Page 2 of Small Town Hero

I an McKenzie stood on the deck of his modest ranch house, watching as the pickup truck turned off the main road, loaded horse trailer bumping along behind it, and labored up the dirt driveway.

Six horses this time.

Ian strode toward the corral and, reaching it, swung open the gate.

Clouds of dust billowed in the soft heat of that June morning while Knute Carlson, an animal lover and good friend to Ian, tooted the horn in greeting and then maneuvered the truck and trailer, backing up to the corral entrance.

Meanwhile, Ian’s aging three-legged dog, Dub, confined to the kitchen, barked frantically from behind the sliding glass door on the deck, desperate to get out of the house and join in whatever ruckus might arise.

Or to cause one.

Ignoring the dog, Ian met Knute when he climbed out of that rattle-trap old truck and thrust out a hand in greeting.

“Mornin’, Ian,” Knute responded, extending his own hand. “Me and Erma sure do appreciate you taking on these poor critters. Our barn is full-up and the pasture’s getting crowded, too, now that we’re running a few cattle on the place.”

“Glad to help,” Ian replied, his voice a little gruff. He knew every horse in that trailer had suffered, and the thought always choked him up.

Knute gave him a knowing look. He, too, felt deep sympathy for mistreated or injured animals; that was why he did his level best to look after them.

Knute and his wife, Erma, were big-hearted folks, both retired from their long-term factory jobs, and instead of kicking back and enjoying their free time, they’d immediately decided to devote whatever might remain of their lives to rescuing horses.

Ian’s respect for them ran deep, and it was solid as bedrock.

Knute was starting to slow down physically, though, but Ian knew it was no use asking him to step aside and let him, Ian, unload the horses this time around. The old man was too proud to allow that.

Knute grinned, adjusted his battered baseball cap, and rounded the trailer to lower the steel ramp, open the door and step inside.

The horses were agitated, and there was a lot of stomping and neighing going on. If they were stirred up enough to start kicking, Knute could be trampled, cut to pieces by flying hooves, or both.

Ian silently reminded himself that his friend had a lot of experience wrangling horses. Besides, he himself was a paramedic, and his equipment was nearby, stashed in the back of his own truck—but that didn’t do much to ease his worries about Knute’s safety.

Back in the house, Dub was still barking his brains out.

Ian shook his head and waited.

Sure enough, Knute put halters on each of the horses, one by one, and led them down the ramp from the trailer.

Then Ian led them into the corral, where the water trough was full and the feeders bristled with fresh, fragrant hay, removed their halters, and examined them for injuries or signs of disease.

All six of them were mares, which simplified things a little. Geldings were all right, but stallions, especially wild ones, were another matter. In the years he’d been rescuing, training and rehoming these animals, he’d dealt with every known variation—kickers, biters, belly-to-the-sky buckers.

And he’d loved every one of them. Ached inside when new and carefully vetted owners arrived to lead them back into horse trailers and haul them away to a new home.

“You off work the whole day?” Knute asked, once the trailer was empty, dragging an arm across his sweating forehead and readjusting his ball cap again.

“Four days on, three days off,” Ian explained. He’d outlined his work schedule to Knute more than once, but he could see no reason to point that out. If his friend was getting a little forgetful as he aged, well, that was normal, wasn’t it?

“Erma’s hoping you can come to our place for Sunday dinner,” Knute ventured. “I reckon she’s looking to introduce you to another of her younger friends from church.”

Ian grinned, though he was careful not to let Knute see. He was happy with his life as it was, for the time being, and he didn’t see any point in beating the figurative brush for another spouse.

He and Catherine, his former wife, were still friends, though they didn’t see each other often.

She’d remarried six months ago, but fortunately, she still sent Ian’s nine-year-old twin stepdaughters, Mabel and Vivian, to spend six weeks of the summer with him, on his small ranch just outside of Copper Ridge.

He loved those children as his own, since they’d been toddlers when he and Catherine met and married. Since their father had died in a car accident two months before they were born, Ian had been the only father they’d ever known.

And they were due to arrive Sunday morning.

He planned to welcome them with a houseful of banners and balloons and maybe a few presents, though every visit was preceded by an email or phone call from Catherine, warning him not to spoil the twins.

“I wish I could join you,” Ian said, and that was true.

