Barnstorming (Gail Mccarthy Mysteries) (2 page)

Jane smiled. I could hear it coming. “He’s cute,” she said.

“Yep,” I agreed. “And a good trail horse.”

“What more could you ask? I don’t know what I’m going to do when Dolly gets too old to go out on the trails. We’ve been a team for so long.” Jane stroked her mare’s white neck. Dolly shifted her front feet restlessly. Jane looked over her shoulder. “Boy, there are a lot of people out on the trails today,” she added. “I saw Ross Hart, that guy who trains horses at the Red Barn just a few minutes ago. If looks could kill, I’d be dead.”

“Why’s that?” I asked, even though I was not much interested in boarding stable gossip.

“Oh, he thinks he’s a hot-shot trainer and I talked several of his clients out of working with him. I’m giving riding lessons myself these days; I’ve had a bit more experience than Ross. Besides, I don’t care for him. He’s been up to some stuff he shouldn’t be up to.” She sniffed. “I told him so.”

Staring at Jane, I wondered what she was implying. I had once known a horse trainer who had a thriving business on the side selling cocaine. Young Ross Hart looked tough enough to fill that role. I changed the subject.

“I never see anyone out here when I ride on the weekdays,” I said, “but on the weekends I usually run into at least one or two people.”

Jane grinned. “Well, I’ve already met four different folks this afternoon.” Her mare shifted her front feet again and Jane patted her neck. “Okay, Dolly.” Jane smiled at me. “I’d better get going. Dolly’s had enough of this visiting. Good to see you.”

“Likewise,” I said, and kicked Sunny forward.

Our two horses passed amiably in a wide spot in the trail and then I was marching up the ridge, Jane and her issues behind me.

At least Jane had distracted me from my own issues. For a while I just rode, watching the scenery, letting my mind drift.

The trail followed the ridgeline, running through a forest of eucalyptus trees, their peeling, pinkish trunks rising above me, creaking slightly in the breeze that rustled the long lance-like blue-green leaves far overhead. Afternoon sunlight shafted between them, barring and dappling the trail with golden autumn light.

It was early October and the patches of sky I could see were an intense deep violet blue, the air sparkled with a faint tingle, and the shady spots on the trail made me shiver. Sunny’s coat had gone from sleek gold to a fuzzy buttermilk yellow. Fall was here.

Sunny marched along and we left the eucalyptus trees behind as the trail ascended into an open area studded with big Monterey pines. Passing on my left was the skeleton of the biggest one, a forked trunk that I could see from my porch, towering above the ridgeline. We called it the “landmark tree.” Ahead of me the trail descended to a little flat where it joined another trail. This spot we called the “three-way trail crossing.” Down below I could see the wide-open spaces of a pampas grass studded meadow, criss-crossed with motorcycle tracks; this was where the dirt bike riders hung out. I scanned it carefully but there was no noise and no motion. All quiet today.

Sunny and I reached the trail junction. Sunny’s preference was to take the left-hand fork, which led toward home. But I reined him to the right, and, reluctantly, Sunny obeyed. Dragging his feet, he shuffled down a slight grade and through a tunnel of tangled berry vines, brambles, and brushy willows. Lemony splashes of sunlight spangled the deep shady dark earth of the trail. Then we were out of the shrubbery tunnel and climbing a steep hill.

I could both hear and feel the horse huffing as he trudged up the grade. He broke into a trot, using his momentum to help defeat the slope. Up we went, through live oaks and redwood trees, until we reached another little wide-open flat. And here Sunny paused, looking ahead, ears pricked sharply forward. I looked where he was looking.

Motion, coming through the trees, resolved itself into a sorrel horse with a flaxen mane and tail and a white blaze. The rider wore a cowboy hat and had a long blond braid. Despite my desire for peace and solitude, I had to smile. Sheryl Silverman was out riding the trails today. Given what I had just heard, this seemed a bit ironic.

