Tennessee Reunion

by Carolyn McSparren

  “They ought to keep working after this, Mr. Quarles.”

  “Shoot, until he finds a way around them too. I had me an old Thoroughbred mare learned to pick up them rocks—big dudes, size of bricks—in her teeth and drop ’em on the floor of her stall.” He laughed. “Horses—worse’n women. Well, maybe not. How come you’re not pouring mineral oil down him the way you do with colic?”

  “Too easy to get droplets into the lungs. Nope. Only water. Okay, let’s see what we got.”

  Vince leaned over and gently worked the long rubber tube farther down. Then he blew into it. A moment later, he lifted his head and smiled. “I’m in the stomach. His throat is clear. Need to start him on a course of antibiotics. Otherwise, he might develop aspiration pneumonia three days from now.”

  “Thank the Lord. Let me get my grandson to show him.”

  Vince held up a hand. “You might want to wait a minute until I get this tube out.” He gently withdrew the tube, moving slowly and carefully. “Yeah, thought so.” As he removed the final inches of the tube from the horse’s nostril, a gush of blood followed and cascaded down to the cement floor.

  “Shoot!” Quarles shouted and skipped back.

  “It’s almost inevitable we’d get a nose bleed. Don’t worry. A horse can lose twenty percent of his body weight in blood with no ill effects.”

  “Looks like he’ll reach that in five minutes. My heaven, would you look at it?”

  Vince put a hand on his arm. “Promise you, he’s fine. See, it’s already slowing. You want your grandson to see this?”

  “Indeed I do.” The older man called his grandson on his cell phone. “Jackson, boy, how ’bout you run on down here to the barn.” He listened for a moment, raised his eyebrows at Vince and received a nod in return. “Yeah, Dr. Vince says Lil Joe is gonna be fine, but he could use some loving on.” He hung up, slipped his cell phone back into the pocket of his overalls, and shook his head at the blood still dripping, but only dripping, from the horse’s nose. “My grandson could use some loving, too. That’s a better object lesson than anything I could tell him. I don’t expect ever to mention it. Won’t have to. He’ll never make that mistake again.”

  “No, he won’t. I went through a similar situation when I was about his age. I never forgot it.”

  Half an hour later, Vince unfolded the plastic tarp he kept in his truck onto the front seat, and climbed in on top of it. He hated blood on his fancy leather seat cushions. He probably shouldn’t have splurged on them, but they were his graduation gift to himself. He did love them, even in the summer when sliding in unprotected could result in third-degree burns.

  He drove away with a view through his side mirror of a joyful eight-year-old carefully sponging the blood off Lil Joe’s face and chest, while his grandfather stood by, ready to help if needed, but letting his grandson savor the glory as he had suffered the pain.

  Now, that was the way to discipline a child, Vince thought. How wonderful it would be if all object lessons could wind up happily, and not, as so many did, in tragedy.

  He used to believe his daddy kept an actual list of all Vince’s offenses that he pulled out whenever the occasion arose. Now that list probably resided on his father’s laptop. Not on the farm PC, which was the size and complexity of something designed by NASA.

  That computer was probably where his brothers kept their lists.

  Was he treating Anne the way his father treated him? Commands, demands, bad temper? Guilt? Nobody deserved that. His deepest fear was that he’d turn into his father. Thor seemed to enjoy hurting people. It was as though the only way he could feel big was by making everyone around him feel small. Vince had watched his father tear down one wife after another. His father had managed to drive them all away, except for his current wife, Mary Alice. She was sticking it out. So far.

  That could change. She might reach her limit and walk out as Vince’s mother had walked out, as Cody’s mother had left.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AS SHE WAITED for Vince the next morning—he was late again—Anne felt as though she had already done a full day’s work. She’d fed, hayed and watered all the stock, large and small, checked for any wounds or signs of distress, and made herself a rough list of the minis she’d be training. She had six months to make progress in turning the VSEs into helper horses. Would it be enough? Would Victoria be willing to extend her contract if Anne made a hash of it?

