“I love it when we get new kittens,” Sophie said as she helped clean the room when they left.
“Agreed,” I said, smiling.
“Now get out of here. I can handle cleaning, but you’ve got to be at Gibson Farms in a little bit, and I saw what they’re paying you. You absolutely don’t want to be late.”
I laughed. “Thanks, Sophie. You’re right, I’m going to head off now.”
Gibson Farms was actually one of the most famous farms in all of Oregon. They didn’t raise cattle or sheep or anything, they were a horse racing farm. The Gibson family, and especially the head of it, Caroline Gibson, were pretty much royalty in that sport. The Gibson family had owned the horse who won the Kentucky Derby last year, and they had even been featured in mainstream magazines like Time.
And yesterday they’d called me asking to come and look at one of their horses. This was definitely my highest-profile client ever. I left the room and grabbed my things, including a bowler bag filled with everything a vet in the field could need, telling Karen she and Sophie could lock up and go home as soon as Sophie was finished.
Chapter 2
The drive to Gibson farms took a little over twenty minutes; technically the farm wasn’t in Willow Bay, but just outside of it, down a nameless rural road surrounded by pine trees and forest so thick that the further I followed the instructions my phone’s map app was spitting out, the more I wondered if I wasn’t going to end up horribly lost.
But eventually I pulled in front of a small clearing, where an old-school wooden fence blocked the entrance, with a large wooden sign above announced that I was, in fact, at Gibson Farms. I pulled slowly up to the entrance and found an electronic communication system. I had barely rolled my window down before I heard a voice over the intercom.
“Please state your business at Gibson Farms,” ordered a female voice with a clipped English accent.
“Uh, yeah, hi, I’m Angela Wright, the vet that was called.”
There was a pause, then the wooden fence in front of me began to open automatically.
“Please drive to the main house and wait in the car, someone will be out to meet you momentarily,” came the instructions from the same efficient voice. I felt like this was the 1800s or something, that I had gone back in time. Was this really how the other half lived?
I pulled the car through and made my way up the driveway, which had to be at least a quarter mile long. It eventually ended in a big loop in front of a huge rancher, the biggest house I’d ever seen. It was modern, obviously built in the last fifteen years, made with light wooden logs, with stone hedges. The grounds were immaculately manicured; it felt like I was at a show home.
The grounds were enormous; it seemed like as far as the eye could see in any direction was part of the Gibson Farms estate. Yes, estate was really the only word that fit. As I drove up in my old Corolla, I felt so incredibly out of place, and briefly thought to myself that maybe I should have rented a Bentley just for this appointment.
I pulled up to the front of the house, and a woman who I assumed was the one on the intercom was standing at attention outside the door, waiting for me. Tall and thin, with blonde hair pulled tightly back into a ponytail and wearing a black suit with high heels, she looked like she belonged on Wall Street rather than a farm. She motioned for me to park in front of the house, and I did so, turned off the car, and grabbed my bag.
“Doctor Wright, welcome,” she told me, already standing next to me as I took my bag out. “My name is Susan, I’m the head of the household here at Gibson Farms.”
Head of the household? I thought to myself. Where was I, nineteenth century England?
“Before we continue, I need you to sign this non-disclosure agreement,” she said, handing me a contract on a clipboard. To be honest, I had kind of expect this part, at least. The Gibsons were one of the most famous families in the horse racing world, there was no way they were going to let me get close to their practically priceless horses without making me swear I wouldn’t tell. I glanced over the contract quickly, and signed it.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth replied, quickly taking a photo of the contract with her phone. “Now, follow me, and I will take you to see Touch of Frost.”
Despite myself, my heart began to skip a beat. Touch of Frost was the most famous racing horse in the world a few years ago. He’d won the Kentucky Derby four times, and had famously been retired after that final win, at seven years old. He was one of the most famous race horses in the country, and had even once been featured, along with his jockey, on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Everyone knew Touch of Frost, and when Karen told me that I’d been asked to do a house call at Gibson Farms, I immediately thought of Touch of Frost. But of course, I had never dreamed that I might actually get to treat that same horse.
“Caroline Gibson thanks you for coming on such short notice,” Susan told me as she led the way down a cobblestoned path that wound its way around the side of the enormous house. I waved away the thanks. After all, with what Karen told me they’d offered to pay, I probably would have cut off an arm to make this appointment. “We have two in-house vets, of course. But one of our horses became unexpectedly sick at Belmont, and they had to fly out to New York yesterday. Then of course, this morning there was a problem with Touch of Frost, and we had to make alternate arrangements. You must understand the need for secrecy. There are thousands of people who would give their lives to see this property and the happenings on it.”
“I can only imagine,” I replied. The Gibson horses were worth millions of dollars.
“We have taken precautions, of course. You were chosen as the vet since you’re local, and have been your whole life. Plus we asked around, and while you’re not a specialist in farm animals, we were told that you are the most capable vet in the area.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said, not expecting that kind of praise.
“The property is surrounded by ten foot high fences, and every inch of the fence is covered by CCTV footage, and there are motion sensors just inside the fence. It’s practically impossible for anyone to enter the property without us being made aware of it immediately. Plus, the stables are locked with a state-of-the-art fingerprinting system. The only two people on the planet who can enter are Caroline Gibson and the stable head, Cory.”
“Wow,” I said, duly impressed.
“The stables also have a custom sprinkler system set up in case of fire, and an individual alarm system in case of break in. And of course, there are some more security features that I’m not authorized to tell you about. In fact, I’m not sure if I’ve even been told what they all are, and I’ve been working for the Gibson family for nine years.”
“So what you’re telling me is access to Touch of Frost is harder than getting access to the President,” I joked, and Susan’s thin mouth dared curve into a small smile for the first time. Before she could reply, however, I heard a voice calling to her from the house.
“Susan! Wait there, Susan!” someone ordered. Susan froze in place, and the two of us turned to see a woman stomping towards us. She was short, probably just a shade over five feet tall, and squat enough that she gave the impression of looking a lot like Humpty Dumpty. Her brown hair was up in a bun, with wisps of hair having come loose. Wearing tight jeans and a blazer over a polo shirt, the woman looked like a walking plus-size Ralph Lauren catalogue.