Candace Carrabus - Dreamhorse 01 - On the Buckle (8 page)

“Girl, you are slicker’n a hound’s tooth.”

I froze.
Slicker’n
—had I heard him right? My head cleared in a whoosh like I’d fallen in the water. What the hell was I doing?

I dug my fingernails into his balls—not too hard—but enough to tear a surprised, “hey!” from him. He loosed his grip on me. I broke away, lurched for my truck, climbed in, and started it without closing the door. To hell with a seat belt.
 

I’d gunned it down the road and left him and his hard-on in a cloud of dust before I realized my sandals were still parked under a bit of brush and my panties had drifted downstream.

- 6 -

My head hurt.
 

No. It was a bowling ball attached to my neck. Impossible to lift. I cracked one eyelid. Light and memory invaded, painful recognition of this feeling, disgusted memory.
 

I’d thrown a gutter ball.
 

The frogs had been right to laugh.

I pulled the pillow over my head and dozed.

That’s when I had the dream. I know everyone has dreams, but I never remember mine. Not a feeling about what I dreamed, not a glimpse, not anything. This one came to me so vividly, I sat up. That was a mistake. The pounding in my head made me cover my eyes and drop back to the mattress.
 

Wastrel trotted to me out of a bright mist, whole and sound, not broken and bleeding like the last time I saw him moments before he was put down and I was put in an ambulance. The big bay snorted and shook his head and nuzzled my side. I felt his warm breath, the tickle of his whiskers. He didn’t smell like the usual clean wood shavings and liniment; he smelled like heaven.

Okay, so who knows what heaven smells like? For some, it might be bacon frying or a chocolate milk shake, lilacs, freshly-turned earth or new-mown grass, a just-washed baby, the air on top of a mountain or the sea. What Wastrel smelled like in my dream was all those things rolled into one. So, that’s what heaven smells like.

He danced around me. I reached for him and he moved away, just as we had always played together out in the paddock before I’d bring him in to work. He swished his tail and returned, almost within reach, but not quite.

Wastrel had been my favorite ride of all time. On him, my connection was pure and open, and we could do anything. Only thing was, Wastrel didn’t enjoy jumping. Not the man-made competition jumps, anyway. A fence across a field, a log out on the trail, a ditch along the road, he sailed over all. But point him at a course in a ring, and he balked. Observers couldn’t see it. Only he and I knew. I tried to explain to his owner, but he pushed and pushed for the grand-prix prize. Wastrel could do it, and he did do it for me. Many times. But he’d grown tired of it.

That day, our ride was going smoothly, well under time and no faults, until he launched himself at the square oxer in the middle of the triple combination. It was perfect, we’d hit the ideal take-off point. The next moment, all I knew was splintering wood, and the muted roar of the crowd, and the ground coming up, and the shock of it going wrong. He tried to keep me from getting hurt; I tried to help him get free. His freedom was hard won. He never got up again. I often wondered if it had been deliberate.

In the dream, I sensed I’d been right. He was happy and intact and never had to jump unless he wanted to. In heaven, the fields were always green and the ponds clear and the trees shady. Somehow, he communicated that.
 

Wastrel led me to a wooded hillside. There was Winterlight’s manure pile. It didn’t smell like heaven, not at all.
 

“Yes,” I said. “We’re going to clean that up today.”

He climbed to the top and whinnied, then struck and dug at the heavy pile with his forefoot, spewing wet straw and manure through the crystal air.
 

“Okay, yes, I get it.”
 

Why would a dead horse be worried about an oversized manure pile at a farm he’d never visited while living?
 

Dreams are weird.
 

Once I’d showered and gargled the pasty remnants of beer from my throat with four cups of strong coffee, I concluded I had not had sex with JJ.
 

Relief left me boneless where I sprawled on the tack-room love seat after feeding the horses. Its musty smell reminded me I should check the mysterious contents of the washing machine, but I wasn’t up to it. And that got me wondering where Norman was. I thought he’d said this was his last week, but I didn’t know what his hours were supposed to be. Maybe he figured since I lived here he didn’t need to arrive any time in particular.
 

