Candace Carrabus - Dreamhorse 01 - On the Buckle (5 page)

“You determine that when you give them their lessons.”

I didn’t mean to jerk the reins. Cali stopped with an annoyed huff, and I stared at Malcolm, probably looking stupid with my mouth hanging open. The birds still sang, and I could hear Noire splashing in the water, and feel Cali’s steady breathing between my legs, but my own had stopped. He didn’t just say I would be giving riding lessons, did he? No, no, no. I misunderstood, surely. Pen had said I didn’t have to teach riding, right? I couldn’t, and that was that. Yes, that was that, and I would not think of it again until I could talk to Penny. Which I would be doing the moment we got back to the barn.

We rode on, and he showed me another hay field, corn, winter wheat, and one patch that would be in soybeans. I scarcely noticed. My hands had grown cold, my neck prickly, my innards soft.

“Hank takes care of the crops and the livestock for the most part,” he said. “Everyone pitches in when we do hay.”
 

So, that’s what “helping out around the farm” meant. I’d stacked plenty of hay. “Sounds like fun,” I mumbled.

In my mind, I kissed the trust fund good-bye. I could not do the job expected, and even if I could, I was sure to die of boredom before the year’s end.

- 4 -

“I’m in hell, Penny, and you sent me here.”

I called her the moment I put down my sweaty tack and saw Malcolm leave. It was almost nine o’clock on the east coast. On a Sunday morning at Pen’s house that meant fluffing her hair and yelling at Frank to get out of bed so they could go to church. I could hear him grumbling in the background and the toilet flushing and her rifling the bathroom drawers to find the right shade of lipstick.

“Don’t even say that. It’s Sunday morning.”

“Oh for cripe’s sake, hell is hell no matter what day of the week it is.” I flopped on the bed and cradled the phone with my shoulder. Noire stuck her nose under my hand where it hung over the edge of the mattress, and I rubbed her ears. Wish I had someone to give me a rub.

“You haven’t even been there twenty-four hours. Give it more time.”

“The place reeks, the horses are mangey—”

“There’s always—”

“And vultures.
Vultures
for cripe’s sake.”

“—whipped cream.”

“Did you hear what I said?
Vultures
.”

“Get some whipped cream. Sounds like you’ll need it.”

“It doesn’t fix everything, you know.”

“But it does make you feel better, right?”

She was right, but I refused to be put off my tirade. “My boss is a prick—”

“He sounded so nice on the phone. Are you sure?”

“Don’t try to distract me. And by the way, you said I would not be teaching riding. Clearly that is expected. Explain.”

She hesitated, taking a deep breath as I had, probably using the moment to swipe on her favorite lip-gloss.

“Well?” I prompted.

“Well, so what? You aren’t going to be teaching them to ride, just testing their ability before they go on the trail, that’s all. That’s not teaching. Not the way you teach, anyway, all serious and everything like everyone has to compete at Madison Square Garden or something.”

“What’s wrong with serious? They should take it serious. Seriously. Riding is serious.”

“Does it have to be? All the time? Can’t you just ride…what do you call it? On the belt?”

I almost laughed. Penny could do that, and she knew it. But I wasn’t taking her off my I-hate-your-guts list yet.

“On the buckle,” I said.

“Yeah, on the buckle, that’s it. Isn’t that when you relax and give your horse his head? Can’t you just loosen the reins and relax a little? A little. I’m not saying a lot.”

I hate it when she uses horsy metaphors to make a point. Usually she gets it wrong. But this time she was dead on. I couldn’t argue that I was wound tight. What she might call heavy-handed, if she knew how to extend the metaphor. The kind of hands that make a horse toss his head, shorten his back, fight the bit. That’s how I handle myself.
 

I let out a ragged breath. “I don’t know. This place is a mess.”

