Charlotte didn’t answer for a moment. Then, she glanced away from Viking in order to glare bitterly at her father. “You know he hasn’t eaten since you killed his mother.”
“It had to be done. It wasn’t my decision. The authorities demanded it. Carpia savaged Ulrik. It’s a miracle that he’s alive, and it’ll be months before he’s back on his feet again... Honey, she didn’t suffer. Dr. Olson made sure it was painless.” His daughter shook his hand off her shoulder. “Charlotte, you’re not being reasonable about this. Your mother and I already explained this to you. That mare loathed people. She was a menace. It was only a matter of time before... well, before something happened. I knew that, and I did nothing about her. I’ll always regret it. Ulrik was hurt badly because of my poor judgment. I just hope and pray he recovers completely from all of his injuries. Thank goodness the farm insurance will cover his medical expenses.”
“It wasn’t her fault, Dad, and you know it. The police said Ulrik had been drinking. You saw the pitchfork marks on her chest, and the welts on Viking. Ulrik went after them. She just defended Viking.” Tears poured down her face.
“There’s no point in going over this again. What’s done is done. The mare’s gone. And there’s no point in blaming me. You heard what the animal control officer concluded. He said she had to be put down because this wasn’t an isolated incident. She had a documented history of harming people. Carpia determined her own fate. They would have taken her away and destroyed her if I hadn’t had Dr. Olson do it here.”
“Why didn’t you let me stay here when Dr. Olson... when he did it?” The volume of her voice rose with anguish.
He took a deep breath, praying for patience. He was simply uncomfortable dealing with her when she was so emotional. He felt guilty enough as it was. “I told you what was going to happen. I didn’t think it was necessary or helpful for you to watch her be put down.”
“It’s just so... so awful, Daddy.”
She was completely beside herself, and Kurt wasn’t sure what to do. Hesitantly, he reached out and pulled her close. She hugged him fiercely, crying into his chest. “I know, honey. I know.” He continued to hold her wishing he could take away her pain, help her to forget their tragedy. This had proven a brutally hard lesson on the realities of the horse world for Charlotte. He glared at the black colt that stood with his rump towards them, his head turned into the corner. It would be nearly impossible for any of them to forget with this living, breathing reminder in the barn.
Slowly, Charlotte’s sobs subsided. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she swiped at her dripping nose with her sleeve. Her damp hair clung lankly to her cheeks and neck.
“That’s better now. Come on, your mother will be wondering where we are.”
“I want to stay here with Viking for a little while.”
“No, Charlotte. I don’t want you getting attached to this one.”
“I just want to try to get him to eat. He hasn’t touched his hay or grain, and I don’t think he’s been drinking.”
“He’s a little young to be weaned, but he should do well enough once he... accepts the way things are. All right,” he tapped his daughter on the nose. “But don’t stay down here all night. And be careful. That colt could have his mother’s disposition.”
“No, he doesn’t! Look how weak he is, Dad.”
Kurt didn’t respond. How could he explain to his daughter that he wanted to get rid of this black colt as soon as possible? Though he hated to admit it, even to himself, a part of him wished the colt wouldn’t recover. After all, he could never be the breeding stallion of whom they had all dreamed. Carpia’s crime had doomed her son. The Danish Warmblood and Holsteiner breed associations were notorious sticklers for demanding the stallions they approved not only had good temperaments themselves, but also threw good temperaments in their offspring. Kurt couldn’t imagine either breed association giving serious consideration for approval to a stallion with such a heritage. They wouldn’t want to risk disseminating Carpia’s temperament through their bloodlines. Kurt wished Viking could just disappear.
Chapter Six
Days went by then a week, and still the black colt refused to eat or to cooperate in any other way. Viking’s ribs stood out and his once shiny coat was now dull and rough looking. Kurt had tried to turn him out with a sweet-tempered, old gelding, but the black colt, true to his lineage, had pinned back his ears, and attacked his babysitter. Chills raced down Kurt’s back when he saw the look on the colt’s face as he went after the other horse. Carpia had often worn that same expression.