I didn’t waste time with self-recrimination. I knew perfectly well what I’d been thinking the night before. More precisely, I hadn’t been thinking at all. I’d been tired and feeling unappreciated. JJ happened along at the right time. With any luck, his change of scene would happen soon, and I wouldn’t have to deal with him again.

Henrietta jumped to my lap and purred when I stroked her back. Her belly stuck out like she’d swallowed a football. Probably have her kittens today. When I rose, she made a beeline for my apartment. Great. She might even have her kittens in my closet.

There’d been a message on the answering machine from Malcolm that he’d finished his job early and would be home tonight. Crap. I’d wanted to have so much more done before he got back. He’d sounded surprised not to find me in when he called at nine at night. Surprised or disappointed? Hard to say, especially in my fuzzyheaded state. After our last encounter, I’d just as soon he stayed away. Unless, of course, he was wearing his kilt.
 

And that was just the sort of sentiment that got me in trouble last night.

If I hustled, I could get the horses worked, clean out a couple more stalls, and do my grocery shopping before Hank showed up with his front loader and manure spreader to start moving the big pile. That thing had been building for months and achieved a height of at least ten feet and probably double that in width and length. It was down a hillside and out of sight—just like in my dream. Out of sight, out of mind, for the people around here. Not for Wastrel.
 