I didn’t care much for Sheryl; she fancied herself an expert on everything to do with horses, and her opinion of herself was vastly overrated, as far as I was concerned. However, Jane’s story had amused me. The thought of Jane stealing her boyfriend back from Sheryl made me grin.

Sunny and I stood quietly on the flat. Sheryl and her sorrel mare rode toward us, but both seemed unaware of our presence. This was fine with me. If Sheryl took the trail that led up the hill to my right, she might never notice me at all. But horse and rider came on steadily, passing the trail that led to the Lookout, and I saw Sheryl’s abstracted expression jerk into awareness as she spotted me; her eyes narrowed.

“Hi Sheryl,” I said.

Sheryl pulled her horse up. “Hello, Gail, fancy meeting you here.”

“I ride here quite a bit,” I said, “though I don’t often see anyone else. This must be my lucky day. First I met Jane Kelly and now you.” And I smiled.

As I’d expected, the mention of Jane nettled Sheryl. She tossed her blond braid over her shoulder and gave her horse a sharp jerk in the mouth, apparently unconsciously. At the same time, she obviously had no idea what to say to me. Her mare danced and fretted, and a look of sheer rage crossed Sheryl’s superficially pretty face. I suddenly wondered why I’d provoked her.

In her thirties, blond and tan and slim, with lots of makeup and silver jewelry and a brittle, tinkly laugh, Sheryl was everything I wasn’t. She favored the party scene and went from one cowboy, or wannabe cowboy, to the next, with absolutely no scruples concerning their marital status. She spent most of her time hanging around the barn, flirting; I had never seen her out on a solo trail ride before. It amused me to note that she wore a fringed leather jacket and had matching saddlebags with an equal amount of fringe.

“What a nice afternoon,” I said belatedly, “and I’d better get going,” I added, “if I want to be home before dark.”

This wasn’t really true; I had plenty of time to get home before dark, even if I dawdled quite a bit. But I was sorry I had needled Sheryl, and I was also suddenly sure that I did not want to have a conversation with her.

“Have a good ride,” I told her.

Still quite obviously annoyed, Sheryl jerked her chin at me in reply and rode past on her prancing mare.

I watched her heading down the trail in the same direction Jane had gone, and aimed Sunny up the hill to the Lookout.

This last piece of trail was steep, ascending sharply through the redwoods to emerge in a grove of big, old madrones, their red branches twisting sinuously as they reached for the deep blue sky far above. The trail threaded between them into a small flat at the very top of the bluff. I could see the dark blue velvety folds of the coastal hills rolling and tossing away in the distance on all sides, and before me, aquamarine in the bittersweet brilliance of the autumn sunshine, bright on the horizon, lay the blue curve of the Monterey Bay. Beyond that—I squinted at the dazzle of white light—the rim of the world and the westering sun.

I walked Sunny across the flat to the edge of the bluff and let him rest. I could feel his breath move my legs in and out as he got his wind back after the climb. We were both content to stand still.

Staring out at the view, seeing it and not seeing it. One part of me registered the familiar drama with an equally familiar appreciative thrill. I came here often and never tired of it. The other part of my mind had gone back to puzzling over my current predicament. The busy inward chatter was both welcome and unwelcome. I longed for my mind to be quiet and able simply to take in the beauty around me, and at the same time my problem obsessed me; I needed to chew on it as a dog needs to chew on a bone.

A red-tail hawk cut across the abyss of air before me, swimming through the sky level with my horse, as we stood at the edge of the Lookout bluff. Free as a bird, I thought distractedly. Free. And that was the point. Did I want to be free?

The hawk disappeared into the distance. I watched him go, saw him become a tiny dot and then vanish. Going, gone. Like all of us. Like life itself.

I sighed, and felt Sunny sigh underneath me. The horse cocked a hind leg, clearly prepared to rest awhile. Sunny knew me. He knew I wanted to sit here and think.

I had a choice to make. And after weeks and months of mulling it over, I still couldn’t decide what I should do. Being free sounded simple; it even looked simple, watching a hawk soar across the sky. But in practice, not so simple.

