved restlessly and

poked wondering heads over the half doors of their stalls.

Connie walked down the central aisle to Woolwine’s large

stall. Two policemen were whispering to one another over the

body of a dead man huddled in one corner. Rod was kneeling

beside Woolwine, his hand still caressing the animal’s soft coat.

“Excuse me,” she said to the policemen from the door of

the stall, “I’m Connie Holt from McCutcheon Equine

Insurance. I’ve come to look at Woolwine.” One of the men

waved her in.

She caught a glimpse of the dead man’s shattered head, red

and pulpy, before she knelt beside Rod. The familiar odor of

hay, manure, and horseflesh hung over the stall, but to it had

been added the smell of blood from the man’s body and the

cigarette-permeated coats of the police. Must be about forty degrees

in here, Connie thought.

She glanced at the side of Rod’s face. The twisting scars

with hypertrophic tissue were plainly visible. He’d taken a

terrible pounding from a stallion a few years earlier. Surgeons

at the University of Virginia Health Sciences Center had

managed to put that side of his face back together again, but

hadn’t predicted Rod’s tendency to scar badly. With Donna’s

care, he’d endured the surgery, the pain, and even the mirror’s

reflection. In lucid moments away from the Demerol, he’d told

Donna how to keep their business together. When he was

finally able to give up the painkiller, he went right back to his

office and the stables.

Last spring, Donna had died from a quick-growing cancer.

Rod still couldn’t adjust to her absence. At the McCutcheon

office, people heard he’d become silent, apathetic, and easily

distracted.

Before Donna’s death, Rod looked after every detail of his

successful breeding farm. Tall and powerfully muscled, he

often delighted in breaking his colts himself. He’d loved

Donna without reservation. His pride in his wife and in his

farm extended to his cultural heritage. He was descended from

the Monacans, the first people in Albemarle and Amherst

counties. The ancient Monacans had hunted, fished, and mined

copper. Modern-day Monacans still lived close to the sacred

Bear Mountain near the town of Amherst.

Rod straightened and moved away. His shoulders drooped

with the terrible weariness of depression.

“Go ahead, Connie,” he said.

After a moment’s contemplation of the body, she

swallowed hard and began the careful visual scan that always

started her investigation. She wanted to examine the horse and

his stall as thoroughly as possible before Jase Tyree came.

The policemen finished their discussion, and waited for her

to tell them what she found.

“His femur appears to be broken,” she said. Rod nodded.

“Looks like something happened to him and he panicked. He

kicked that hole in the wall, breaking his femur, and then slid

down into the straw. The postmortem might show more.”

“I did rounds at seven last night,” Rod said. “He was fine

then. I walked through the stables again around two thirty.”

“Why did you make another inspection?” asked the older

policeman. “Did you expect any trouble? Have you had a

problem with intruders?”

“I haven’t been sleeping well so I often get up and walk

through the barns. There haven’t been any prowlers, no,

nothing like that.

“I found Woolwine and Job, there.” He nodded toward the

man’s body. “Called the police, my insurance company, and

Jase Tyree, my vet.”

The younger policeman now asked, “So you know who the

dead man is, Mr. Payson?”

“Yes. It’s Job. Job Hoskins.”

“How do you know? His face is pretty bad.”

“By his size, that old barn coat he always wore, and oh yes,

that earring,” said Rod. His face was sad. “I always meant to

ask him where he got that earring.”

“What would he be doing in the stall? Does he work here?”

“Yes, but he’s only temporary. He’s a,” Rod paused,

swallowed and said, “was a wanderer. Came through here every

winter, must be ten or eleven years now. I gave him odd jobs;

come spring, he moved on. He told me once he had no kin.

Never left an address or telephone number, so I couldn’t

contact him.”

“Where was he sleeping?”

“In the bunkhouse. My hands only come during the day, so

he had it all to himself.”

“Mr. Payson, could this man have tried to hurt the horse?”

“Oh no, he loved horses. My guess is he heard Wooley in

trouble, went in to calm him down, and was killed. Poor old

man.”