The day came when Viking would no longer allow anyone to catch him. He stood listlessly in his stall, facing into the back corner, until anyone entered. Instead of going after the intruder, he just did his best to spin away. Kurt tried to slip the lead rope around his neck, but the colt was too fast. He avoided anyone who came into his stall, including Charlotte, who was heartbroken about the colt.
She brought him bran mashes, carrots, buckets of grass, but Viking would eat nothing. She spent hours in his stall trying to entice him, but he ignored her. Since the horse was growing weaker with each passing day, Kurt was no longer quite so concerned about his daughter’s safety. But the entire situation was extremely difficult. The colt was obviously failing. Perhaps it would be kinder to the colt to let him go. He considered calling Dr. Olson to put him down, reasoning that watching Viking die slowly was not good for any of them. But he couldn’t bring himself to end the colt’s life.
One morning, as was her custom, Charlotte brought the colt his breakfast feed and a handful of sugar. She entered the stall, and found the black colt lying down on his side. Her breath caught and she nearly screamed. Was he dead? Then, she observed the regular rise and fall of his ribcage. He was alive. Just asleep.
Hearing her moving through the straw, Viking raised his head. Straw clung to his black ears and forelock. Groaning, he struggled gamely back to his feet. Charlotte shook the bucket of oats encouragingly. He turned away.
“Why are you doing this? You can’t just give up! You’re going to be a champion! Please, Viking, please.”
With his rump to her, the black colt swished his tail.
Disconsolately, she shoved the bucket towards him, and sank down into the straw with her fists pressed to her face. She was trembling with frustration and pain. Long moments passed. Then, suddenly, she felt warm, velvety lips nuzzling the back of her hand. She opened her eyes, and found the colt standing right in front of her. He nudged at her, his ears cocked curiously forward. She opened her fist, and he breathed warmly on her palm. He delicately caught up a sugar cube with his lips, but contorted his mouth about, trying to accustom himself to the sweet taste and grainy texture. When he had swallowed it, he butted her gently with his head looking for more. She gave him another, then one more, and tossed the rest into his bucket of grain. He lowered his head into the bucket, ferreted out the sugar cubes and began nibbling at the oats. Charlotte sat watching him, her heart full.
* * * *
In the weeks that followed, the black colt made a remarkable recovery. His sides filled out, his black coat gleamed and the spark was back in his eye. Watching him in the pasture was enough to break Kurt’s heart. Carpia’s son was everything he’d hoped for. He was beautifully proportioned with a compact body, short back, long legs and a cresty neck that came out of his shoulder at just the right point. He had the start of a monstrously thick tail that he swished aggressively to express himself, and a wild mane that fell over both sides of his neck. His face wasn’t refined, but neither was it common. It was masculine, with a wide breadth between his dark eyes, broken only by the tiny star. His muzzle was small, and his nostrils, delicate. He was agile and powerful. He was a horse breeder’s dream, and Kurt’s nightmare.
By the time Viking was six months old, it became apparent he’d inherited his mother’s disposition. He showed no interest in other horses except to go after them, and he was immensely difficult for anyone to han
dle, except Charlotte. Kurt decided it was time to get rid of Viking.
One August day, Kurt braved Viking’s teeth to groom him thoroughly and prepare him for shipping. He worked slowly and methodically, aware that this was the last time he would have to gaze upon his shattered dreams. He had already sold the colt to a German horse dealer. Dieter Munzman was to pick Viking up that same day.
Charlotte, who knew nothing of the transaction, was sleeping over at a friend’s house. Kurt knew his daughter would feel betrayed once she learned what he’d done. But when Carpia was put down, it hadn’t helped to discuss it with Charlotte first. He knew telling his daughter that he’d sold Viking was going to be very ugly, and he recognized that not telling her was cowardly. But he had no intention of dealing with this situation twice--once before it happened and then after the fact. And it was for the best. He repeated this mantra throughout the day. This colt could only cause them all more pain. There was no way Kurt was going to risk his daughter’s or anyone else’s safety by keeping a dangerous horse on the farm. His perception of the situation was clearer than Charlotte’s. Selling the colt was in her best interests. In time, she would forget about Carpia’s son.