  She decided to start with Molly.

  Dosing Molly with a repeat of the ear mite treatment required hanging on to one of her ears while shooting liquid down the other, then repeating the process on the other side. Although Molly’s ears were about the level of Anne’s waist, hanging on to them reminded Anne of the goat herding contest for kids at rodeos. Small or not, Molly was stubborn and could toss her head like a water buffalo.

  “Promise you won’t bring home any more minis,” Anne begged Victoria over bacon and eggs.

  “Martin’s Minis has done its bit,” Victoria said. “Eight is definitely enough.”

  “Promise?”

  Victoria smiled and walked away without answering. Uh-oh. If Victoria brought any more in, there wouldn’t be enough hours in the day to train them. Shoot, Anne wouldn’t have enough stamina left to do the job properly.

  In the barn, Anne closed her eyes and heaved a sigh that topped Molly’s. “Little girl, I have no faith that she will not come back with half a dozen more of your kith and kin. So we’d better start training you to go live with somebody else.” She hooked the twelve-foot lunge line to Molly’s halter. Come on. Let’s go try working out.”

  Anne had trained a number of young horses—big horses, like her seventeen-hand gelding, Trust Fund. How hard could it be to teach this lawn ornament–sized critter?

  Obviously, Molly intended to prove that size was no object when it came to acting out.

  Anne walked her to the end of the line and led her along the perimeter of the pen to give her the idea that she was supposed to circle by the fence.

  The twelve-foot whip Anne carried was purely a pointer to keep the horse out on the circle. She kept it pointed at Molly’s shoulder without coming close to her actual body. Molly decided it was a dragon that planned to scarf her up for breakfast—dragon chow instead of cornflakes.

  She couldn’t make up her mind whether flight or fight was more appropriate, so she tried to do both at the same time. This was not Anne’s first rodeo, but Molly was determined to make it her last.

  Most horses stayed away from the creature in the center of the circle at first, and bucked and fussed out on the rim.

  Molly pawed with her front feet, kicked with her hind, jumped forward two steps and did it again. And again. Repeated as necessary.

  Anne stayed in the center.

  Apparently deciding that ploy wasn’t working, Molly turned and charged into the middle, straight at Anne.

  “Hey, cut that out!” Anne shouted and threw her arms up. It was supposed to work against charging grizzlies. Anne hoped it worked against twenty-eight-inch equine hellions.

  Molly swung away, wrapped herself in the line and fell flat on her back with all four hooves flailing the air.

  From behind her Anne heard slow, rhythmic clapping.

  She spared a glance over her shoulder. Vince Peterson leaned on the fence with a broad grin on his face.

  She felt her cheeks flush and thought, I am going to kill him. But before she did, she had to get Molly untangled and on her feet without getting kicked or bitten. Anne might suggest to the little mare that she go bite Vince, but she’d probably love on him instead. Just like a female.

  “Need some help?” he asked.

  “No. The last thing we need is another pair of feet tangled up.” At the moment, she wouldn’t have accepted help from the leading rider of the Spanish Riding School in Vienna. Not with Vince Peterson looking on
and grinning.

  The mare was not stupid. She lay still until Anne had her safely unwound, then climbed back to her feet, shook herself and gave Anne a haughty “I meant to do that” look.

  She looked so silly Anne laughed. “For our next trick...” she said.

  Vince laughed, too. But he was laughing at the situation, not at Anne. A definite step forward.

  Maybe she had been supersensitive about his opinion of her. Just maybe. Anne hated being laughed at almost as much as she hated to have her skills disrespected. Probably because she’d devoted her life to sports that a lot of people thought were silly. And then there were the falls—so long as she wasn’t actually hurt, some people thought falling off horses was funny.

  “Turn her loose,” Vince said as he climbed over the fence into the ring.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I’m not kidding.” He reached for Anne’s whip.

