Galloping Gold (7 page)

Jonah, Darby, and Patrick looked as Ann indicated a business card imprinted with the words
OLOWALU STALLION STATION
over a background photo of Sugarfoot rearing. There was a magazine article featuring Olowalu Stallion Station, too. In it, Sugarfoot was shown racing head-on toward the camera.

“Who wants to breed to a ferocious, angry horse?” Jonah asked.

“But he's not!” Ann insisted.

“I can tell that,” Jonah said gently.

“Still, a groom was injured while making him perform,” Ramona pointed out.

“Sugarfoot just didn't know when to stop. He was only four years old, just a baby,” Ann said. “But they gelded him and put him up for sale. I saw the ad in the
Honolulu Horseman
, and—”

“Once we saw him, we had to have him,” Ramona said. “I've always wanted a Morab, and—well, does it sound show-offy to say Ed and I had never encountered a horse we couldn't work around to our way of thinking?”

“Nah,” Jonah told her. The corners of his eyes crinkled in a genuine smile. “It sounds like a couple of experienced horsemen. Or horsewomen.”

At the ringing sound of an old-fashioned dinner triangle, they all hurried toward the house.

“He's an easy keeper,” Ramona said as they walked.
“He's never sick, only threw a shoe once, and really, he's never cost us an extra dime. Until…” Ramona noticed Patrick was hanging back, still looking at Sugarfoot. “Patrick, dear, do you need any help?”

Something in Patrick's rapt study of Sugarfoot made Darby nervous, and she was glad when Ramona waited for him to catch up.

Ann and Jonah walked in step. Her friend talked while her grandfather listened. Watching them, Darby felt a bounce of optimism.

“He's sweet, but we can't use him as a therapy horse because he's a chaser,” Ann confessed. Then she repeated what she'd told Darby when they'd camped near the Two Sisters volcanoes. “I think you don't hear much about the vice of ‘chasing' because people are ashamed to admit they're afraid of their own horses.”

They'd just reached the open front door of the Potters' house when Ann tilted her head, looked intently at Jonah, and asked, “What do you think?”

Just then Ed appeared in the doorway and shook Jonah's hand.

Jonah looked at the Potters, not Ann, and said, “Got one smart girl, here, and five or six empty stomachs, is what I think.”

“Y'all come on in and grease your chins,” Ed drawled.

“Oh, Ed.” Ramona pretended to shrink in embarrassment, then turned to Jonah and said, “That make-believe country accent only comes out when he
cooks.” She used both hands to waft the aromas of steaks, mashed potatoes, and gravy toward them as they entered the kitchen, and said, “It's a small price to pay.”

Toby stood beside his father. They wore identical white chef's aprons. Buck, the baby, sat in a high chair, kicking his feet. He pointed a spoon at Ed and said, “Eat, now!”

“Amen to that.” Jonah's eyes were so full of the feast covering the table that Darby was surprised her grandfather waited until Ramona finished saying grace before he dug in.

D
uring dinner, no one mentioned Sugarfoot.

Patrick talked about the upcoming polo game. Toby described how their cat Mittens had hunted a mouse for breakfast. And Ed compared ranching in Hawaii with ranching in Nevada.

Darby listened. She smiled when it was appropriate and frowned when that seemed more suitable, but she was worried about Jonah. And she couldn't help noticing how often Jonah glanced toward the kitchen window.

She thought he watched for the coming of darkness.

Ed must have noticed the same thing, because once
they'd finished the meal, he said, “Shall we save the apple pie for later, after you've had a real look at the colt?”

Jonah agreed and they all left Ramona to her turn with the boys.

 

The sky wore a silvery haze and the air smelled of salt. The men walked with such after-dinner laziness, Patrick stumped past them on his crutches.

But Darby and Ann lagged behind. Darby bumped her shoulder against her friend's, then raised her eyebrows at Ann, silently asking what had made her cry.

“Gemma's boss, the attorney, called our insurance company. He asked what kind of coverage we had because he'd advised Gemma to get checked out by a doctor,” Ann said.

“But she's okay, right?” Darby asked. She was pretty sure nothing had been hurt except Mrs. Mookini's jacket.

Ann started to answer, but the words caught in her throat.

“Oh. My. Gosh,” Darby said. “This is so stupid.” She didn't know whether to laugh at the attorney or feel insulted for her friend. “If I'd gone to a doctor every time I fell off, I'd have to live at the doctor's off—”

When the men looked back at them, Darby hushed, but she saw that her aggravation had brought a smile to Ann's face.

Together, she and Ann caught up in time to hear
Jonah say, “You say he's five, but you call him a colt.”

It didn't sound like criticism. Darby had been wondering the same thing, but Ed had a lifetime of horse experience and she didn't.

Ann's dad scratched the back of his head and looked a little sheepish as he said, “I really thought this chasing was a colt thing that he'd get over.”

Ann threaded her arm through her father's, pleased that he was still making excuses for her horse, even if he didn't mean to do it.

When they reached the pasture, Jonah looked fortified by dinner and ready for action.