The dream followed me through the morning. Every detail stuck with me. What it meant, I had no idea.

~~~

The nearest grocery store was fairly new—a testament to civilization inching into the country. Progress, some people would call it. It was also small and limited in its offering. No organic anything. I wheeled a cart down the canned goods aisle. Good selection of baked beans.

I felt more clear-headed since riding, and my sense of purpose grew as I got to know the horses. Gaston, Malcolm’s new mount, had a big trot and a rolling canter but was lazy to the jumps. We’d work on that. He’d be bolder going cross-country than in the ring. Ciqala knew his job and moved efficiently. Miss Bong should have been called Miss Boing. She did everything with lots of bounce.
 

Cali had lugged on the bit, swished her tail, and called to the horses in the pasture. Fergus answered, Smitty raised his head, and the rest kept to cropping grass. She wanted out with them, but I was cautious. No sense endangering Winterlight’s other occupants unnecessarily. So far, I’d let her out in the riding ring only. I rode her on the buckle, let her stretch her topline through trot and some canter, very relaxing for us both.

I’d taken some aspirin. Still, my head had a persistent, throbbing ache, and I had to keep consulting my shopping list to remember what I needed. What had I come down this aisle for? There it was, green beans.

Wastrel kept edging into my thoughts. After the accident that left him dead and me on a respirator for a few days while my fractured sternum popped back into the correct position, I tried to put the memory behind me, drowned it in alcohol, but the dream brought it all back. So, on top of being hung over, feeling stupid for getting drunk and nearly having sex in a river, I had to contend with a dream horse intruding on my ride time. At least the old feelings of grief and remorse, guilt and anger weren’t as strong as in the past. Seeing Wastrel in one piece and not upset with me helped.

I was choosing between regular and French cut beans when a cart careened into mine and pushed it over my foot.
 

“Oops, sorry,” the other woman said.

Pink-camouflaged lady smiled in recognition. Was I doomed to injury every time she got close? Her hair hung over her shoulders in ratty waves that had been bleached and permed so many times it looked like it might break. Now that I had a moment to study her, I realized she was younger than I thought, maybe early twenties. Her clothes today were relatively respectable—plain tee-shirt and baggy shorts. Still, there was no hiding her size-D chest.

“Hey, you’re—” she started.

“The new girl,” we both said together.
 

“How’s it going?” she asked. “I’m Sandy Houseman, by the way. Sorry about what happened.” She hunkered down a bit. “How’s my wittle Fawny-Wawny?” she asked in a little-girl voice. “She being a good girly?”

“Uh…yeah. It’s going okay.” I glanced down at her bare legs. “But I won’t be wearing shorts anytime soon.”

She straightened and spoke in a normal tone. “That bad, huh?”

“I’ve had worse.” Before she could ask for details, I changed the subject. “Fawn could use a little more exercise. How often do you ride?”

“As often as I can. But I have to work to support it. I’m on break from the vet’s office right now. Can I come over later?”

Sandy worked for a vet. Always a good person to know, but I almost said no anyway. The baby talk made me grind my teeth. Maybe if she didn’t direct it at me, I’d survive.
 

At my hesitation, she added, “I need to see Norman about something anyway.”

“Sure. Hank and I will be moving manure all afternoon. After that will be good.”

Two older ladies walked toward us, each carrying a small basket rather than pushing a cart. They were deep in conversation, heads tilted toward each other, so we moved over until they went on, but they stopped at the canned gravy. Sandy did an eye roll that had me afraid her eyes would get stuck inside her head, then picked out a can of corn niblets and one of creamed, and appeared to consider.

“Well,” the first lady said, “when Fred went down to the bottom to count head this morning, some of them was in the river. He almost had an apoplexy when he seen his prize bull.”

“What’d he do, Melba, get himself stuck in a hole again?”

I started to back my cart. Without looking away from the corn, Sandy put one foot on it to keep me from moving off. I returned my attention to the green beans.

“Oh goodness, no. Fred thought he’d gashed his face open or tore off an ear. Lordy, his whole head looked bloody.”

“Oh dear, it wasn’t one of the cows, was it?”

“No, no, no. Now, just let me tell it.”

Melba wore a striped dress, pantyhose, and faded Keds with the toes cut out. Support-hose clad toes showed through the openings. She had short, white hair and Delft blue eyes. Edna looked like her twin except she wore green polyester pants and black slip-on shoes with her plaid cotton blouse. Her swollen ankles and feet overflowed the top edges of the shoes.

“Look, Fred’s favorite gravy is on sale,” Melba said. “Buy two get one free. Oh, but I can’t use that many.”

“I’ll take the free one,” Edna said. “Even though it’s only me, sometimes I invite Herbert over.”

I sighed in exasperation, exchanged a look with Sandy. What in heck happened to Fred’s bull? She put a can of creamed corn in my basket.

At my squinty-eyed stare, she whispered, “Try it, you’ll like it.”

Melba gently elbowed Edna. “I think Herbert’s sweet on you.”
 

Edna hid a giggle behind an embroidered hanky. “Now, tell me about that silly bull of yours.”

“Yes, well,” Melba cleared her throat and leaned closer. “You won’t believe it. Turns out it was a pair of red, lace underpants stuck on his horn.”

- 7 -

Sandy burst out laughing when Melba made her announcement, and I stared at them, dumbstruck.
 

“Was they Fred’s?” Sandy asked. “Or one of the cows’?”

Melba and Edna lowered their identical gray brows at us and moved along without another word. Sandy turned to me, still laughing.

“If that don’t beat all.” She wiped a tear on her shoulder. “You see the looks on their faces?”

“Yeah. Hilarious.” I headed for the checkout.
 

“Tell Fawny-Wawny I said hi, okay?”

~~~

I’d put my three bags on the seat of the truck before I began to see the humor in the situation. So long, that is, as no one ever found out the panties were mine.

Back at the ranch, I put groceries away quickly, loading the two cans of Reddi-Wip into the door of the fridge. I’d gotten one plain, one chocolate. The chocolate was for extreme stress. Emergency provision only. I took a hit of the creamy white stuff, closed my mouth, then swept my tongue through it a little at a time, letting it dissolve at its own pace. Tension slipped away like water from a leaking trough. After a deep breath, I took another quick squirt and headed outside, feeling renewed. Who needs yoga and meditation when there’s whipped cream in a can?