Puss 'N Cahoots

hooves and the foot; a good farrier would stop a problem before it started, as well as correctly shoe the horse for balance, angle, and size of the hoof.
    The horseshoe that people saw in pins, pictures, and good-luck charms was usually a keg shoe, a common shoe, like sneakers for humans. The ring Harry kept returning to admire was a keg shoe in miniature.
    “More tea?”
    “No, I’m slowly coming back to life.” She had commiserated with him on the drive to the hotel about the delivery. “Don’t you wonder why some foals or babies won’t come out headfirst? You turn them, they turn back around.”
    He smiled. “I turned that little bugger three times. The last time I held on and pulled him out. He could have torn the mare to pieces if he came out feet first. He was determined. Loud, too.” By “loud,” Fair meant brightly colored, a paint. “People pay for color.”
    “Seems silly to me. Always has.”
    “Me, too. The right horse is the right color, but I am partial to blood bay.”
    “Let me know when you see one.” Harry knew the spectacular coloring described as mahogany or oxblood showed up rarely. The mane, tail, and usually the lower part of the leg, by contrast, were black.
    “I love a flaming chestnut.” She noted all three animals fast asleep on their sides at the end of the bed. “The television interviews exhausted them. I’ll bet your shoulders are sore.”
    “Hands, too.”
    “Let me slide behind you and I’ll rub your shoulders.”
    “Ah” was all Fair could say as Harry’s strong fingers worked his knotted muscles.
    “Thought about drugs—maybe Jorge was selling. I mean, most of the noncorporate crime in America is drug-related somehow. But he wasn’t doing that. His little place was clean as a whistle, too.”
    “If he’d been on drugs, Larry and Joan would have known. I figure users often turn into sellers.”
    “I know.” She quickly added, “Not if they’re smart.”
    “You’d think he’d have flashed a little bit of the money if he was doing anything illegal to make money.”
    “Yeah.” Harry dug her thumbs into his rhomboids, then bumped them down over his vertebrae all the way to his waist. “I keep coming back to selling even though I know that’s not it, because the murder wasn’t passionate. It was swift and brutal, efficient but not passionate. It wasn’t about a woman. And he wouldn’t have a double cross carved in his palms, now, would he?”
    “I doubt it.” Fair groaned when she came back to rub the big knot under his right shoulder blade.
    “Sorry.”
    “No, it will unkink if you keep at it.”
    “How much did the foal weigh?”
    “Quarter horses are supposed to be small,” Fair humorously replied, “but not this one. I swear he was three hundred pounds. I’m exaggerating, but he was thick-built. If I were a team-roping man, I’d snap him right up. You should see the momma. Built like a freight train. All she needs to do is set her haunches and slide.”
    “So you’re the guy who throws the calf, is that what you’re thinking?” She smiled, because Fair was imagining himself riding Western, an odd transition for a hunt-seat rider accustomed to close contact with the horse due to the small, light saddle. The bulky Western saddle removed “feel” from the hunt-seat rider, and the longer stirrups made them think they were almost standing up on the horse. The reverse was equally true: a Western rider switching to an English saddle would figure they might as well ride bareback.
    Fair closed his eyes because the darned knot hurt. “Being that Jorge was Mexican, what kind of things could he do or be involved in where that would be an advantage?”
    “Silver.”
    “What?”
    “Silver jewelry. The Mexicans create gorgeous stuff, and for a lot less than we or anyone else does, I suppose.”
    “I never knew that.”
    “Honey, you’re a man. Men don’t care about jewelry.”
    He smiled to himself, because he did at least care about his wife’s jewelry. “We care about watches. And every man needs one ring besides his wedding ring.”
    “Cuff links.”
    “Nah. Too much trouble. But, yeah, you need ’em for the monkey-suit nights.”
    “You’re awful.”
    “I don’t like getting trussed up.”
    “You look better in a tuxedo than anyone, and in tails or morning suit, sweetheart, you could have any woman in the world.”
    “Just you.” He breathed deeply as she finally worked out the knot. “You’re being very, very