The officer nodded. “Without anyone to claim him, he’ll

have to go to potter’s field in Lynchburg.”

“I’ll see to it he’s taken care of, funeral and burial,” said

Rod. “After all, he worked for me a long time. I’ll sign any

papers you need.”

“All right. An investigator and medical examiner are on the

way, but it seems pretty clear what happened to Mr. Hoskins.”

“If the medical examiner and everyone else agree, I’ll call a

funeral home in Amherst to come and get Job.”

“The horse is another matter. We’ll wait around for Dr.

Tyree to tell us what he finds out.”

Connie heard Jase’s lumbering old pickup in the drive and

straightened her aching back. She had withdrawn to an empty

corner by the time Jase entered the stall and, after a startled

look at the man’s body, knelt by Woolwine.

Throwing back the hood of his down jacket, he brushed the

hair from his forehead. He looked briefly at the horse,

betraying no emotion at the trauma of the horse’s final

moments. Rod, Connie, and the two cops stood awkwardly,

watching Jase’s thin-fingered clever hands move slowly over

the animal’s body.

winter, must be ten or eleven years now. I gave him odd jobs;

come spring, he moved on. He told me once he had no kin.

Never left an address or telephone number, so I couldn’t

contact him.”

“Where was he sleeping?”

“In the bunkhouse. My hands only come during the day, so

he had it all to himself.”

“Mr. Payson, could this man have tried to hurt the horse?”

“Oh no, he loved horses. My guess is he heard Wooley in

trouble, went in to calm him down, and was killed. Poor old

man.”

The officer nodded. “Without anyone to claim him, he’ll

have to go to potter’s field in Lynchburg.”

“I’ll see to it he’s taken care of, funeral and burial,” said

Rod. “After all, he worked for me a long time. I’ll sign any

papers you need.”

“All right. An investigator and medical examiner are on the

way, but it seems pretty clear what happened to Mr. Hoskins.”

“If the medical examiner and everyone else agree, I’ll call a

funeral home in Amherst to come and get Job.”

“The horse is another matter. We’ll wait around for Dr.

Tyree to tell us what he finds out.”

Connie heard Jase’s lumbering old pickup in the drive and

straightened her aching back. She had withdrawn to an empty

corner by the time Jase entered the stall and, after a startled

look at the man’s body, knelt by Woolwine.

Throwing back the hood of his down jacket, he brushed the

hair from his forehead. He looked briefly at the horse,

betraying no emotion at the trauma of the horse’s final

moments. Rod, Connie, and the two cops stood awkwardly,

watching Jase’s thin-fingered clever hands move slowly over

the animal’s body. winter, must be ten or eleven years now.

I gave him odd jobs; come spring, he moved on. He told me once

 he had no kin. Never left an address or telephone number, so I couldn’t

contact him.

”“Where was he sleeping?"

"In the bunkhouse. My hands only come during the day, so

he had it all to himself.”

“Mr. Payson, could this man have tried to hurt the horse?”

“Oh no, he loved horses. My guess is he heard Wooley in

trouble, went in to calm him down, and was killed. Poor old

man.”

The officer nodded. “Without anyone to claim him, he’ll

have to go to potter’s field in Lynchburg.”

“I’ll see to it he’s taken care of, funeral and burial,” said

Rod. “After all, he worked for me a long time. I’ll sign any

papers you need.”

“All right. An investigator and medical examiner are on the

way, but it seems pretty clear what happened to Mr. Hoskins.”

“If the medical examiner and everyone else agree, I’ll call a

funeral home in Amherst to come and get Job.”

“The horse is another matter. We’ll wait around for Dr.

Tyree to tell us what he finds out.”

Connie heard Jase’s lumbering old pickup in the drive and

straightened her aching back. She had withdrawn to an empty

corner by the time Jase entered the stall and, after a startled

look at the man’s body, knelt by Woolwine.

Throwing back the hood of his down jacket, he brushed the

hair from his forehead. He looked briefly at the horse,

betraying no emotion at the trauma of the horse’s final

moments. Rod, Connie, and the two cops stood awkwardly,

watching Jase’s thin-fingered clever hands move slowly over

the animal’s body.