Hours later, when Munzman’s two-horse trailer pulled out of the driveway, Viking let out a ringing, challenging call. Kurt felt his shoulders sag and his stomach tighten in both relief and regret. It was done. But now he had to face his daughter.
On the following afternoon, as was her custom whenever she returned home after being away, Charlotte headed straight to the barn. Lena trailed after her. Charlotte spoke to several horses as she wandered down to the stall that had been Viking’s. His door was ajar.
“Dad,” she called to her father who was mixing grain in the feed room. “Where’s Viking?”
Kurt didn’t answer, exhaling slowly as he continued to work. He ached with the hurt that he was about to cause her. He stepped back into the aisle.
“Is he outside? I didn’t see him out there when we pulled in. You didn’t put him out with Fascinar, did you?” She continued to peer into stalls, and to adjust halters and lead ropes on stall doors.
“Charlotte, come here, honey.”
“Is he in the round pen?”
“Charlotte, listen to me.”
The grave quality to her father’s voice caught her attention.
“What? What is it?”
“I sold him. I sold Viking. He’s gone. He was picked up this afternoon.”
“You did what?”
“I sold Viking. He’s gone.”
“You didn’t...” Charlotte turned in shocked anguish to her mother. “Mom?”
Lena reached out for her daughter. “Yes. Your father and I did what we thought was best.”
“How could you! That’s not fair!” She stepped back from her mother, fending Lena away with her hands. “He was my friend! You’ve ruined everything! How could you do this! I love him!”
“Though it’s hard for you to understand,” Lena continued, “this horse venture of ours is a business. It was the right time to sell Viking. ”
“You didn’t have to! You chose to! You hated him!”
“Charlotte, he was dangerous,” Kurt pleaded. “There’s no doubt in my mind he’ll get worse as he matures.”
“He wasn’t dangerous with me! You saw him! Mom, Dad, please.” Charlotte sobbed openly. Her eyes were wild and desperate.
Lena met Kurt’s gaze and nodded.
“Your mother and I have decided that because of the maturity you’ve displayed with the horses and how hard you’ve worked, it’s time to get you one of your own.”
“I don’t want another horse! I want Viking!”
“Charlotte, Viking wasn’t the horse for you. You are more important to us than any horse.” Kurt consoled. “I would never have forgiven myself if something had happened.”
“Can you call the buyers? Tell them you made a mistake?” Tears coursed unheeded down her cheeks. “Please Dad! Don’t do this!”
“Charlotte, it’s done. The money is in the bank. He’s gone. That’s all there is to it.”
“I love him! How could you? You always hated him! Daddy, please... please.” Her words dissolved into the heartrending sobs of the completely bereft.
Kurt took a step closer to his daughter. He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off. “There’ll be other foals. Better ones.”
“No!” She cut him off. Her face was wet with tears, her expression, devastated. He longed to hold her, to tell her everything would be okay. But she wouldn’t believe him this time, not when he had let her down. “You don’t understand! Viking loved me, too! And I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him! I’ll never forgive you for this! I hate you!” She turned and ran from the barn.
For a moment, Kurt and Lena stood silently, staring after their child. “That went terribly.”
“Well, what did you expect?” Lena asked in some exasperation. “You just ripped her heart out. I knew it. Why didn’t you listen to me? We should have told her last night.”
“It was the right thing to do,” he repeated hollowly.
“I’m not disputing that. But we should have warned her.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference. She would have reacted the same way, and we would have argued all night long. At least this way, there’s nothing to dispute. The horse is gone.”
“I’m going to go talk to her. You should talk to her, too.”
Kurt didn’t respond.
“You’re her father. She needs you now,” Lena remonstrated. “You took the easy way out by not telling her before you did it. At least be man enough to be there for her now.” With one final disgusted look, Lena also departed.