“Then it won’t be hard for you to improve the situation. Look, I gotta go, Frank’s in the car. I’ll light a candle for you. Call you tomorrow.”

~~~

Downstairs, I stood at one end of the concrete aisle with my knuckles firmly planted on my hips. The more I looked around, the worse it got. Cobwebs everywhere, dust, the stink, flies. I climbed a built-in ladder to the loft. Must and more dust. Right outside the barn, where the horses congregated, there was a leaky bathtub serving as a water trough. Fawn sloshed her nose in it, playing, making a puddle that the others mashed manure and pee into, turning the entire area into muck pie.
 

Not only did everything need cleaning,
everything
, but I had to get to know the horses, too. And figure out how to feed them individually rather than family style. He wouldn’t blame me if I wanted to leave, huh? We’d see about that.

In the tack room, I’d found a schedule. There was a ride in the morning. A list of six horse’s names had been jotted down with “Norman” written alongside. In the meantime, I had the rest of the day to get done what I could, and maybe do a bit of shopping. Whipped cream, the kind in a can that you squirt straight into your mouth, was at the very top of my shopping list. Only Pen knew I was addicted to the stuff.

The wheelbarrow leaned against a wall with a few other utensils. I retrieved what I needed and got to work.

~~~

Hank dropped by around three. He whistled when he came in, stopped outside the stall where I was. “Shit fire,” he said.

“No kidding.” I didn’t know what he meant, but agreed.
 

A wheelbarrow full of saturated dark-brown straw stood in the stall door. The fumes stung my eyes, I’d been sweating for hours. No telling what my hair looked like where it stuck out from under my baseball cap. I’d made it through half the stalls, found a bag of lime and sprinkled some over the dirt floors to help absorb the smell and also thrown several bales of fresh straw down from the loft in preparation to re-bed. The manure pile had doubled in size, and it was already too big to begin with.
 

“Looks like alotta work for a Sunday,” Hank said. “You make them boys look like they’s in reverse.” He looked around and whistled again. “How’s it goin’?” he asked.
 

I wiped my arm across my face. “It’s fine.”

“Need anything?”

I had a list, but didn’t think he really wanted to hear it. “Where’s the nearest store with pitchforks and stuff?”

To add insult to injury, I hadn’t been able to locate a straw fork. No wonder the place was such a mess. Didn’t matter today, the stalls needed to be stripped, no finesse involved. A big shovel did the job.
 

“MFA’d be best. Other side of town. Run you up myself in the morning. Need a couple things too.”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

“Missus’ll have supper ready in about a hour. We’re the next place down.”