The hopelessness of her love for Jase washed over her, and

she thought again, as she had many times in his presence, Why

can’t I just stop loving him?

Over six feet tall and rail-thin, the vet worked too many

hours a day, wrestling with obstinate horses all over Central

Virginia and operating his clinic in Monroe, an unincorporated

area between the City of Lynchburg and the Town of Amherst.

With broad shoulders, small waist, and long legs, a high energy

level, and irreverent sense of humor, he had retained

everything attractive about young men, even though he was

almost forty-five. Now, watching him work, she noticed his

taut facial muscles, compressed lips, strained face. His hands

had a slight tremor.

It must be Les, she thought.

Jase had married Leslie Scott Wingfield two years ago after a

courtship of six months. Before he’d become infatuated with

Les, Connie had met him many times in her work. They had

even dated for a while.

His energy always seemed inexhaustible. While he had

always expressed his sadness over an animal’s problem in

private, he was highly professional at the scene, staying in an

uncomfortable stall as long as it took to form a working

hypothesis.

She wanted to take him back to her house and hold him in

her arms until he slept away whatever it was transforming him

into the tight-lipped, strung-out man she saw.

After a few minutes, Rod admitted to the police, “I’m wiped

out. All right if I go back to the house?”

They nodded.

“You know where I’ll be if you need me again,” said Rod.

“Jase, come up to the house when you’re done.” Jase,

examining Woolwine’s neck, nodded. “Let’s get some coffee,

Connie.”

“Glad to,” she said. She was tired of her love for Jase.

With careful steps, they walked up the icy brick path to the

long, low fieldstone and timber house. The Payson Labs came

running, barking with excited yelps over the unaccustomed

activity.

“Quiet, boys,” Rod said.

In his office, Rod excused himself to get the coffee. The

dogs threw themselves down. Connie found a leather wing

chair. She noticed that the stained Oriental rug was dusty, as

were the shelves on either side of the stone fireplace and the

trophies that graced them.

Rod returned with steaming mugs on an antique black metal

toleware tray. His large hands almost obscured the painted

pattern of purple violets and pink ribbons.

It was clear he didn’t want to talk. The two sat quietly,

sipping coffee, until they heard the front door slam.

Jase came in, white with fatigue, and without sitting down,

said abruptly, “I don’t know what to tell you. Wooley was

obviously frightened by something and panicked. I wonder

what could have scared him. You know, Rod, Wooley was

sometimes spooked by small animals. I remember a couple of

times when a feral cat got into his stall. Could you have left the

doors to the barn open so something could get in?”

Rod looked uncertain, ran a hand over his stubbled chin. “I

can’t remember whether they were open or not. Ever since

Donna…oh, God, I just can’t remember. Hard to believe an

outside animal could cause him to do that much damage to

himself, Jase, even though he was pretty high-strung.”

“I’ll do the post later today. But I don’t think it will show

anything wrong with the way he died.”

“I hope you’re right about that. If not, I’m in for a hell of a

time. Wooley was insured for a lot of money. I don’t know

what I’ll do if Cary doesn’t pay.”

“By the way, the medical examiner and detective showed

up. I told them the same thing I told you about Wooley.”

“Are they still out there?”

“Yes,” said Jase.

“I’ll just sit here and wait for them to ring the bell,” said

Rod. “Thanks for coming, Connie, Jase.”

“Try and get some sleep, Rod,” said Connie. “I’ll talk to

Cary later today.”

“I’m so sorry, Rod,” said Jase.

Jase and Connie walked to their trucks.

“Hell of a thing,” said Jase.

“Yes. See you, Jase.”

“You bet, Con.”

They maneuvered their trucks slowly down the long, icy

drive to US 29 and drove home, Jase to Monroe, Connie to

Bedford County.

Neither man had asked Connie what she thought about the

cause of Woolwine’s death. Usually she was angry if people in

a case she was investigating gave no credence to her informed

opinion, and she made sure they listened to her before she left

the scene.

This time, she was glad no one had asked.