Riding Shotgun (3 page)

“I hear.”

“Yes, but are you listening?”

“Oh, Mom.” Laura slumped in her seat as they turned off Route 250 onto the narrow paved road that would lead to the long gravel of the driveway.

“You need to work Mosby and Go To. Oh, and Roberta’s coming for a lesson. Which reminds me, how did Reebok go yesterday?” Cig asked about the saintly horse responsible for Roberta Ericson’s welfare.

“Push-button.”

They drove down the dusty driveway to the barn. Peachpaws, the golden retriever, rushed out to greet them as did Woodrow, the huge, long-haired tiger cat who leaped on the hood of the car to pat the windshield, his form of “Hello.”

“Hey, big fella.” Cig got out and scooped up the cat in her arms, which inflamed Peachpaw’s jealousy. Laura called
the dog to her and fussed over him. It generally took five to ten minutes for the animals to settle down.

Hunter, seventeen, tall and bearing a strong resemblance to his mother, was riding Kodiak, his Aunt Grace’s horse, in the ring. He waved when he saw his mother and sister.

“Aunt Grace isn’t coming out today?” Laura sounded disappointed.

“Later. She’s afraid she won’t have time to ride so Hunter’s working Kodiak. We don’t want him too fresh for tomorrow. You know we always get good foxes at Muster Meadow.”

Cig walked into the tackroom, Woodrow still in her arms, placed him on a saddle, and quickly changed her clothes while Laura pulled on her paddock boots.

“Laura, don’t wear your good shirt to ride.”

“I won’t, Mom. I’ve got my sweater.”

The phone rang. Inwardly Cig groaned and picked it up. “Hello, After All Farm. Oh, hi, Lizbeth. Yes, I just got to the barn, and you’re the first on my list to call as soon as I zip up my pants.”

“Is there any way we could see Maplewood on Sunday? I’ve been going over the brochure and the vibes are just fabulous from that place.”

“I’ll call the owner and see if it’s convenient.”

“We’ve scratched Hardtack off our list for a second visit. I thought the living room was wonderful but Troy says the heating system is too old, and he doesn’t want to replace it. He wants a turnkey operation.”

“I can certainly understand that.” Which she could.

“And we’re going to bring along our video camera and shoot everything. That will help us. I don’t know why we didn’t think about it today. Too fuzzy, I guess.”

“That’s fine, Lizbeth, just don’t shoot me.”

Lizbeth giggled, then hung up.

“Mom?”

“Yo.”

“No one’s going to talk me into going to the Harvest Dance with Donny.”

“No one’s trying to.” Cig grunted as she pulled on her left boot. Woodrow watched but declined comment.

“Well, someone will.”

“Don’t pay any attention.”

“I won’t.”

Cig tapped a little baby powder into the right boot. She’d forgotten to do it to the left. It slid on like butter. “Hey, child unit.”

“Oh, Mom, you’re so corny.”

“You call me ‘parental unit.’”

“It’s different when I do it.”

“I see.” Cig walked out into the center aisle of the old, airy barn, Peachpaws at her heels. “Why don’t you want to go to the dance with Donny though? He’s the most popular boy in the senior class. Not that I’m trying to force you. I just want you to be well-armed when Uncle Will starts his motor.”

“He’s kind of arrogant.” Laura fumbled.

She clapped her daughter on the back, then opened Reebok’s stall door. “Good for you. I never could stand men like that.”

The 15.2-hand foxhunter nickered. He was one of those golden horses, not pretty, not wildly talented, won’t win ribbons at the big shows, but totally bombproof. He’d get you through trappy ground, over a stone fence, through a narrow gate. If you made a mistake, he covered up for you. The better the rider the more she learned to appreciate the Reeboks of the world.

Cig brushed him off, threw on his everyday blue saddle pad, floppy and worn, then slipped on his bridle as he ducked his head for her. Just as she put the saddle on his back Roberta Ericson bustled into the barn.

“Yoo hoo.”

“In Reebok’s stall, Roberta.”

“Well, aren’t you nice. That’s my job.”

“I figured you were running late and we’ll run out of daylight.”

“That’s the only thing I hate about fall. Once we get on
the other side of September twenty-first we lose a minute of light a day.”