“Let's say I walked up to halter him and he tried chasin' me off. What would you tell me to do?”

Ed looked at Ann and gestured for her to answer.

“Stand your ground,” Ann said, “and when he gets close, like a few car lengths away, start jumping up and down and waving your arms like crazy.”

Jonah gave Ann a comical look that indicated such a reaction to a pushy horse was far below his dignity.

“I know,” Ann said, “but it works.”

“She's right,” Ed admitted. “That paint puts on the brakes, walks around a minute giving you the stink eye, then goes back to what he was doing before you invaded his privacy.”

At the sound of a pipe gate ringing closed, they looked up to see Patrick making his way across the pinto pasture.

“He asked me where I kept the peppermint treats.”
Ann suddenly realized the significance of Patrick's earlier question.

“And he left his crutches leaning against the fence,” Darby said incredulously. “What is he thinking?”

Ann moaned. “I should have guessed! He was telling me about an article he'd read in some scientific journal about breed recognition among animals. You know, like golden retrievers will hang out with other goldens if they have a choice?”

“Ann…” Her father sounded disapproving.

“It's not my theory, Dad. All I did was listen, but he was thinking it might be transferable. Something along the lines of, if Mistwalker is a paint and she likes Patrick, then Sugarfoot will bond with him, too.”

“I thought he was smarter than that,” Darby said.

“Guess we'll see.” Ed shifted from foot to foot. “I'd like to go out, pick him up by the scruff of his neck, and give him a good talkin' to, but I don't want to spook the horse.”

Sugarfoot didn't look the least bit spooked, Darby thought.

Swishing his tail, flicking his ears, shivering his skin as if he were covered by flies, Sugarfoot watched Patrick come toward him.

And then he charged.

Fooled again,
Darby thought. But Patrick was ready for the horse.

Patrick stood up as straight as his spine would allow, holding his ground, and Sugarfoot did just what
the Potters had predicted.

The paint veered away, then stopped and looked back at the boy.

Ann smooched loudly, then called to her horse, “Shug, you're a good boy.”

Patrick stuck out a thin arm and opened his hand. Sugarfoot walked a step closer, then stretched his gold-patched neck as far as it would go, to lip up the peppermint cookie. It was gone in an instant.

Patrick wiped his palm on his jeans, squared away his white pith helmet, and started back to the fence.

“I think he likes me,” Patrick yelled, but his celebratory strut was cut short by a stumble.

That leg's still not healed,
Darby thought, but she said, “Sugarfoot didn't do it,” and her words were rushed, just in case anyone thought otherwise.

“We all saw that,” Jonah told her, “but he's going to investigate.”

Dying sunlight burnished the gelding's gold-and-white coat as he took a step toward Patrick. The action reminded Darby of the times she'd fallen off Hoku and the filly had waited for her. Unworried, the boy called, “I just need a little help getting up.”

Darby tensed to go to him. Ann reached for the gate and Ed muttered, but Jonah held up a hand to keep the others back.

“I'll take care of it,” Jonah said, “and have a talk with your horse.”

As soon as Jonah walked off, Darby chanced a look
at Ann. Her friend wasn't angry, just determined.

“You saw.” Ann didn't look at her father, but she had to be talking to him, unless she was convincing herself. “He's my horse and I'm not giving up on him.”

Jonah helped Patrick to his feet and aimed him toward the fence, then turned his attention to Sugarfoot.

Darby wanted to take Patrick's crutches to him. She wanted to help him get the rest of the way back over to them, but when she glanced at Ed for permission, the man shook his head.

“Let him come on his own.”

Ed opened the gate when Patrick, red-faced with exertion, finally made it back.

“You knew he might charge. That was dangerous, son,” he said, but Patrick was looking at Ann.

“I stood my ground,” Patrick said proudly, “and it worked. I knocked
myself
down. It wasn't him.”

He continued chattering, so excited by his animal behavior experiment that even Ed couldn't be mad. But they did gesture for him to keep quiet while Jonah approached the gelding.

“He thinks it's a game!” Ann couldn't help calling out a reminder.

Jonah heard and gave a short nod, then pretended to jog away from the horse. He looked over his shoulder, and though all three pintos watched him, Sugarfoot didn't come a step closer.

Jonah sauntered, jogged, and strolled all over the
pasture, trying to provoke the horse into a charge. Darby noticed her grandfather always stayed near the fence, in case he had to jump over or roll under.

Sugarfoot wasn't pretending to graze anymore. His breaths came in loud huffs and his flanks darkened with sweat. He yearned to go after Jonah, even though he sensed it was a trap.

Finally Sugarfoot gave in and charged.

His first strides were full of fire and grace, but when Jonah put his hands on his hips the paint's gallop slacked to a lope, then a trot, and then he stopped.

“He's looking past Jonah, like there's something lots more fascinating just beyond him,” Darby said. “Is Sugarfoot embarrassed?”

“He knows Jonah's not going to run,” Ann said with a sigh. “If we could just get everyone to act that way, Sugarfoot wouldn't get himself into any more trouble.”