For I now had what most people claim to want. Financial freedom. The choice of working or not working. I only needed to please myself. After ten years of steadily making a living as a horse vet, and another ten years of raising my child while my husband worked hard to support us, I found myself facing the oddest problem I had yet encountered. My husband had inherited an almond orchard when his father died. The almond orchard brought in over a hundred thousand a year, without either Blue or I needing to do much of anything. We were both free to work or not. Blue had promptly retired.

That was six months ago. In the ensuing time, Blue had built a small separate building to serve as an addition to our little house and taken up playing the bagpipes. He also tended his beloved vegetable garden and cooked dinner every evening. Blue was gloriously unconflicted, always busy, and quite happy. I was the one who was having problems.

After ten years of raising my child, the last few as a homeschooling mom, I was finding that eleven-year-old Mac needed me less and less. He now went to school a couple of days a week, was able to be home alone, and had Blue for support when needed. I was free, in every way, to resume my interrupted career as a horse vet. And this career had meant a lot to me. I’d always intended to go back to it. I remained a partner in the veterinary firm.

Free, free, free. I shook my head in aggravation, like a woman being plagued by gnats. I was free to work if I wanted to. And I was free not to work.

And do what, a friend of mine had asked.

That was the point, exactly. The wind blew a strand of my hair across my face. I brushed it away, and reached down to smooth Sunny’s cream-colored mane back in place on his neck. The freedom that I sometimes envisioned didn’t look like doing anything much. It wasn’t something that I could defend or explain. I only knew it drew me, as the wind and the hawk and the distance drew me. But could I stand it?

All my life’s training had been to be busy, productive, independent. Even as a mother, giving up my career to stay home with my child, I had felt confident in the importance of what I was doing, affirmed in my belief that nurturing one’s child was a valid choice. Perhaps not glamorous, but nonetheless, realistically, important work.

There was absolutely no support for the notion that staying home to watch hawks was important work. In our western society, such pointless sitting around qualified as pure laziness. Do-nothing people were bored, and boring. Couch potatoes watching TV.

Never mind that I didn’t have a TV; I knew the stereotype. I could not entirely free myself of its stigma. At some deep level I thought that I ought to go back to work. But I could not figure out if that was what I truly wanted.

I had turned fifty this year. At least half my life was almost certainly over. What did I want to do with the rest of it?

I sighed again. I’d been sitting here awhile. Sunny’s breathing had returned to normal and he shifted his front feet. Sunny was a patient horse, but even he was ready to move on. I patted his neck.

“You’re right,” I said aloud. “This isn’t getting me anywhere.”

It never did. No matter how many times I mulled it over, no answer emerged. In an effort to break the stalemate, I’d made a plan to ride along with Lucy Conners, who was currently practicing as a vet for our firm. This would be happening on Monday.

“Day after tomorrow, I’ll have a better idea,” I said finally.

Somehow I had the notion that I would be able to tell if being back in the saddle at work, so to speak, felt stimulating or claustrophobic, simply by accompanying Lucy on her rounds. In any case, it was the best idea I could come up with.

Laying the rein against Sunny’s neck, I said, “Okay, let’s go.”

Sunny turned away from the view with alacrity. He knew my routines. Now we were headed home.

The horse marched purposefully, but without hurrying, across the flat little meadow and took the trail that headed downhill between the madrones. I glanced briefly at the dirt logging road which also led down the hill, but allowed Sunny’s choice to stand. I would take the pretty trail home.

The pretty trail wound down the hill gently, passing between broad-leafed trees, oaks, and redwoods, a swirling green kaleidoscope leading one to the heart of the forest. Mac and I had named it the “pretty trail” years ago, and the name had stuck. As I descended the branch trail from the Lookout headed for the junction to the pretty trail, I glanced automatically downhill at a hunter’s blind in an oak tree. This blind had been here for many years—ever since I’d been riding these trails. I’d never seen anyone in it or near it. But I had the curious conviction that it was not deserted. My over-the-shoulder glance in its direction was, as always, uneasy. That blind made me uncomfortable.