“Actually, Miss Ericson, we lose a minute a day after June twenty-first. The equinox in autumn means we now have less light than darkness.” Laura picked Go To’s hooves as he stood in the crossties in the aisle.

“You’re right.” Roberta smiled. A tiny woman with tight curls on her head, she’d never had children of her own. She adored Cig’s kids.

Cig quietly said, “Since when do you correct your elders, Miss Priss?”

“Mom, I wasn’t correcting.”

Roberta jumped in, “She was illuminating, not correcting.”

“You two are thick as thieves.” Cig grinned as she led Reebok out of the stall.

“Hello, Miss Ericson.” Hunter smiled when she rode into the arena.

“Hello, Hunter.”

“Mom, you want me to ride Full Throttle?” Hunter loved to ride his mother’s horse.

She looked at the sun dipping closer to the mountains. “You’d better. Just keep a light leg, Hunter. You know he hates a strong leg.”

“I know. Hey, Mom, did you hear that Jessie Wells is pregnant?”

“If I didn’t come out here for riding lessons I’d never know what was going on in this town.” Roberta shook her head.

“No, I didn’t know. It’s your turn to feed the dog and cat tonight. Remind Laura she’s on salad duty.”

“Okay.” He rode Kodiak back to the barn.

“Jessie Wells.” A flutter of Roberta’s eyelashes accompanied the shake of her head. “Ever since her parents divorced that girl’s been crying for attention.”

“Well, she got it,” Cig said forthrightly.

“Only ten minutes without stirrups,” Roberta pleaded as Cig prepared to work her on the longe line. “My legs will be jelly tomorrow if we do any more.”

“Cross your stirrups. Ten minutes.” Cig fed out the longe line and clucked to Reebok who obediently picked up a nice even trot. “Okay, toes down. Toes up. Toes out. Toes in. Good. Hands over your head. Now out from your sides. Make little circles with your arms. Okay, right arm only. Left arm only. Toes down. Toes up. Toes out. Toes in.”

“I hate the toe part.”

“It’s worse for ballerinas.”

This made Roberta laugh. Cig longed her for five minutes in one direction and then five in the other. After that she unsnapped the longe line and set a figure-eight course for Roberta. The jumps weren’t over two and a half feet but the size wasn’t important. Getting Roberta to stay in a nice even canter with soft hands was what was important.

“Eyes up,” Cig barked at her when Roberta dropped her eyes over a jump.

“Oh, I know.” Roberta pursed her lips together.

She finished the rest of the course in good order.

“You look good. How do you feel?”

“Good. Except I still tense up before the jump. I wish I’d stop that.”

“You will. Look how far you’ve come.”

“Really?”

“Well, two years ago you swore you’d never foxhunt because you’d never take those jumps and look at you now.”

After Roberta’s lesson was finished, Laura and Hunter picked out the remaining stalls, and Cig fed those horses on field board out of the rubber buckets hanging on the fence posts. Field boarders didn’t come into stalls at night but stayed in the fields, a situation that pleased them immensely, since many horses got bored in a stall.

If Cig could keep the twelve-stall barn full and keep another ten to twelve horses as field boarders she could pay her mortgage. Whatever she made selling real estate, never a sure thing, took care of food and other necessities. If she could sell a big farm to the Benedicts she’d be able to pay off some outstanding debts and put a little away for the kids’ college fees. She prayed but never spent the money before she’d made it.

Very often buyers would come back year after year until they found just the right place. Cig had worn out so many sets of tires for the Wagoneer she’d lost count. Some years were good. Some years were bad. The last four years business had taken a nosedive. Even though interest rates were relatively low, taxes shot up, and people were scared. Sooner or later the Federal Reserve would hike the interest rate again with the immediate damaging effect on real estate. People also didn’t trust that they’d make enough money over the long haul to purchase the house of their dreams. This mood of fear infected everyone and everything. Cig often thought to herself that if businesspeople—farmers and people who had to make a payroll—ran the government, things would be dramatically different. But the age of the citizen politician passed with the tricorn hat. Public service had devolved to professionals whose first order of business was their own job security. She’d soured on most of them.

And she’d soured on real estate. Many people regarded realtors as a lower life form, right down there with used-car salesmen. She didn’t want to sell property, she wanted to sell homes. She liked finding the right property for a person. Max used to kid her that this approach was due to raging estrogen. She never refuted him. She didn’t find that an insult even though he’d meant it to be. More of an insult was the constant pressure to sell, sell, sell, no matter how shabby the methods.

