Candace Carrabus - Dreamhorse 01 - On the Buckle (2 page)

There was a child at Winterlight. I’d managed to avoid thinking about it all the way there. The girl of eight was just learning to ride. Penny told them I don’t teach, and they said that was okay, I didn’t have to give her lessons. The point was, she would be around, the child and her pony. I’d have to watch her ride.
 

I rested my forehead against the steering wheel, but the engine jerked so bad, I feared a bruise, so I leaned back and rubbed my hands over my face. I was road-weary and really needed to stretch my legs, take a shower, go for a ride, anything.
 

I didn’t have to baby-sit; I would find something else to do when she rode. She wouldn’t be my responsibility. No, I would not let the dangerous mix of young children and riding get in my way. I would work hard, take good care of the horses, and keep my head down.
 

Like I said, I can talk myself into anything.

~~~

A long board-and-batten barn stood on the left. A second story at the other end was probably the apartment where I would live. A shed stuck out over a six-horse gooseneck trailer. On the far side stretched the biggest pasture I’d ever seen. Several horses grazed in its four-board confines. Somewhere beyond the barn, over on the other side of my apartment, was the cause of the dust. I couldn’t see the riding ring, but could just tell several people were trotting around in a circle, probably taking a lesson.
 

It wasn’t too late to turn around. The New York plates might be a giveaway, but maybe no one had noticed. To my right, another field rolled out of sight, this one fenced in wire, with—oh crap—cows. The drive continued another hundred yards up to an old farmhouse. The sun lowered itself behind the two-story, white home, casting shadows in my direction, but I could make out a man and a woman—Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm, I supposed—coming at me, chasing a cow. Have I mentioned I don’t like cows? Nothing personal, they don’t strike me as the most intelligent animals ever created.

Mr. Malcolm waved. That was it. I was made, stuck in Missouri for a year. And right in front of me came my first chance to show how helpful I could be. I shut down the hot engine. It wheezed with relief. When I stepped out, Noire bounced off the seat behind me. She’d never seen a cow, but I figured she could handle it.

A gate hung open in the cow field fence, so I assumed that’s where they wanted this big, black one. I could block the escape and shoo her in. Couldn’t be much different from corralling a loose horse.

Behind me, I heard voices and the sound of steel-shod feet on concrete—the horses being led in to the barn from the ring. With a glance over my shoulder, I counted five horses in need of a bath coming up the aisle and getting clipped onto crossties. Clipped right to their bits. Crap. A disaster waiting to detonate. Grime coated their sweaty necks and filled the crevices above their eyes.

“Hey,” yelled a big woman crammed into black jeans, a pink camouflage sports bra, and high-top sneakers, “the new girl’s here.”

The new girl?
Guess that was me. I returned to the bovine situation.

Mr. Malcolm, a short, bow-legged guy swathed in denim, shook a stick at the cow to keep it moving, and Mrs. Malcolm, who was a freaking Amazon in a plaid skirt, shouted something I couldn’t hear. Jesus. Am I in the Midwest, or what? Noire barked at the cow, who considered, head lowered. I shouted my dog back and stepped toward the beast. She grunted, I lobbed a clod of dried horse manure at her, and she tossed her head up, thought better of whatever was passing through her pathetic little brain, then shuffled through the opening to join her herd mates. I shut the gate.

Mission accomplished.

“Hope that’s where you wanted her,” I said as the Malcolms came up. On closer inspection, I saw the person I thought was Mrs. Malcolm was a man in a plaid skirt.
 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he yelled at me.
 

This was a bad start. I swallowed my sarcastic tone and said, “Helping?”

The little guy looked away quick to hide a smile. He had a face like a tattered linen shirt left too long balled up in the bottom of a drawer, but the grin ironed the wrinkles from his cheeks. The big guy’s skin tightened like my old trainer’s face used to when I didn’t ride the way he liked. His light-brown hair picked up the last traces of sunlight in golden sparks.

