Gift Horse (15 page)

She tore out of the barn.

I turned to Catman and M. “You too.”

“That's a negative. I'll stay and help, man!” Catman declared, too loud.

I had never seen the cool Catman like this. “Thanks, Catman,” I said, trying to think of how diplomatic Lizzy would have handled things. “But Ralph will be so disappointed if you're not at the Christmas Eve service. Remember how much you wanted to check one out?”

I could hear Gracie pawing in her stall.

A horn beeped, and I recognized the call of the Yellow Bus. “Barkers are here. Go!”

Catman looked torn, pacing like Gracie had. I guided his long strides toward the barn door. “It's going to be a while, Catman,” I assured him. “There are three stages to delivery, and this is just the first. She'll be okay.”
Please, God, let her be okay!

The horn beeped again, and Catman wandered out into the snow in the direction of the van.

“I'm staying.” M sat cross-legged on the barn floor.

“No really, M,” I pleaded. “Go! Hurry!”

M folded his arms and stayed sitting.

I half expected Dad to barge in at any minute and drag
me
out. Maybe I'd join M's sit-in. To tell the truth, with Lizzy and Catman gone, the barn seemed too quiet. I didn't know what was about to happen in that stall. I wasn't so sure I wanted to be alone when it did. Eventually I'd call the vet and get him to come for the delivery, but that could still be hours away.

Again came the beep of the Barker Bus.

I trudged out to the van. Dad was leaning in, talking to Mrs. Barker behind the wheel. He looked up when he saw me coming. “Winnie! Are you sure you'll be okay?” He didn't seem mad at me. “Do you want me to stay?”

I couldn't believe he'd asked that. For the first time, Madeline would actually be in church when he looked around for her, and still he'd offered to stay home? “I'm okay, Dad. Thanks though. I'm sorry I can't go. It will probably be hours yet. But Gracie is pacing and—”

“It's okay.” Dad opened the back door of the van. “Room for one more?”

“Climb on in!” Mr. Barker called. “Hey, Winnie! Good luck! We'll be praying for you.”

I could hear Catman in the back, telling all the little Barkers about Gracie.

“Where's M?” Barker hollered up.

“I guess he decided not to go,” I said.

“We'll check in on you when we drop these guys off!” Barker shouted.

I waved, and Mrs. Barker turned the van around by pulling in and out of our driveway. Then she drove away.

Gracie!
I rushed back to the barn, where M was still having his sit-in. “You win,” I whispered. “We can watch from Nickers' stall if we're quiet. She could put off delivering if she thinks we're watching.”

Nickers stood next to the adjoining wall, her head over the divider. She switched her tail and made low, short nickers to Gracie.

I showed M where to peek through the slats. Poor Gracie lay down and got up again—once, twice, a third time. Each time it seemed harder for her to get back on her feet.

A half hour passed. M and I didn't speak, but it wasn't an awkward silence. I was glad he'd stayed with me.

As I watched Gracie jerk her head toward her belly, I could almost feel her pain. Even healthy horses have to go through the pain of giving birth. I prayed she wouldn't suffer, that the foal would be healthy. I hoped.

M sat on the cot and picked up a piece of straw. “Christmas Eve.” He turned the straw between his fingers. “Mary, Joseph, the baby.” It wasn't a question, but I felt like he was asking something.

“Baby Jesus, yeah.” I wondered how much more M really knew about Jesus. “But he didn't stay a baby.” It wasn't what I meant to say. I wished Lizzy were here. She could have told M everything just right. Nickers paced, then stuck her head over the stall divider again.

“He always looks like a baby at Christmas,” M said. “Like a real kid.”

“He was real—
is
real. But he was God too.”

“But he was folded up inside his mother.” M peeked through the slats at Gracie. I knew what he was thinking. “Why?”

“So he'd know how we feel . . . ,” I said, praying I'd get it right. “And then so he could die . . . for us.”

“Whoa.” M swung around. “I don't get that part.”

Help me out here, God. I don't know how to talk about Jesus like this. I can talk to a horse about anything. But people? That's Lizzy's department.

“Well, somebody had to die for our sins—,” I tried, sounding really hoarse. “And it was either him or us.”

M didn't say anything, but his eyes were asking.

A picture flashed into my brain, a mind photo I hadn't seen in years—of my mom, Lizzy, and a black stallion. “M, it's different from what Jesus did, but my mom almost died for Lizzy once.” He squinted in concentration at me. “Lizzy was little, still crawling. And she was in our yard. But this wild, black stallion my mom was training broke loose and thundered toward Lizzy. I saw it from the window and can still see the exact instant when my mom leaped off the porch and stood right in front of Lizzy as that stallion charged, ears back, teeth bared.”

“What happened?” M asked.

“The horse veered off, but he caught Mom's side, and she fell and broke her wrist. But, M, she was willing to die for her baby. And that's what Jesus did, gave up his life for us. Only he had to 'cause of our sins.”

Note to self: Never ever give a sermon.

“Whose sins?” M asked.

“Everybody's.” Even
you and your kind,
I thought. Even Summer and her kind.

“Sins, huh?” I wasn't sure he'd said it out loud.

“Like lying and stuff.”

“Lying . . . ,” M repeated, taking another peek at Gracie. “Winnie, there's something I have to tell you, something I—Winnie! She's leaking again!”