“Mom, I’m done,” Laura called out.

“Go start the salad then. I’ll be there in a few—”

Laura interrupted, “What’s Hunter doing?”

“He has to feed Woodrow and Peachpaws.”

Mollified that her brother didn’t have an easier time of it than herself, Laura trudged up to the house. The sun was setting, an autumn chill descending with it.

The phone rang in the tackroom. Cig hurried in to pick it up. “After All Farm.”

“Where do you want to cast tomorrow?” Roger’s tenor voice rang out.

“Back side of Muster Meadow.”

“Well,” he hedged, “I’m taking the full complement tomorrow.
I think the young hounds really have blossomed of late, and I don’t know if they’ll slow us down, but I think not. I don’t want to walk them through the woods, I can’t count on the puppies’ discipline. How about if I cast off the dirt road? Or I can cast down by the river.”

“Cast off the road. You can lift them if it doesn’t work out. Bet we wind up by the river anyway.”

Hounds were “cast” just like a net. Cig found hunting language poetic.

“Jezebel bit Delilah. Got her on antibiotics.”

“She’s a hateful bitch but such a good hunting hound.” Cig was sympathetic.

“It’s her drive.”

“I need some of Jezzie’s drive myself. I’ll see you tomorrow, Rog.”

A thin blade of light blue wedged between the dark sky and the mountains. A wisp of pink still hovered on the rim of the tallest mountain.

Cig checked each stall for water and hay. Checked the tack. Checked the truck and trailer. She took ten minutes to nil the hay nets and hang them inside the trailer. One less chore to do in the morning. She loathed leaving in a rush because she always forgot something when she did.

Laura’s job was to put their whips, hunt caps, and a spare bridle in the trailer. Cig opened the door to the trailer tackroom. Laura had done her job without any haranguing from her mother. With a small smile, Cig shut the door. Before she could walk up to the house the phone rang.

“After All Farm.”

“I’m not selling my land for three hundred and forty thousand dollars, goddammit!”

“Now Harmon, you just do what you want.” Cig’s heart sank.

Harmon Nestle owned a nice patch of land way out Garth Road. When his mother died five years back the land was divided between the two brothers, Harmon and Mason. Mason sold his one hundred acres for three hundred and sixty thousand dollars last year but his land had a small lake on it. Harmon’s did not.

“Why you bothering me with this?”

“Because I am bound as a realtor to bring you every offer in writing. That’s why I left the contract in your screen door when you weren’t home. Even if they offered two thousand dollars I would have to bring you the contract. Otherwise you could accuse me of holding out for more money and a higher commission.”

“You’d never do that.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Don’t be doing business with people you don’t know and trust.”

“Good point.” But she was resigned to spending the rest of her life carting around strangers to properties. How could you trust them? As for getting listings, that was usually a matter of friendship as well as the ability to get results.

“I got to get as much as Mason. Hear?”

“I hear you. We’ll get there.” She had no idea whether or not they would but Harmon sure didn’t make it any easier.

Gruffly he said, “I’m tired of waiting.”

“I understand. It is frustrating but if you counter at three hundred and sixty thousand I’ll take the contract back to these folks. They are really interested. We might can work something out.”

“I’ll think on it. Good-bye.” He slammed down the phone.

Most people couldn’t see farther than the nose on their face. Harmon was one of them. Cig hung up the phone, paused a moment, and hoped she’d never be that narrow a person, circumscribed by the tiny circle of family and friends. Harmon was ready to blow a good deal because he wanted to equal or best his brother. The reality of the lake meant nothing to him. His only reality was lifelong competition with Mason—and Mason was usually the winner.

Cig sprinted up to the house, the cold nipping at her heels.

She opened the mud room door, wiped her boots on the bristly hedgehog on the stoop, and then stepped inside. She checked the soles of her boots. Clean. She hung up her barn jacket on a peg, then opened the door into the kitchen.
Laura was twirling the salad greens in the crisper while Hunter set the table.

They really are good kids, she thought to herself. Whatever else I’ve done in this world at least I produced two good people.

She overlooked the conspicuous silence.