But Kurt was in no hurry to leave the barn. He wanted to give Charlotte time to work through her first waves of emotion. And Lena was with her. When their daughter was calmer and more reasonable, more willing to listen, he would go to her.
As he finished his chores, he evaluated his decision to sell Viking. It was for the best. The colt was dangerous. Charlotte was too young and too much of animal lover to understand. She would get over it eventually. He had made the best decision for all of them. Hadn’t he?
No Horse Wanted
Shamrock Stables #1
by Shannon Kennedy
Chapter One
Wednesday, September 11th, 2:30 p.m.
One more day, I thought, one more day!
Then, I’d be sixteen and nobody could tell me I was a kid. Not my parents or my older brother or my college freshman sister, who all thought it was their life mission to order me around, just because I was the youngest in the family. I’d get my driver’s license, go wherever I wanted and no one would call me Princess Robin ever again.
Hello, freedom!
All I needed was a car. The one destined to be mine was a classic! A 1968 Mustang hardtop coupe. No convertible for me, not in Western Washington where it rained more than the sun shone. The brilliant blue paint on my dream car shimmered in the sunlight as I approached the Mustang Corral on the main drag in Podunk, USA—otherwise known as Marysville, Washington.
Why had Brenna moved my car out to the premier spot on State Street? Everybody who came into town could see it there and someone else might buy it before I convinced Dad to sign the papers. Brenna knew I wanted that gorgeous car. I’d told her often enough, and of course, I visited my Mustang every day on the way from school to my father’s accounting office. I’d get it for my birthday. I knew it, heart and soul.
I’d talked her down from the list price on the car to fifteen thousand dollars, cash. All I had to do was get my father to agree to pay half, and he was almost there. Okay, so I was his baby and sometimes I played it to get what I really wanted. But, I was a good kid. I might not get the greatest grades in the world and I did bring home every stray animal I found, but I never did drugs, or drank booze or hung out with sleaze-balls. I deserved my Mustang. Once he came up with his share of the buc
ks, I’d use part of my college fund for my portion.
I’d be driving all over the place. My brother might be happy with the beat-up half-ton Dodge pickup he found on Craig’s List and my sister might swear there was nothing better than her 1991 four-wheel-drive Jeep. One of my dad’s clients saw it parked beside a road up in the boonies with a For Sale sign taped to the cracked windshield. My sister still raved about the great deal she’d made.
They could really be satisfied with other people’s cast-offs, but not me. Okay, so my Mustang was more than forty years old and it had been driven by someone else, but it didn’t look like a used vehicle. The previous owners treated my car like the treasure it was. I circled around it, admiring the sheen of the Presidential blue color. Freshly washed and waxed, not a glimmer of dust marred the finish. When I got it home, Brenna’s brother, Harry, wouldn’t be around to keep my car in shape for me. I’d have to do it myself.
No problem. What could be better than washing and waxing my own car? Nothing! Nobody better even think about eating fast food in my car when I got it. That was so not happening!
I headed past the other ten Mustangs, candy-apple reds, canary yellows, a night black convertible, and emerald greens. A real rainbow herd, I thought. Brenna kept the rest of the cars on the sides and toward the back of the lot. I spotted Harry washing the puke green fixer-upper ’67 model on the far side of the garage. No matter how hard he tried, that particular rig was destined to be what his older sister called the “loss leader.” It needed a new tranny and a rebuild on the engine before anyone could drive it. And who would want to?
Looking at Harry Thornton made my day even better, even if he hadn’t seen me yet. Sunshine blond hair curled to broad, tanned shoulders. He’d changed to a T-shirt and shorts to work here, but he still looked majorly hot. Of course, he didn’t have a clue. He just thought all the girls wanted to sit at his table because I did.
I wasn’t that popular even if I ran track and cross-country. I was blonde, brown-eyed, five-foot-six, and made friends easily. I liked people, well most of them, and they liked to hang out with me. And Harry was always willing to talk to me about cars, especially Mustangs, which had to be the best cars ever made by Ford.