“You have a stable, too?” she says. “That’s something else I didn’t see from the driveway. My family has one, too. I miss the horses.”
Those words make me feel a moment of guilt, but I dismiss it. What’s done is done. I’m going to concentrate on the present moment and nothing else. I’m going to pretend Angela and I were never parted all those years ago. That we’ve been living together like this for many years now.
It’s a pleasant lie.
I lead her into the stable and head toward Primo’s stall. He snorts when he sees us, and aggressively paws the straw with his good hoof.
“He’s angry,” Angela says.
“He doesn’t like being in pain,” I agree.
I open the gate and Angela strides directly inside without pausing. Completely unafraid. Her bravery alone has a transformative effect on the horse, and it remains motionless.
“Hey big guy,” she says. She pats it on the flanks. I can see the tense muscles relaxing all along its body.
“You’re good with horses,” I tell her. Which makes sense if she’s grown up around them.
She nods. “I’ve got some experience calming wild animals.” She gives me a wink.
I can’t help but chuckle.
We lead the horse to the waiting stand. While she keeps the colt calm, I gently bend its leg forward and rest it on the stand so I have access to the cracked hoof. The crack has gone all the way through the hoof wall and into the sensitive laminae underneath, so I can see why Primo is in pain.
“Repairing a crack?” she asks.
“How’d you guess,” I tell her.
“My family’s horses have problems with cracked hoofs, too,” Angela tells me. “I hate that we have to race them. It’s so hard on them.”
“It is,” I agree. Race horses get hoof cracks because they’re more frequently shod than regularly horses—their shoes wear down faster. It doesn’t help that they have to race on hard surfaces. “Primo’s one of the better-off horses: we only race him on the tracks. You should see what some of the illegal horses look like in Ustica. Racing colts in the streets so you can make some gambling money is very hard on the poor animals.”
“I know,” she says. “My father would never do that.”
I don’t say anything. Whenever she mentions her father I can’t help the flare-up of anger. Not just because of what he did to me, but also jealousy. I know I shouldn’t be jealous over that kind of love, but I am. Because I wish she felt something even remotely similar for me.
I examine the crack for a moment.
“Looks like it’s infected,” I tell her. “Pass me that pan.”
Angela hands me a nearby pain, and I insert a tube to drain as much of the pus out as I can. Primo shifts uncomfortably above me.
“It’s okay, big guy,” Angela reassures him.
I shake my head. “Some of the other families treat their horses so poorly. Did you know, some remove the nerves of their street racers? So the colts feel no pain when they race the hard streets of Sicily. Without nerves, there’s no warning when ahoof becomes cracked and infected, and it can spread to their bloodstream. I can’t imagine ever doing something so cruel to an animal. These horses are to be treated as royalty, in my opinion. After all, they make us money.”
“Do you get jockeys to throw the races for you?” she asks.
“Of course,” I admit. “But that doesn’t harm the animal. If anything, it’s beneficial, because the horses don’t have to be pushed as hard.”
“Oh, I’m not judging,” she says. “My father does it too.”
Her father again. I’ll always have to compete with her father.
Maybe I’ll kill him tomorrow after all.
I dismiss the thought and focus on helping Primo.
When the puss stops leaking, I replace the tube with a smaller one. “This will need to stay inside the hoof over the next few days until the infection completely drains.”