He jerked his thumb past his ear to indicate the direction and was gone before I could protest.

~~~

The next morning my back ached when I went down to feed. I brought twelve horses in and rounded up halters and lead lines and tied the remaining six to spots along the fence and gave each one a bucket of feed.
 

I watched them for a while, then went in to sort through the tack. There were five English saddles and five Western. None were labeled, but Smitty and Fawn were both on the list for the morning’s ride, so I started with them and waited for Norman.
 

He motored in on a four-wheeler at eight-thirty. Talk about duded up. Fake alligator shit kickers with chrome toe guards and skin-tight Levi’s hugging a barely-there ass. The pearly snaps of his plaid shirt were left open too far down revealing a totally naked and pale chest, and the straw ten-gallon boater on his head could rescue a family of five. His beady eyes darted around the barn.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

“Yeah. So, who are Cheyenne, Honey, Oreo, Brownie, and Kismet?” I rattled off the names on the list. “I have Smitty and Fawn groomed, but wasn’t sure whether they go English or Western.”

He hesitated. “Uh.”

Which didn’t tell me much. He retrieved the list, moving fast. Maybe Norman had some get-up-and-go after all. Shortly, we had them all ready, although Norman’s grooming skills left much to be desired. He went through the motions, but barely removed the sweat marks still left on some horse’s backs from Saturday, and although he picked up each hoof, I think all he did was clink the hoof pick against their shoes. When he went to get saddles and bridles, I redid his job.

The tack was serviceable and plain and in need of saddle soap and neatsfoot oil. The polyester sheepskin pads were glazed with dried dirty sweat.

“Is there a washing machine around here?” I asked Norman.

“Yeah, sure.” He led me to the back of the feed room where he pushed a plaid horse blanket on the floor. I opened the washing machine and closed it just as quick. There was something in there, something that had been there for a while and had mildewed beyond recognition. I thought I caught the flicker of a smile skitter across Norman’s narrow face
 

“Gross,” I said. “What’s in there?”

He shrugged. “Leg wraps, maybe. Don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember.”

His shoulders hitched again and he gave me a “tell it to somebody who gives a shit” face, and turned on his heel. “Gotta make the coffee. Always have coffee when they get here.”

I followed him into the tack room where he pulled a Mr. Coffee machine from the cabinet under the sink, then filters and a small can of coffee.

“What, exactly, is your job?” I asked him.

“Head wrangler. This is my last week. I’m moving on, you know, bigger and better things.”

Whatever.
Wrangler
? Where did he think we were, Wyoming? “Are there assistant wranglers?”

“A couple kids come after school to help out sometimes.”

Oh, boy
.
 

I turned to the washer, twisted the knob to hot, stood back, opened it, dumped in bleach, and dropped the lid.

The riders arrived, one by one. If the half-clean barn, or the lack of cobwebs, or the swept aisle surprised any, not one made a comment. They all rode regularly on Monday so there was no need to assess their ability. We went straight to the trails. Norman led on Captain, a bay gelding, and I followed on Cali. It didn’t take much to see they were all beginners, and the ride consisted mostly of walking and butt-numbing trot. A heavy-set woman atop Honey almost slipped off around a turn. Her legs stuck straight out, but she had a death grip on the horn and righted herself before hitting the dirt.

Norman wanted to be John Wayne, but he was shorter and skinnier than me. Cowboy boots and hat didn’t get him close to The Duke. He’d waited for everyone else to mount, then swung to Captain’s back from the ground.
 

He’d kneed the horse in the belly and over tightened the girth first to make this stunt practical, since he put all his weight on the saddle horn to hoist himself up. He rode like an idiot—all toes and elbows—and bounced and jerked the reins.
 

Captain suffered the act with patience, one of many saintly horses I’ve known. I didn’t say anything to Norman right then, and maybe I wouldn’t. After all, he’d be gone soon. On the other hand, his show-off style bordered on abuse, and if he were going to be working with horses, I could do them all a favor if I taught him a couple of things in the next week.

When we returned to the barn, Hank was waiting to take me to the MFA. As soon as the horses were settled, we set off in his faded blue pickup. Norman muttered something about things to do, mounted his four-wheeler, and took off in the other direction, up the gravel road past Hank’s.

At dinner the night before, Hank had promised to bring his tractor and manure spreader over and start working on the manure pile. But when he dropped me back at the barn after we finished shopping, he had to go till Clara’s garden.
 

I’d stuffed myself the night before with Clara’s fried chicken—one that had been alive and pecking that morning. There’d been green beans from last year’s garden, scalloped potatoes, salad from this year’s garden, iced tea, and some kind of pie so gooey sweet it set my teeth on edge. I ate a piece to be polite. There was no coffee to wash it down, but I managed with the tea. I usually skip dessert, but she insisted.

“What do you mean, you don’t want pie?”

The look on her face had been pure astonishment, like I’d landed from another planet. Disappointment and determination twisted her mouth, and there’d been a knife in her hand. She held it loosely, almost carelessly, but I didn’t doubt she knew how to use it, or would hesitate, if the need arose. I don’t think anyone messes with Clara, especially when it comes to pie.

Hank went to till the garden, his truck leaving behind a billow of dust, and I went upstairs to call Pen. On the way, I mused that the morning had been a resounding success. I hadn’t been bitten, stomped on or kicked, and no one had called me “the new girl.” Today, I would finish cleaning the stalls.