Erma’s cooking was stellar, and the regular gatherings at her and Knute’s well-maintained double-wide on their small farm were lively and a lot of fun, Erma’s constant matchmaking aside.

“But I’ll be headed for the Flagstaff airport to pick up the kids that morning. ”

Knute grinned. “Well, that’s as good a reason as any to miss out on Erma’s lasagna pizza,” he told Ian, with a note of jovial letdown in his voice. “But you know what my dear wife would say if she was here: Bring ’em. There’s always room at our table.”

Regretfully, Ian shook his head. He was watching the horses out of the corner of one eye: five were crowded around the feeders, but the sixth stood, head drooping, in a far corner of the corral.

That one would need extra care. Immediately.

Otherwise, the tattered little mare might become a scapegoat.

“Some other time, Knute,” he said. “The kids will need to settle in after the flight from Miami, and I haven’t seen them since Christmas, so we’ll have some catching up to do.”

This last part was something of a stretch, since Ian was on FaceTime with his daughters twice a week, so he saw them pretty regularly. Problem was, communicating online wasn’t the same as being with them in person.

Knute let the subject go at that, shook Ian’s hand again, then slid the ramp back in place under the trailer, closed and latched the door and ambled around to the driver’s side door of his truck.

With a nod of farewell, the older man climbed into the seat with admirable agility, for a man more than twice Ian’s age—started the rumbling engine, and drove off down the driveway.

Before turning back onto the road, he honked again.

Ian chuckled to himself and waved.

Then he climbed over the corral fence and approached the shivering little mare, every movement slow and—he hoped—reassuring to the frightened animal.

“Hey, Ragamuffin,” he greeted her gently, extending a hand for her to sniff with her velvety nose.

The mare shuffled backwards, only to bump into the fence behind her.

“Easy,” Ian whispered. “You’re safe now. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

She nickered, tossed her head in a slight motion that nevertheless indicated that there was still spirit, somewhere inside her.

He stood with her for a long time, stroking her bony sides when she’d allow it, murmuring tender gibberish.

After fifteen minutes or so, he put a halter on her and she allowed him to lead her into the barn.

It was shadowy and cool inside, smelling pleasantly of grain and straw and saddle soap, despite the inevitable undercurrent of manure.

His own horses—the “keepers,” he called them—were out grazing in a nearby pasture, which was probably a plus, given how nervous the little mare was, even after the time he’d spent comforting her.

Chipwick and Apple Pie, the black and white spotted ponies the twins rode when they visited, probably wouldn’t have kicked up a fuss at the newcomer’s arrival, though they’d have a thing or two to say about the other five coming in later on to fill the empty stalls.

Ian’s powerful palomino gelding, Sultan, knew he was the head honcho, and he paid little or no attention to the barn-mates who came and went. Mostly.

He’d tangled with a young stallion a year ago, another visitor, Sultan had, but, though he’d come out the winner, he had a few scars to remember the incident by. Other than that, and the usual challenges of training any horse, let alone the mistrustful sort, there hadn’t been a lot of trouble.

Reaching the enclosure he’d chosen for the ragamuffin, Ian brought his thoughts back to the matter at hand, opened the stall door, and carefully led the hesitant mare inside.

He removed the halter, set it aside, made sure the automatic waterer was up and running, and loaded the feeder with hay and a couple of scoops of grain. Then, when the mare, after much sniffing, finally began to eat, he gently brushed her down.

As he groomed her, he was careful to avoid several scabbed-over cuts on her legs and haunches, and when he’d finished with that, he washed the marks with as much tenderness as he would have shown an injured human being.

Then he applied salve.

He checked each of her hooves for wounds, removed a few small stones and other minor detritus.

He’d need to call the farrier and have her hooves trimmed, along with those of the five other mares, but that could wait a day or two.

When he’d finished tending to the skinny female, he went back to the house and released Dub from the confines of the kitchen, where he’d been not-so-patiently waiting ever since Knute’s arrival over an hour before.

Lean and gray, with floppy ears and plenty of muscle, Dub was a faithful companion, and Ian felt a twinge of chagrin for having left him inside, but Dub wasn’t one to hold grudges.

He trotted alongside Ian as he headed back toward the corral, moving as nimbly as if he hadn’t been short a leg.