Page 38 of Whispers of Sweetwater

As she followed him towards the stables, she couldn’t help but glance back at the second man. He hadn’t moved. His expression was unreadable, and his presence was more looming than welcoming. A deep unease flickered in her gut, but she pushed it down. People were strange sometimes. It didn’t mean anything. She was just tense. These men were harmless.

The stables were older than most, the wood silvered and dry. Dust floated through the slats, thick and slow like molasses. One stock horse stood tethered at the far end, head low, coat dull despite the early heat. Another horse was lying on its side nearby.

‘So, these two have been listless since yesterday?’ she asked, already donning gloves and pulling her stethoscope from her kit.

‘That’s right. Didn’t eat their hay, and the gelding has been lying down more than usual. Doesn’t feel like it’s colic that’s knocked him, but I don’t know what else it could be.’ Graham’s voice was raspy, like he smoked a pack a day and washed it down with whisky.

Brianna moved to the first horse, gently running her hand along the gelding’s flank before pressing the stethoscope against his side. There were low gut sounds, and an elevated heart rate. She quickly checked his gums, and they were tacky, pale. ‘This poor fella is definitely dehydrated. Looks like a mild impaction colic. Could be the change in weather or feed. When was the last time they were wormed?’

Graham scratched the back of his neck. ‘Few months ago, maybe longer. My wife keeps the records.’

‘They’ll need fluids and an electrolyte boost. I’ll run a drip and administer pain relief. If there’s no improvement in the next twenty-four hours, I’ll have to come back out.’

Graham gave a nod that felt more like a shrug.

Brianna moved to the second horse, this one a mare, and repeated the process. Her vitals were stronger, but she was clearly uncomfortable. ‘I’d like to tube her. Just to be sure. I can get the gear from the Hilux.’ As she turned to fetch her supplies, a woman appeared in the stable’s entry, startling Brianna enough to make her pause mid-step.

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there.’

The woman was tall and gaunt, dressed in a long cardigan despite the heat, her grey-streaked hair twisted into a tight bun. Her eyes were a watery green, and they darted from the horses to Brianna, then back again, as though processing everything in slow motion.

‘I’m Edna. Graham’s wife,’ she said softly, her voice barely audible above the creak of the old stable swelling in the morning sunshine. ‘You’re the vet, I gather.’

‘Yes,’ Brianna said, offering a smile that went mostly unreturned. ‘The two horses are a bit unwell, but it’s nothing we can’t fix. I’d like to start some treatment today, if that’s okay with you and Graham.’

Edna nodded slowly, her hands wringing at the hem of her cardigan. ‘You won’t give them anything that will hurt them … you’ll be kind to them?’ she asked, voice trembling just a touch.

‘Of course, Edna.’ Brianna found her comment, and body language, a little odd, but she forced a smile. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

There was something about Edna Matthews – her stillness, her hesitation – that sent another flicker of unease crawling up Brianna’s spine. The woman didn’t seem frightened of the horses. No, it was something else. Something deeper. She kept glancing back towards the house as if worried someone was watching.

‘I’ll get started, then,’ Brianna said gently, giving the woman an out from the awkward silence. ‘Your horses will be better in no time.’

As she walked back to her Hilux, the man who hadn’t spoken still stood by the post and was now lighting a cigarette. He met her eyes this time, and his weathered lip curled into the semblance of a smirk.

Odd.

Actually, the whole place was odd.

By the time she returned with the tubing gear, Edna had vanished, and Graham was brushing hay into the corner of the stall half-heartedly. As for the silent man, he’d disappeared, thankfully. Focusing on her patients, she worked quickly, competently, but as she did the back of her neck prickled with the same alertness Sherlock had shown that morning. Her instincts, usually sharp and balanced, felt slightly off.

Not everyone was polished and polite, she reminded herself.

She needed to stop being so paranoid.

However, as she drove away an hour later, with instructions left and the two horses resting, she couldn’t shake the heaviness sitting on her chest. Bumping over a cattle grid, she told herself it was just the residual stress from the morning. From the week. From Molly’s break-in. But even as the Sweetwater township reappeared in her windshield like a balm, her thoughts lingered on that odd man’s smirk, and the eerie silence of Pebble Creek, and how the stables were too quiet for a property that size. And then she considered how she might be losing her marbles, and reprimanded herself for letting her mind get the better of her. Her nerves were frayed. She needed a decent night’s sleep.

The rest of the day rolled by in a series of dust-coated paddocks and homespun animal dramas – some frustrating, some heart-warming. After leaving Pebble Creek, she’d made a quick stop at the Lawson property just north of the township. Their rescue goat, Maple, had taken a turn. Thankfully, the issue wasn’t too serious – mild bloat and a case of overzealous snacking on socks tugged from the clothesline. She’d administered antifoaming agents and left strict instructions about feeding. Next up had been a heavily pregnant kelpie named Queenie. Her owner, a wiry stockman named Lee, was practically vibrating with nerves as she’d checked the dog’s vitals and then assured the anxious owner that everything looked right on track. The pups were moving well, and Queenie’s breathing and temperature were normal.

And then there was Gloria.

The spoilt-rotten chicken belonged to a retired florist named Sheryl, who was convinced her feathered love was going bald from the heartbreak of losing her companion, a rooster named McCluck. Brianna had crouched in the coop, gently examining the hen under a string of fairy lights that had been lovingly strung through the rafters.

‘It’s not heartbreak, Sheryl,’ she’d said kindly. ‘It’s probably a combination of moulting and mites. I’ll give you a dusting powder. You’ll see improvement soon.’

Sheryl had been so happy she’d hugged her.

And now, as she climbed back into the Hilux and started driving towards her cottage, her shoulders ached, and her stomach reminded her she’d skipped lunch. Yet again. Her phone buzzed in the console. She pulled over and saw a message from Hayden.