  “Fine. On your head be it.” She let go of the whip, but kept her place in the arena beside him. If Molly charged again, he was big enough to hide behind. Let him get run over.

  “Stay behind me and out of the way,” he said. “Come on, mare, get crackin’.” He whistled between his teeth. Molly bucked, spun away and started to gallop around the perimeter of the round pen. Every time she slowed, he clicked and whistled her back into a canter, ignoring her frequent bucks and occasional attempts to turn and run over him in the center.

  Anne had used the same technique before with unbroken horses, but never one as small as Molly. She hated to admit that after ten frantic minutes, Molly had slowed to a steady canter, and a moment later began to drop her head and chew her lips. An indication of submission.

  This time when she slowed to a trot and then to a walk, Vince let her.

  She stopped and turned to face him, but stayed on the circle. He moved up to her slowly, reached across and scratched behind her ears. Then he walked back to the center. Molly followed him like a dog at heel.

  “Impressive,” Anne said. Not that she wanted to compliment him, but she had to give him credit. She’d watched the best horse trainers fail at that technique through impatience or anger. Sometimes it was hard not to credit a horse with malice. They were notorious for getting on your last nerve. Vince hadn’t let her best him, or showed the first sign of annoyance. He reserved his snarls for human beings. For Anne in particular, it seemed.

  “You did the hard part,” he said as he checked Molly’s ears for any remaining mites. “Used to drive the bronco busters in Wyoming nuts when I did that after they’d been tossed in the dirt a dozen times. By the time I got here this morning, Molly was ready to cooperate and not act like a donkey rather than a mini.”

  Anne ran her hands down Molly’s withers—dripping wet from exercise and ambient heat. “I need to rinse her off and put her out to roll in the grass. She likes you, you know.”

  Deciding that if close was good, closer must be better, Molly butted against Anne’s side and shoved her against Vince.

  They jumped apart and looked anywhere but into each other’s eyes.

  Anne caught her breath and a handful of Molly’s mane to steady herself. Molly, you devil. Horses couldn’t snicker, but Molly was trying. It seemed almost as though she knew these two had more in common than they were willing to admit. Molly was simply helping to show them.

  Vince followed Anne and Molly into the barn and to the wash rack to give the little mare a cooling shower. Except that Molly had no intention of being trapped with her face to the back of the wash stall—obviously sprouting wall-to-wall trolls ready to devour small horses. Her rear end stuck out in the aisle. She braced all four feet and refused to take a single step onto the concrete pad.

  “Here, let me,” Vince said.

  Again with the Mr. Rescue, Anne thought. But she gave him the line.

  He hauled forward. Molly hauled back. He wrapped the line from her halter around her rear under her tail and back up to her nose, so that he was pulling her from the back rather than the front.

  Molly sat down on her rear end like a donkey.

  Ha ha, Anne thought. “Here, let me.” She took the line from him, shooed him out of the way, poked her toe into Molly’s shoulder so that she stood up, then backed her rump into the barn aisle. She turned the mare face forward, put a hand against her chest and moved her, tail-first, into the wash rack. Molly did not put a foot wrong, and once there, stood as though she had been doing it all her life.

  Anne cut her eyes at Vince. “No problemo.” So there.

  Anne remembered the debacle with Tom Thumb, the dancing mini. Molly might react the same way, so Anne held the end of her line rather than cross-tying her in case she freaked.

  “Here,” said Vince, “I’ll hold the line for you.”

  “I’ll wet her down, and then we can scrub her. Same as yesterday.” Anne ran the warm spray over Molly’s feet and ankles so that she could get accustomed to the feel. She seemed much more relaxed than Tom. That was an illusion.

  As Vince turned back with the shampoo, Molly swung her rear end toward Anne. Off balance, Anne let the hose slip out of her hand. This time Vince leaned across Molly’s back and grabbed it midair. It twisted in his grasp and shot a solid stream of water between her eyes. Momentarily blinded, she reached out and found herself hanging on to Molly’s tail. Molly bucked and shoved her against the wall.

