Toni Petti - Horse Girl Homicide

Chapter Four

"Back. Back." I drop my phone and pull one kitten from the hole. The other little rascal has already ventured too far. I shake the fence to scare the horses but they just stare at me confused. They're quite oblivious to the helpless little creature who lingers by their hooves.

I scramble up the fence rails with my eyes on the baby to be rescued. The horses fallback and the kitten meows in my shadow as I block the sun. But I don't want to enter the pen. I look around for a stick but there's nothing handy. One of the yearlings steps forward to smell the air and I'm sure he doesn't see what's at his feet. I climb all the way over the barrier which isn't easy in my dress. Sure enough, my skirt catches on the knotty pine and when I try to stop the tear, the top rail shifts and I lose my balance.

"Arrgh!" I fall and try to protect the GoPro in my hat. My dress rips at the waist.

Ummph. I land on dirt. I'm covered in hair from the fence and poopy straw, but it worked. The kitten runs back through the hole and the horses cower on the far side of the enclosure. All but one. Wait. That's not a horse. It's a donkey. I know this because it's shorter and has rabbit-like ears. The shaggy little beast has a white muzzle and black socks and there are curls on his forehead.

"Hi buddy," I rise up to greet the fearless equine. He's cute and comforting but must think I'm a weirdo. "You come to rescue me?" I liberate my linen from the fence. My anxiety returns when I realize my dress is ruined. There are just a few inches of fabric holding it together. What will I wear? I can already hear the horse girls giggling, Ainsley included.

Donkey watches me fret when I reach out to pet him. His curly locks just beg to be scratched, but he surprises me. Instead of being friendly and obedient, he lowers his head and rams into my thigh.

"Oh. Kay. I get the message. I'm not welcome." I push the beast away, but he centers himself and headbutts me again. "Alright. I'm leaving."

The donkey brays and his voice sounds like a steel appliance being scraped across concrete. I guess he's being playful, but either way, I can't climb over the fence with him banging into me. I'm dirty and my dress is torn, and I can feel the wind on my back.

Donkey charges my bum and I have to turn around quick to stop him. I dig my fingers into his forehead and he pushes on my hands. He's much stronger and pushes me about the straw-bottomed pen. The yearling horses step away and circle as necessary; most just stand and watch the show. The donkey directs me toward the feed mangers and I panic. He could crush me on those bars. I spot an escape.

I spin to sidestep the bully and grasp a more scalable fence. A quick climb and I'm over the top. I'm careful that none of my dress catches on this boundary as I jump clear.

I land on my feet but sink to my ankles. Ugh! I stare at a pig. Her liter squeals as she turns to face me. All her little babies scatter from her teats in the ankle-deep sauce. Donkey screeches laughter and the young horses all stick their heads over the fence to watch. The old sow on is not amused. She raises her snout to collect my scent and then steps forward to protect her litter.

"Ugh. Stay back."

I wave dirty hands at the hog and hope I don't have to touch the hoary beast. My boots are buried in goop and every step sucks mud. My dress is ripped and the cloth dangles in the filth. The pig takes another step closer. Oh no. This could get dangerous...

"This way," a male voice calls to me.

The dark-haired lad I spied on the tractor now stands by the gate. He wears blue jeans over boots and his open shirt curtains a muscular chest. Yet his face is not what I'd consider handsome. Nor would I say he's ugly. He's a survivor and his skin is marred with an old wound. A long red scratch runs across his forehead and another scar bridges his nose. The red line curls up to make a grisly checkmark under his left eye. There's grey patches around his lips too, and in his beard. His hair is cut short at the sides, but is long enough to make curls on his forehead. He'd be dashing if not for his scars. Instead, he looks unkind. Rather than be sympathetic to me now, his blank expression turns to impatience and he acts like I'm just wasting his time.