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an auction because she knew that if she didn’t, the buyer would turn the horse into horse meat or dog food. Hank worked with the horse, but it wasn’t going so good. For once, Hank’s horse magic wasn’t doing the job.
    Then Dakota showed up. She and Blackfire took to each other, and they’ve been together ever since.
    Rex and I squeeze through the side door of the barn. Right away it’s obvious the vet’s here for Blackfire. Dakota has the horse tied to a post in the round pen she and Hank use for training. Even this far away, I can see she’s been crying.
    “What’s the matter with Blackfire, Doc?” Dakota asks. She’s holding her horse by the halter, positioning herself between Blackfire and the vet, probably so the gelding won’t take a chunk out of the vet’s back while he’s bent over.
    Tri-County Animal Clinic is run by three vets—two women and this guy, Doc Jim. He’s small, wiry, and strong as a pit bull. Blackfire keeps trying to jerk his front hoof away, but Doc manages to keep it up.
    “I’m almost done, Dakota,” he says.
    Dakota Brown is 16, pretty, with black, curly hair and big brown eyes. I don’t think she notices, but guys do double takes when she walks by. She could pass for an Indian, or Native American, whatever you call it.
    I’ve known a lot of kids who’ve grown up in foster care. Nobody tells a straight story about “before”—what their lives were really like before foster care. Dakota told me that she had a brother who was killed in the war and then her mother died because she couldn’t deal. And then her dad died because he couldn’t live without his wife. It’s a good story, but too made-for-TV. I let her get away with it, but I guarantee things didn’t go down the way she says they did before .
    I can’t read Dakota the way Rex reads me. But right now it’s pretty clear she’s fighting to keep herself together.
    Doc Jim lets go of Blackfire’s hoof, and even I can tell the horse isn’t putting much weight on that leg.
    I move up to the pen and lean over the top rail. Dakota doesn’t seem to know that me and Rex are there until Doc nods our way.
    “Hey, Wes,” Doc calls. “How’s the dog business?”
    “Not bad,” I answer.
    Dakota ignores me. “Doc?” she asks, her voice filled with impatience. “What’s the matter with my horse?”
    “Well,” Doc says, “I think it’s an abscess, Dakota.”
    “An abscess?” Dakota sounds horrified. “On his hoof?”
    Doc smiles at her and strokes Blackfire’s shoulder. The horse backs away from him. “That’s not so bad, really. Could have been a lot worse. We need to locate the abscess, though, and dig it out.”
    Tears seep from the corners of Dakota’s eyes. I feel for her. But the vet said it’s not so bad. At least the horse still has four legs. Not like the poor Pomeranian.
    “How did it happen?” Dakota demands. “Is it my fault? I try to keep the stall clean, but I know I could do a better job. Maybe if I’d—”
    Doc stops her. “It’s not your fault. We’re not even sure how horses get abscesses. Blackfire might have stepped on a stone or—”
    “Because I rode him on the road?” Dakota’s face looks like someone slapped her. “Why did I have to do that? We have so much land to ride on, and I had to go out on the road.”
    “Dakota, it might not have been a stone,” Doc Jim explains. “And even if it was, it wasn’t your fault. I’m thinking the abscess is coming from inside, instead of outside.”
    “Are you saying Blackfire has sores inside of him? How can that happen? He’s such a good horse.” She hugs his neck, and her shoulders heave.
    “Not like that,” Doc explains. “Blackfire doesn’t have sores inside. I meant that a change in feed or grass can get into the blood vessels and result in an infection. Pus forms and tries to push out through the hoof. Does that make sense? We just need to coax out the pus, the infection. Then we can treat it better. First,