I shoved M out of the way and stared through the slats. Water gushed out of Gracie's backside, then a yellowish-brown fluid. “M!” I cried. “Gracie's water's broken!”

M jumped up off the cot. “Fix it!”

“Fix what?” Catman stood in the stallway, holding Nelson.

“Catman! You're here!” I cried. I thought of a million things at once—
call the vet, get my first-aid kit.

“Had to be here,” Catman said. “Walked back. Cool service though. Gracie cool?”

M had his head pressed to the stall wall, staring in at the mare. Nickers snorted and pawed the ground.

Catman joined us in Nickers' stall. “Did you tell her?”

M didn't answer.

“Do it, man,” Catman said. “Or I will.”

“Tell her what? Gracie?”
I
had to be the sensible one here.
Think.
“Catman, go inside and call Dr. Stutzman. Number's right by the phone. M, bring out my first-aid kit. Now!”

Catman left. Gracie curled her lip, pawed, rubbed her tail against the wall. Then I remembered I hadn't told Catman what to say on the phone. I ran after him. Snow fell hard and swirled under the light of a few bright stars. “Catman!” He turned and jogged back to me. “Tell Doc Gracie's water broke, and he needs to get over here fast!”

Catman was staring behind me. M had followed us out. He bent over and moved his finger in the snow, making a loop—a big
U.

“M!” I shouted. “We don't have time for this!”

He drew another
U
next to the first one. Then he stood up and raised his eyebrows.

“What?” I screamed, so frustrated I wanted to slug both of them.

M leaned over, stuck his head into the now knee-high snow, and stood on his hands.

“Stop it!” I cried. “Why are you—?” I glanced down at M, his head buried in snow up to his shoulders as he stood upside down next to the two
U'
s.
Two U'
s
. Double U'
s
. Upside down . . . Topsy-Turvy-Double-U.
The lines in the snow made a
W.
Upside down, they formed . . .
M!

“M! You're
Topsy-Turvy
W
?” I reached out and shoved his legs, which were sticking up out of the snow.

He toppled backward and bounded to his feet, snow and ice sticking to his head and ponytail.

“How could you do that? And how could you not tell me? I can't believe you—” I wheeled on Catman. “And
you!
You knew all along, didn't you?”

“I wouldn't let him tell,” M said, his teeth chattering. “My uncle's horse. He bought her off a guy, thinking he'd sell her for more money. Then he found out she was sick. He swore me to s-secrecy or he wouldn't s-sell her to me. And I was afraid you'd give her b-back.”

“I'll go call the vet,” Catman said, striding toward the house.

I'd had it with both of them. I turned my back on them and hurried back to Gracie.

M followed me into the barn but kept his distance.

“Did you know she was with foal?” I shouted back.

“Nope,” M said. “Uncle Cameron probably would have asked for more money if he'd known. I didn't have another penny.”

I knew M had sacrificed a lot to buy Gracie. But I wasn't ready to quit being angry. I stormed to the supply room and got my first-aid kit, then waited for Catman to get back.

Gracie squealed, a heart-wrenching cry.

I raced to her stall to see the mare grunting, lying on her side, her legs stiff. She was having contractions. “M!” I yelled. “Get the bandages! Where's Catman!” Even if the vet left this minute, he could miss the birth.

“Can't reach him.” Catman startled me. He was standing right behind us.

I wheeled around. “Catman! You
have
to reach him.”

“Answering machine said he was at Spidells'. I called the pager, but it didn't work. Called Spidells' and got Summer. She wouldn't get the vet because he was treating her horse—a reaction to a shot or something.” Catman panted, out of breath.

I had to act. “M, bring the bandages to Gracie's stall! I'll need water.” I slipped in with the mare. It was happening. Gracie was on her feet, and a gray bubble appeared under her tail. The mare's eyes were glazed, and she didn't seem to know I was with her.

“Wow!” Catman peered over the stall door, as M rushed in with clean bandages.

“Catman, I need Doc Stutzman!” I pleaded.

“Chill, Winnie,” he said, sounding more like the cool Catman. “I'll get him. On Nickers.”

“But—,” I started to protest.

“Winnie, help!” M called. “She's falling down.”

Catman pulled down Nickers' hackamore, and I ran to Gracie. It did look like she was falling, not lying, down. M tried to ease the landing. I grabbed the bandages and wrapped up her tail as the gray bubble sac broke, and a tiny, bubble-wrapped hoof appeared under the tail, then disappeared again.

Gracie groaned and, with a surge of super-horse energy, struggled to her feet and paced.

“We're off!” Catman shouted.

I looked up in time to see Catman, bareback on my Arabian, trot out of the barn and into the blizzard. Grabbing the jar of Vaseline from my kit, I ran out into the snow after them. I whistled, and Nickers stopped. The wind howled in icy blasts.

As fast as I could I smeared Nickers' hooves with Vaseline. “This should keep her hooves from caking.” I hugged my horse, sent them off, and prayed they'd make it—and make it in time.

“Winnie! It's . . . it's waving!”

I raced back into the stall to see one tiny hoof sticking out of Gracie, who was still on her feet.
Please get the other hoof out!
I prayed. “The hooves 
have
to come out together!” I cried. “With the foal's muzzle between them, or . . .” I'd heard stories of broken necks, foals being stuck inside mares. If the foal's head was turned back, there'd be nothing we could do. But I'd seen my mom and our old vet deliver a foal that just presented one foot at birth.