Cole took that as a message that he should reach out to his daughter again, and it irritated him unreasonably. For a moment, he could relate to Angela’s desire for their new housekeeper to mind her own business. But he took a breath, pulled off his boots, and went to the half-bath under the stairwell to wash his hands. When he came out, he had his irritation under control.
He visited with Sophie while they finished their meal, helped Mrs. Gibbs clear the table, and then followed his youngest into the great room to watch television when the housekeeper shooed them out of her kitchen. Sophie snuggled in under his arm while they watched a show, and then he told her it was time to go upstairs to take a bath before bed. Deciding he could face the lion’s den again, he followed Sophie up the staircase and tapped on Angela’s door.
“Who is it?” she called.
“It’s Dad. Can I come in for a minute?”
“I guess so.”
Fortifying himself, he cracked open the door to let himself in. Angela sat on the bed with paper and textbooks spread around, presumably doing homework. The tray of food sat on her desk, looking like she hadn’t eaten much. He gestured toward it. “Not hungry?”
Her expression stony, she refused to look at him. “No.”
“You’re not getting sick, are you?”
Her breath escaped in an exasperated puff. “I’m fine.”
“Do you want to talk?”
“Not really.”
Cole went into the bedroom anyway and sat on the desk chair, not quite sure how to proceed. “Well, I guess I can’t force you to talk, but I’ve got something I want to say, so maybe you could just listen. I mean . . . feel free to talk if you feel like it . . . you know what I mean.”
Angela threw him a look. She probably thought her father had turned into a blithering idiot. Well, he might as well tackle this full on.
“I’m worried about you, Angel. You’re not acting like yourself. I know things have been tough, and hard times have piled up higher than good times here lately. But we’ve got to hang tough. You know, hang together.”
Silent, she started gathering up her papers.
“I don’t want us to be mad at each other, but I do want you to have some self-respect and to do as I say.”
She glared at him, narrowing her eyes. “Yes, Dad.”
He didn’t really know what to say next, so he decided to muddle through. “I hope you’ll think about it and truly agree. In the meantime, I can’t promise that I’ll spend more time here at home, but I’ll do the best I can. I’d like for us to work together at the clinic sometimes and have fun together when we’re not working. Like we were doing until just lately. I can’t believe we’re feuding over something as silly as clothes.”
She looked away and began putting textbooks into her backpack.
“Maybe this isn’t about clothes. What is it about, Angel?”
She shrugged.
“Let’s cool off and think about it. And let’s talk again after dinner tomorrow night. I’ve always trusted you to do what’s right. I’m putting you on the honor system for tomorrow morning, and I trust you to pick something appropriate to wear. You don’t have to show me your backpack, but I do want you downstairs for breakfast like always. Trying to be together when we can goes both ways, and it’s your responsibility, too.”
Silence.
“I’ll see you after school. And I will promise you this—if I can’t make it home when I say I will, I’ll call to let you know. And I’ll expect you to do the same for me. Okay?”
“Okay.”
It sounded begrudging, but at least it was a reply. Cole decided to take it, and he stood up to leave. “Let’s talk again tomorrow. Good night, Angel.”
No reply. Cole quietly closed the door behind him on his way out.
By the time he read a story to Sophie and got her tucked into bed, it was shortly after nine. Not too late to call his vet school friend, Trace Dempsey. Though he felt exhausted from the long day, he needed to see if his friend could help him with a diagnosis for Diablo.
Trace answered the phone, sounding happy to hear from him. “How you doing, Cole? It’s been a while.”
“It has. Been busy. You?”
“Busy enough. How are Olivia and the kids?”
Cole should have realized his friend would ask about his family, but he hadn’t stopped to think about it, and it caught him off guard. “Well . . . Olivia moved out last May and our divorce was final in August. The kids are with me, and they’re doing fine.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth—half-truths.
There was a pause. “I’m sorry to hear that, Cole.”
“We’ll survive. How are Helen and your kids?”
“Everyone’s healthy and the kids keep us hopping.”
Cole chuckled, thoughts of Trace’s triplets giving him much-needed levity. “I’ll bet that’s a fact. How old are they now?”
“Twelve. We’ve got puberty rearing its ugly head. Times three.”
“I hear ya.”
There was an awkward silence, and Cole decided to get to business. “Do you have a minute to talk about an equine case that’s got me stumped?”
“Sure. What’ve you got?”
“A racehorse. Stud. I thought he was tying up when I first saw him. Had all the classic symptoms. But he hasn’t responded to treatment, and the blood work isn’t quite matching the picture.”
“Sweating, agitation, muscle tremor, tachycardia, hyperglycemic, elevated bilirubin?”
“Yeah.” Seemed odd that Trace could summarize the clinical findings like that.
“Frog juice.”
“What?”
“Never heard of it?” Trace asked.
“No.”
“It’s a highly concentrated form of Clenbuterol that some misguided trainers believe enhances performance in racehorses. They think it enhances aerobic capacity, but it can actually damage the heart muscle in high dosages,” Trace said. “It also breaks down fat tissue, so they’re using it to develop lean muscle mass.”
“There’s not an ounce of fat on this horse,” Cole said. “I asked the trainer if she had this horse on any supplements, and she denied it.”
“She probably would. It’s illegal. The racing commission would take away her license and ban her horses from the track.”
“Good Lord.”
“It’s a common problem down here, and we’re all on the lookout for it. The illegal form is smuggled in from Mexico in gallon jugs. Some of these horses get so hopped up, they’d run through a brick wall if you put them in front of one.”
“This is the first time I’ve had a racing stable in my caseload. I had no idea.”
“Sounds like your stud horse got too much of it.”
“How many days will it stay in the bloodstream?” Cole asked.
“Oh, about one to two weeks. Hair sample will pick it up for about six months.”
“I have a blood sample I drew today. I’ll call the lab and have them run a test for it tomorrow morning,” Cole said. “I started this horse on insulin yesterday, and today it’s got laminitis. So far, I’m treating the symptoms as they pop up.”
“Yeah, he’s toxic all right. You’ll be lucky if you can save him. If your test turns up positive, you gotta get him started on a beta-adrenergic antagonist.” Trace told him which drug he preferred.
“Thanks for the info, Trace. I’ll do some more research on it. I owe you one.”
“Hey, the next time one of my kids’ dogs is sick, I’ll give you a call.”
“I hope you will.”
Cole wrapped up the call and disconnected. He swiped to his contacts list and left a message with his lab saying they should add the screen for Clenbuterol to Diablo’s sample and that he would e-mail the order to them first thing in the morning. After that, he was pretty well done in for the day, so he got ready for bed.