The Wilder Sisters by Jo-Ann Mapson Read Free Book Online Page A

owners could afford the surgery. The “stones,” which formed around undi- gested material in a way similar to the creation of a pearl, graduated from the size of a child’s fist all the way up to a pygmy boulder. Like colic, an enterolith blockage was a painful way for a horse to go. Or there might be dog brains packed in dry ice, waiting to be sent to the county to rule out rabies. Rose had worked at the clinic seven years, and in that entire time she’d only used the back door twice.
    She passed the bulletin board offering free cats and ads seeking homes for puppies, parrots, boa constrictors, whatever animal someone once had to own but it seemed could no longer be bothered with. In the front office she nodded hello to Paloma, who was on the phone. Three people with dogs were waiting on the wooden benches for the low-cost vaccination clinic. The tile floor smelled strongly of antiseptic and faintly of cat pee: Business as usual.
    Rose’s office was upstairs. Halfway up, the narrow hallway snaked to the left into a long, windowless room used for storing purged files and cleaning supplies. Rose stepped inside and shut the door behind her. She set the case of toilet paper on the supply shelf. Going in there to dump files—a task she tried to work on a little on each day—she enjoyed the aloneness, the utter quiet. Also, depending on where she stood, she could unobtrusively eavesdrop on the treatment rooms, the front office, even the kennels. She knelt on the floor to riffle through the file box. All summer she had carefully weeded through the manila folders, removing onetime and deceased clients from active status. Each day she tried to get through another letter of the alphabet, but so far she was only up to B . In her hands she held the Brannon file. She remembered the horse, a flea-bitten gray Mrs. Brannon had rescued from an abusive situation. Sultan had lived five happy years in that family’s care. One day the Bronco was in the shop, and Rose had begged a ride home from

    Austin. Along the way his pager went off. They stopped to take a look at the silver-tailed gelding, too elderly to withstand the costly colic surgery. Austin gently suggested that to end to his suffering they put the animal down. Mrs. Brannon took the news stoically. Austin had stroked the horse’s neck before he depressed the plunger of the syringe. Later, in the truck, he’d pulled over to the side of the road and turned his face away from Rose. That was the first time she had seen him cry.
    Downstairs she could hear Paloma contending with Mrs. Ortega, who had her house dogs, a pair of yappy Chihuahuas—not to be confused with her ranch dogs—groomed weekly.
    “Did Maria give you any trouble?”
    Paloma didn’t have to answer the question because Mrs. Ortega wrote and acted out dialogue for her pets.
    “Maria says, I wouldn’t do that. Jose and I were good little cachorros, yes, we were. We got our toenails trimmed and our tutus cleaned and now we’re fresh and pretty for Mami .”
    Rose could imagine the patient expression on Paloma’s face. Mrs. Ortega was the widow of one of the richest ranchers in the state. She managed her late husband’s assets with a shrewdness that impressed even Chance Wilder. Best of all, she paid her bills immediately and in cash. As far as Paloma was concerned, she could dye the bug- eyed, trembling little pooches lime green. Rose made it up to the letter C on the files before she quit. Tomorrow she’d deal with anoth- er letter. She left the supply room and headed upstairs.
    At the top of the landing, directly across from one another, were their offices. Austin’s featured a shower and half bath. The vet he’d bought the practice from had been open twenty-four hours a day and had probably spent a lot of nights here. Since his time, however, Floralee had grown to support three vets, two of them large-animal, Drs. Zeissel and Donavan. The OPEN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS sign that used to hang out front under