Jonah strode to the section of fence closest to them. Without glancing back at Sugarfoot, he asked, “What does he do for exercise?”

“He chases people,” Ann answered, half-smiling.

“Seriously,” Jonah asked, “how often is he ridden?”

“Every few days or so,” Ann said.

Ed offered an excuse: “We've got seventeen horses to work.”

“He doesn't care,” Jonah said.

Darby knew he didn't mean to be rude. He was
just speaking up for Sugarfoot.

“It'll be more often now that it's summer,” Ann put in. “My mom and I have already talked about it.”

“Truth be told, Ann's the only one who likes to ride him,” Ed admitted. “He's a lot of work.”

“But there's not a mean bone in his body,” Ann insisted.

“And how is he with other horses?”

“Fine,” Ann said. “They understand it's all a game, but people…”

“See a half ton of horse barreling down on 'em and panic,” Ed finished for her.

Jonah shrugged, then said, “Before I'd get rid of a nice horse like him, I'd try working him as hard as he can stand. He's forgotten why he's charging. It's just a habit he can't give up because he's crawling out of his skin with nerves. Teach him something new. Demand something from him. He needs to work his brain and his muscles.

“Look at where he comes from: Arab and Morgan. Those horses didn't start off as pets. You got your Arab charging through deep sand, keeping pace with camels whose legs are twice as long. Your Morgan? He hauled logs and buggies before he was a police horse and da kine.

“Tired horses don't cause much trouble. If he's worked, he—” Jonah's lecture ended as Sugarfoot caught his attention. “Watch him,” Jonah said, pointing.

Sugarfoot didn't seem to be doing anything.

Watch what?
Darby was thinking, when her grandfather said, “Watch
closer
.”

She did, and all at once she glimpsed what Jonah was talking about. Even though Sugarfoot's restlessness was confined to ear-twitching, stamping, snapping at invisible flies, and swishing his tail, the gelding was never still.

“He's got a good life as far as food and shelter goes, but no one's made him grow up,” Ed said.

“So you start now,” Jonah said with a shrug. “There's got to be something around here for him to do. Make him work for his ‘good life,' and this game of his will stop.”

Jonah's words rung with such certainty, Ed shook his hand.

“My advice is nothing,” Jonah said humbly. “Just remember, you get what you pay for.”

“Dad's paying you with pie,” Ann pointed out.

“That'll do,” Jonah said. “For that I gave him my all-time best tips. What's more, I'm putting Darby on the job, too.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Ann's your best friend. You go home and dream something up that'll keep her horse so busy, he won't have the energy to run off patients.”

“Ramona calls 'em
clients
,” Ed corrected, “since she's not a doctor and all.”

“Whatever,” Jonah said, and a few steps later he
whispered something to Ed.

Darby only caught a few syllables, but a quick glance at Ann convinced Darby that her friend had heard something, too.

Before they could confer, Jonah said, in a louder voice, “Now, about that pie.”

 

Since Jonah declared that they'd be driving home immediately after dessert, the girls regretfully skipped the apple pie and went to Ann's bedroom to try to figure out what Jonah had whispered to Ed.

Ann closed her bedroom door and leaned against it. Her arms were crossed as she said, “I for sure heard the name George.”

“All I caught was something about your dad changing his mind,” Darby said.

“And I don't know any George, do you?”

“No,” Darby said slowly. “But changing his mind…that could be good, right? Because your dad was thinking about, you know, getting Sugarfoot off the ranch.”

“Who knows what he's thinking now? He's confused,” Ann said. “Mom and I know we can fix Sugarfoot, but Dad keeps switching around.”

Ann turned on her radio and they both clapped when they heard the dramatic voice of Petra the pet psychic. The woman was channeling a parrot that plucked feathers from his wings each time there was a knock at the door.

And then there
was
a knock, on Ann's bedroom door.

“It's me,” Patrick said.

“Come in,” Ann said.

He did, smelling of peppermint.

“We didn't mean to ditch you,” Darby said, biting her lip and hoping they hadn't hurt Patrick's feelings.

“I would have left when you did, but I wanted a slab of that pie.”

The girls laughed when Patrick rubbed his stomach the same way Jonah had.

“So, what are you doing?”

“Listening to the radio…,” Ann said, sidestepping the question.

“You don't believe in that charlatan.” Patrick looked aghast as the caller thanked Petra.

“No,” Ann said.

“But those peppermints were her idea,” Darby told him.

With strained patience, Patrick pushed his glasses up his nose.

“I thought you might have been eavesdropping on your father”—he nodded at Ann—“and Jonah. I heard what they said, but I'm in the dark over its meaning.”

Ann pounced on him. “What did you hear?”

“My hearing is quite good, you know. Cade may see in the dark like a cat, but I catch word reverberations, like a bat.”

Darby counted to ten, letting Patrick enjoy his
rhyme before she repeated, “Patrick, what did you hear?”

“Well, Ed said nothing of significance, but Jonah said, ‘If you change your mind, just let me know. I'll see if I can't get George to call off his wife.'”