The Blessings of the Animals: A Novel - By Katrina Kittle Page 0,6
of grass at the fence line, stripping it in seconds.
“We can get him on the trailer with food,” I said.
“And take him where?” Helen asked. “And what about the two fillies?”
I sighed—I had no choice. I ducked back inside the barn, out of the wind, to dial my parents’ number. I explained the situation.
“Well,” my father said, in his slow, deliberate way. I’d rarely seen him do anything hurried or ungraceful my entire life. “How do they handle? Will they be low maintenance?”
I assured him they had lovely ground manners, which meant I was taking home the kicker. Great. Wouldn’t Bobby just love that?
My father agreed. “Thank you, thank you,” I breathed, giving a thumbs-up to Helen and the sheriff. “Helen’s going to bring them right over, while I take one to my place.”
“Try to beat this storm if you can.”
When we left the barn, the woman screamed at us, “You can’t just steal my horses!”
We ignored her, but I wanted to slap her hateful face. Someone needed to lock her in a cell where she had to sleep in her own shit and eat it if she wanted to live one more day.
Out in the rain, the kicker’s wet coat made him look even gaunter than he had moments before. Keeping an eye on him, I opened the emergency escape door at the front of my trailer and piled an armful of clover hay from my truck into the waiting feed bag. I undid the pins holding the back door in place and lowered the door, turning it into a ramp for the horse to walk up. The kicker whooshed his nostrils at the ramp, which quickly grew slick in the ever-steadier rain.
As calmly as I could, I held a lead rope and reached for the horse’s dangling halter. He shied away from me, then reared. I cursed. A horse should have his lead rope tied to a metal ring in the trailer wall. If he wasn’t tied, he could send the trailer off balance, making it a rough and dangerous ride.
“Motherfuckers! This is against the law!” carried to me from the driveway.
Having the kicker loose in the trailer wouldn’t be ideal, but it would get him the hell out of here. And it would get me out of here and back home to Bobby, where I should be. Where I should want to be.
Another rush of wind slammed several stall doors, along with the trailer’s escape door, which clanged shut with a force that rocked the trailer and echoed in my ears.
I patted my pockets, wishing I hadn’t given away all my carrots. Turns out it didn’t matter, as the kicker saw the gesture and moved toward me.
“You guys be ready to shut this door,” I called.
“Are you insane?” Helen yelled as she saw me step onto the ramp. But she and the sheriff already approached the trailer. The kicker barely glanced at them but followed me.
I slipped on the ramp and fell, bashing my shin on the frame. I felt the cold and wet before I felt the pain, but the pain was secondary to the exhilaration that rushed through me. Get up. Get up! The kicker’s breath prickled my scalp as I scrambled forward.
I got to the front of the trailer and ducked under the measly protection of the hay bag.
The back ramp-door lifted up and closed with a thump. I prayed that Helen and the sheriff got the pins in before the horse gave the door the kick I knew he would.
His kick was a loud, echoing gunshot. I heard Helen’s “Shit!” but the door held.
I yanked the escape door handle that had blown shut.
It wouldn’t turn.
I wriggled it with my cold fingers, the metallic taste of fear filling my mouth.
The kicker turned his head to view me with one eye. I kept my right hand on the door handle. “The door is locked or jammed or something,” I called. I heard quick footsteps in the gravel.
The horse snuffed the pile of hay before him then began to chew. He looked so serene that I believed for a moment I might be able to put a lead rope on him after all.
Then, he turned his head and bit me.
Startlingly swift, like a striking snake, he clamped his jaw on my right forearm.
The pain surged through my arm like heat. I pictured bones crunching in his powerful grip, his teeth meeting, my bones flattened between them.