  “Get out of the way!” Vince snarled. He steadied the flailing hose from under Molly’s rear feet.

  One of her little hooves landed squarely on his instep.

  He yelped and dropped the lead line. Anne dove and caught it as Molly decided that since these people were dangerous to horses, she had better get out.

  Limping and biting back a groan, Vince shoved the mare back into position. When he caught the start of a snicker from Anne, he looked down at his jeans. He was soaked again.

  Anne knew he did not enjoy being laughed at, certainly not by her. In retaliation he turned the hose on her again.

  She squealed, grabbed a currycomb and threw it at him. Again.

  “What is this thing you people have with hoses?” Victoria shouted from the barn door. She ran toward them. “Here, you,” she said and caught Molly before she’d taken all four feet off the wash rack. “Are you trying to drown Molly or each other?”

  “Each other!” they said in one voice.

  “Somebody turn off the water right this minute. I can’t let go of Molly.” The little horse stood calmly gazing up at Victoria with innocent eyes. “Oh, come on, Molly. I’ll put her out in her paddock. You can bring her back in later. Do you plan to change to dry clothes? It’s plenty warm in here. Might be counterproductive.”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Anne said. “This is one of those quick-dry shirts.”

  “My jeans aren’t,” Vince said. “I’ve got another pair in the van, but I’ll keep these on until we’re finished with the hose just in case.”

  As she led Molly out to her paddock, Victoria said over her shoulder, “I suggest you bathe Big Mary next. She’s filthy, has bugs and may not run over you or drown you. Probably.” As she kept walking toward the paddocks, she was laughing.

  They studiously avoided one another’s eyes. Calm and businesslike was the ticket.

  “I’ll bring in Big Mary,” Anne said.

  “Shall I come with you?”

  “I don’t think so.” Anne heard the sarcasm under her words. “There’s a heavy-duty horse hair dryer in the tack room if you want to work on drying your jeans.”

  “I’m good.”

  Anne felt his eyes on her as she walked out to the paddock. She pulled an apple-flavored treat from her pants’ pocket. Today, Vince had taken the head butts and the majority of the shower, too. He had shot her back on purpose. She’d get him for that.

  He was at least trying hard to keep a handle on his temper. Why did he
have to act so pompous, and treat her as if she’d never laid a hand on a horse before?

  Big Mary met her at the gate to the paddock and greedily scarfed up the treat she offered.

  “Okay, girlfriend, one more, but that’s all.”

  She gazed at Anne from under her long lashes as if to say, “Aw, Mama.”

  “This is going to be fun. You’re going to love it.” Mary didn’t seem convinced, but accepted the little halter easily enough and allowed her to clip on the lead line and head for the stable where Vince stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, glaring. He seemed to glare a lot.

  Amazing that a pair of horses could be so different. Big Mary enjoyed the shower, even when Vince sprayed her face and dosed her ear mites again.

  “She really doesn’t much care what we do as long as somebody is paying attention to her,” Vince said. “She seems like the perfect candidate for your helper horse training. She seems to like people.” He hesitated. “Not that it’s my call.”

  “It remains to be seen if she’s smart enough to handle the commands.”

  When they let her back into her paddock, she trotted a dozen steps, lay down in the grass and rolled on her back, side to side, while her short legs flailed in the air.

  “Dirty again already,” Vince said with a grin. “Typical horse behavior.”

  “Oh, well.”

  Halfway through bathing the last horse, Vince’s phone rang. He checked it, gave the lead line to Anne and walked off into the barn to return the call in private.

  “Got to go,” he said when he came back.

  “Now?”

  “Emergency.”

  “Are you coming back here afterward?”

  “I doubt it. I’ll call.” He trotted to his van, climbed in and drove away.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Anne said. Drat the man. He might have told me what the emergency is. I do not intend to wait on his majesty, thank you very much. I can do this.