“Do all easterners think they walk on water, or do you know something about bulls we don’t?”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a small crowd gathered in front of the barn—five riders and a sixth person I assumed was their instructor. An audience. Was it too late to crawl into my truck and slither away?

The man in the skirt didn’t control the sarcasm in his voice, so I really had to breathe deeply to keep from saying something I shouldn’t. Did he say bull?

“Did you say bull?”

“Christ,” he muttered. He slapped one hand up to his big, square jaw—he needed a shave—fingers on one cheek, thumb on the other, and drew his hand down his face in obvious frustration. He addressed his companion who so far had said nothing. “My new manager doesn’t know the difference between a heifer and a bull.”

I glanced from one to the other. Obviously, the big guy was Mr. Malcolm. I leaned back to get a better look at him, skirt and all. It was a kilt, actually. I knew that much. A well-worn one. Great legs. Never thought I’d find a man in a skirt attractive, but this guy would look good in a tutu—Pen’s third rule came to mind: Don’t get involved with the boss.

I stuck out my hand to shake. “Mr. Malcolm?”

He regarded me critically, the way I’d done him, then took my hand. I squeezed hard—my hands are strong—and before he could say anything else, I added, nice as could be, “You hired me to take care of your horses, not your cows.”

The little guy snorted, and the beginnings of an appreciative smile played at the corners of Mr. Malcolm’s wide mouth.

He shook my hand. “That I did. You’ll be Miss Viola Parker, then. Welcome to Winterlight.”

A smattering of applause greeted me when I turned around, so I bowed. Sheesh.
 

At that moment, one of the horses in the aisle squealed like it had been bit, I heard the smack of a hoof connecting with flesh, another squeal. The horses in the field lifted their heads. A couple whinnied, and they all trotted over to see what was up. My radar went on full alert. There was a loose horse in the barn and no one else had noticed.

What was this? A peep show? Jesus. Action, please. It happened so fast; my audience still had all eyes on me, their backs to the impending disaster.

At the other end of the aisle, a chestnut head come up, another horse shifted sideways and the one causing the havoc, a small gray, ducked under one crosstie, then another, coming our way, gaining speed. The little palomino in front flattened her ears and let go with both barrels as the gray snuck by, his reins broken and tangled around one leg, whites of his eyes glowing. The palomino’s shot missed and hit a stall door with a bang. Everyone jumped.

“Get back,” I yelled to the group, and I ran forward, putting myself between them and the gray. “Whoa,” I said for the gray’s ears alone. Noire stayed near, blocking the driveway. I dug in my pants pocket—I always have a piece of carrot or some kernels of corn or something in there, and if not, I could fake it to get close enough.
 

Cali whinnied and shifted in the trailer, catching the gray’s attention for a moment. In the next, I had the rein and was at his shoulder. Blood seeped from a hoof-shaped cut on his forearm. “Whoa, whoa now, it’s all right,” I said, running my hand down his leg to pick up his foot. He answered Cali and danced sideways. I stayed with him, leaning into his shoulder and squeezing his ankle. He bent his knee, and I untangled the rein.

Mr. Malcolm stood behind me. I hadn’t seen him move, but I knew he was there. He put his hand on the gray’s nose. Long fingers. Dirt under the nails. No wedding ring.
 

“Okay Smitty, show’s over. Renee, why don’t you take Smitty around the back and hose him off? We’ll figure out what to do with his bridle later.”

A tall black woman with short gray hair took Smitty.

“He’ll need that kick hosed for a while to keep it from swelling,” I said to Mr. Malcolm. “And horses should always have their bridles removed and their halters put on before they get put in crossties.”

He looked at me for a long moment, not smiling, not frowning, sandy brows ever-so-slightly drawn together, questioning maybe—maybe if I knew him better I could tell. I read horses better than I read people.

“You’re the boss,” he said after a time.
 

Real soft like. Like a caress, seductive as the velvety down on a horse’s muzzle.

Then he turned toward those who remained. “Norman?”

