Page 21 of Total Jane Wreck

Permanent joint damage. And now this.

“Where is he?” Chet asks.

“In the pasture.”

“Let’s go.” Chet makes long strides toward the pasture, where Freckles is getting up and down, pawing at his belly, and sweating gallons. A few minutes ago, when I first noticed that Freckles was in pain, I leaned over and puked into the bushes. Now, I wipe my clammy forehead, hoping I don’t pass out.

Chet places a hand on Freckles’s crest. “Hey, buddy,” he murmurs. “You doing okay?”

“Freckles is not okay. He needs medical attention.” My breathing comes fast and shallow.

Chet stands and comes toward me. “Jane, it’ll be alright.”

“You don’t know that,” I tell him. “And I wouldn’t get too close. Not unless you want me puking on your shoes again.”

“You won’t puke again,” Chet states. “Not right now, anyway.” His voice isn’t quite cold, but his tone is steely. “Freckles needs you, so you’ll be strong for him.”

“Yeah.” Clutching the back of my neck, I swallow hard. “There’s a reason I dropped out of the large animal vet technician program. It’s because I’m incapable of—” I suck in more breaths, nausea threatening to consume me.

Chet grasps both my shoulders. “Were the horses you treated in your vet program like family to you?”

I’m so shocked at the sudden physical contact, at the strength of Chet’s grip, that my stomach settles for a moment. “No,” I concede. “But by that logic, I’m more likely to puke now, since I already know and love Freckles.”

“Wrong,” Chet insists. “Freckles is your horse-son. Don’t be like Norma Bates, putting your own psychosis ahead of your horse-son’s needs.”

My skin, especially the part that Chet’s touching, heats up. And yet, I break out in a cold sweat. “I don’t follow. Norma who?”

“Norma Bates.”

I shake my head.

“From Psycho?” Chet’s dark blue eyes grow so large they’re consuming. “The Alfred Hitchcock classic?”

“Sorry. Haven’t seen it.”

He releases my shoulders, muttering, “Stupid Gen Z, incapable of sitting through anything longer than a five-minute YouTube video.” Chet takes out his cell phone and scrolls through his contacts. Then he makes a call.

“Yes, hello. This is Chet at Resilience Ranch.” He walks toward Freckles. “We have an emergency here. My horse specialist says it’s colic. Freckles—the one you treated for bone spurs—is obviously in a lot of pain, can’t sit or stand still, seems feverish . . .” Chet pauses, apparently listening. “Okay. But how soon can you get here?” His shoulders, which were tensed, relax a bit. “Yeah, yeah. That’s not a problem. See you soon.”

Chet ends the call. “The vet will be here ASAP. But his assistant is out of town, so you’ll need to help him, Jane. You can do that, right?”

The implication’s clear: If I can’t do it, then I’m a huge disappointment, not just to Freckles, but to Chet. Before I know it, he’ll be calling me Jane Wreck. I squeeze my eyes shut. Luckily, a sudden, cool breeze calms me. “Yeah, I can do that.”

I say this, but I’m not so sure it’s true.

Here’s the thing—horses can’t vomit. Maybe that’s why I always vomit when they’re in pain; it’s like I’m puking for them. But that doesn’t help Freckles. However, when the vet gets here and he uses a tube to coat Freckles’s gut with mineral oil, I stay by the horse’s side, vomit-free, soothing him as he twitches. When the vet’s done, he says to me, “Walk him. Walk him all night if you have to. Don’t stop until Freckles has a BM.”

Thus, Freckles and I begin circling the pasture, over and over. Axel Rose gives me breaks, letting me grab something to eat and drink before she leaves for the day. It’s dusk when Chet appears, pulling a wagon right up to the huge oak tree that’s just inside the pasture. The wagon’s loaded with two collapsible canvas chairs, his laptop, and two mysterious pieces of equipment, which he immediately begins setting up.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Thought you could use a distraction,” Chet answers. “We’re going to watch a movie while we take turns walking Freckles.”

In mere seconds, he’s erected a portable movie screen, and now he’s gotten out what looks like a projector. I’m assuming it’s Bluetooth, connected to his laptop. Chet opens it and clicks until the word Psycho appears across the screen.

“Cool setup,” I say. “Do you show movies here often?”

“Not in the horse pasture,” Chet says. “But I bought the equipment, thinking it would be fun to have movie nights on the ranch. I’m a classic film buff.”