Raffi was installed in a cabin that stood next to the shed where I was staying. He was far enough away to give me solitude yet close enough that I could hear him snoring during the night.
We breakfasted separately. Raffi joined the production crew for bacon and ham, and I received a delivery of fresh water and a pail of oats. When we met at nine o’clock on a path that led to Jerry’s barn, I felt wonderfully refreshed but Raffi had an annoying case of hiccups.
“Why did you eat so much?” I asked him.
Raffi rubbed his belly. “I couldn’t help it. The buffet went on forever. I’ve never seen so much food.”
I trotted quickly toward the barn doors, and Raffi struggled along behind me.
The barn had fixtures made of brass and controls for temperature and humidity. Neither fly or spider would have dreamt of taking up residence within that posh establishment.
The first six stables all held American Quarter Horses. I knew that Tyler Sheridan was a big fan of that breed and that he showcased them regularly in the Yellowstone series. Raffi and I imparted a greeting as we passed by. The horses, perhaps aware of their star status, ignored us.
The aisle gave way to a tack area with saddles and bridles, all well-oiled and meticulously arranged. Beyond that were more stables, all unoccupied, except for the one at the end. There a beautiful horse, the color of a cinnamon stick, stood still as a statue.
“Jerry,” I called out.
Drearily, the horse lifted his head. “Are you the doctor, the therapist, or the acupuncturist.”
“I’m the detective,” I replied. Although I had mentally prepared for this meeting, I must admit to feeling a little out of my depth. I turned to Raffi for morale support.
But he was running for the exit. “Where’s the bathroom,” he bellowed.
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