The man I took to be the instructor came forward, and Mr. Malcolm spoke quietly, but not at all the way he’d addressed me. Now, there were sharp nails in his voice.
 

“Why are the horses cross tied to their bits? Please make sure their bridles are removed and their halters put on first.”

Norman slouched off without acknowledging the order. Oh, Malcolm had said “please,” but it was an order, no doubt about it. Why hadn’t I paid closer attention when Penny described his background? All I knew was that he was a mostly absentee owner, which suited me fine.

- 2 -

He switched tone again. This time it came out neutral. “The rest of you, get your horses untacked. Trail ride’s canceled for tonight. You can make it up next week.”

There was grumbling and shuffling, but the riders went to care for their mounts.

Malcolm and the short guy waited while I unloaded Cali. Malcolm helped with the trailer—he had an efficient no-nonsense way about him that said he knew what he was doing. When he lowered the ramp, he didn’t drop it, and he waited to unhook the butt bar until I was ready.
 

My horse stepped over her own pile of poop and backed with measured steps, calm and collected. I knew better. She stopped to look around, and the horses in the field caught her eye. They had gone back to grazing once Smitty had been led away. Cali whinnied, swished her tail and sprang out with a sideways hop, just missing my toes. Malcolm moved back and whistled.

Yep, Cali’s a looker—a dark-bay mare with four white socks and a perfectly-centered blaze.
Lots of chrome
, as horse people say. Chocolate-colored dapples melted along her flanks making her irresistible. Malcolm reached out a hand—I knew he wanted to touch her. She had that affect on everyone—horsy and non-horsy alike. But I warned them away. Her temper was barbed as razor wire. She didn’t like being touched when her attention was taken by something else, like it was then, by the horses galloping across the pasture to say hello.

“Don’t—” Too late. His hand grazed her ribs, and fast as a python strike, her right hind found its mark—Malcolm’s leg.
 

Double crap.
 

He grabbed his knee and swore.
 

Shorty said, “Gotdamn! What a shot.”

I led Cali forward fast, rattling her halter to keep her from nipping me. The mare didn’t mean anything by it—she didn’t even look at Malcolm—you just had to know how she was. Should have said something before I brought her out, I guess. She got me once. Just once. But seeing as how she was a thoroughbred I rescued off the racetrack, I explained she should be grateful she wasn’t on some Frenchman’s plate, and we came to an understanding. I was careful how I touched her, and she didn’t let me have it without good reason.

“Where should I put her?” I called over my shoulder. I wanted to make sure Mr. Malcolm was all right, but I couldn’t just let my horse go.

Shorty pointed to the first stall on the left. A caustic stench skidded out of the barn and stole tears from my eyes. This was bad. I had a lot of work in front of me.

Pink camouflage lady led the palomino forward, cooing baby talk in the mare’s ear, and came straight up to us. “Wittle Fawny want to meet the big new guy—”

“Don’t—” Too late
again
. The mare’s noses touched and both squealed. Wittle Fawny spun her fat ass into our faces and let loose with her signature double-barreled shot. Fortunately, she missed slamming Cali’s knees. Unfortunately, she caught me square in both thighs.
 

“Shit. Fuck. Piss,” I swore through clenched teeth.

I would have kicked both her and pink camouflage over the barn, but it was all I could do to suck in air.
 

“Get. Away,” I gritted out.

With a swirl of plaid skirt, Fawny walked off. I stood with my hands on my knees, eyes squeezed shut. The ringing in my ears prevented sounds from coming through and also, thankfully, coherent thought. I was no stranger to pain, knew the initial shock would wear off. The real pain would hit later, and the bruises, Jesus, I would be purple from crotch to knees. Good thing I didn’t plan to model bathing suits on the side.

Noire whimpered and licked my hand, and Cali nudged my head. They were my truest friends, these two critters. Clearly, people were not to be trusted.

I’m not sure how long I stayed like that, but a hand came to my shoulder, a voice asked if I was all right, if I needed anything. The short guy, I think, maybe Malcolm.