by Laura Moore
“No,” Steve replied testily, thoroughly annoyed by the whole conversation. Bubba was a tough man to shut up when he felt like talking. “But I promise I’ll let you know the second I figure it out.” His sarcastic tone was lost on his barn manager.
“Now there’s a promise I’ll hold you to.” Bubba laughed, adding an “Oh” as he caught sight of long legs encased in black breeches approaching them. “Here comes that ultra-fine specimen now.”
Since Bubba was standing near them in the center of the indoor ring, a broad smile of amusement lingering on his face, Steve did his best not to look at how nicely Ty filled out a pair of breeches, only enough to affirm that she had great lines. Even he didn’t kid himself that he was talking bloodlines. Everything became that much harder when Steve went to give her a leg up. True, Ty probably could have managed to haul herself up into the saddle by dropping the length of the stirrups, but Macintosh was a big horse. And Steve’s fingers itched at the chance to touch her again, however briefly.
“On the count of three,” Steve instructed, grasping Ty’s booted leg in his cupped palms, trying not to breathe too deeply. He was worried he might do something really stupid if he caught a whiff of Ty’s perfume, Bubba only ten feet away notwithstanding.
Ty turned, nodding wordlessly, and Steve saw her eyes, positively enormous with nerves.
“Hey, don’t worry,” Steve said softly, sympathetically. “Riding Macintosh is easier than sitting back in a big, old, comfy recliner and watching the afternoon game on TV. Just make sure you don’t fall asleep. Okay, ready? One, two, three.”
At three, Ty pushed off from the ground with her right leg, hands gripping the saddle’s pommel and cantle, pulling herself upward—though she hardly needed to, Steve’s strength easily propelling her into the saddle.
She settled herself, her thighs automatically adjusting themselves to Macintosh’s breadth. It felt a little like straddling a barrel. Immediately, she gathered her reins, holding them loosely while Steve checked her stirrups.
“Let’s drop them two holes. Your legs are longer than Allegra’s. But first, swing your leg forward so I can tighten your girth. Mac always blows himself up.” Steve moved over to Ty’s left, intending to lift the saddle flap.
“I can do it,” Ty said. Already some of her initial nervousness was wearing off, replaced by rising excitement. She wanted to get going, to see whether riding at twenty-five matched the sweetness of her memories. “This was Allegra Palmer’s saddle?” she asked, tugging Macintosh’s girth a notch tighter.
“Yeah, she abandoned it after leaving it out in the rain one night. You mind using her cast off?”
“Why should I? The saddle fits fine, although it’s a little more padded than I’m used to. But that might be a good thing, considering how long it’s been.”
“Uh, exactly how long ago was it since you rode?” Steve asked, lowering Ty’s right stirrup as she worked on the left.
“Eight years,” Ty admitted, shamefaced. “Are you sure you trust me on Macintosh’s back?” she asked, ready to jump off despite her growing enthusiasm if Steve hesitated.
“Eight years,” Steve repeated, shaking his head. “Hell of a long time to be away from the saddle. Difficult to imagine. Let’s see what your body remembers after this many years. Just take it nice and easy. Why don’t you walk Mac on the rail for a while, give yourself the chance to get the feel back.” Steve turned, addressing his stable manager. “Bubba, d’you mind tacking Cantata for me and bringing her out?”
“No sweat, Shepp,” Bubba replied easily, already heading toward the paneled gate. “Good luck, Ty,” he called out with a grin. “Don’t go landing on your butt, now.”
“Thanks, Bubba. I’ll try my best to avoid it.”
Steve let Ty walk around the perimeter of the indoor ring for the next several minutes in peace. She was sitting all neat and tidy, perhaps a mite too stiff. As if she were entering her first equitation class. He needed to give her something to think about; maybe that would loosen her up a bit.
“All right, Ty, here’s the deal: Mac’s got a real soft mouth. You only need to keep a light contact; he doesn’t respond well to grabby or jerky hands, so loosen your reins just a fraction. That’s it. While you’re working him on the flat, you want to maintain an unbroken line extending from your elbow to the bit. Good, keep contact with his mouth, but don’t fuss.”
Steve gave her a minute to absorb his instructions, drawing a cigarette from his vest pocket and lighting up. Exhaling a stream of smoke, he continued. “Now, let’s move on to your legs. You look real pretty up there and all. But there’s no way you’re going to be able to keep Mac rounded and beneath you once his attention wanders if you’re perched too far forward of the vertical. He’s a good horse, not a robot. You need to sit up straighter and down into your saddle. Don’t be afraid to use your butt, even if you do land on it,” Steve advised, pleased when he startled a laugh out of her. She was beginning to relax.
“That’s better. Bring your leg back a hair more. Right, just like that, so you’ve got him listening. How’s he feel?”
“Lovely. Big, far bigger than my mare was. Then again, maybe I’ve just forgotten the sensation of being on a horse’s back.”
“Doubt it,” Steve replied with a laugh. “Even I feel like I’m climbing onto a huge tractor or a World War II tank when I switch from another horse to Macintosh. But he’s as steady as they come. Solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. All right, let’s see you move him into a trot now. Remember: light hands, strong, centered lower body.”
And so it went, Steve offering minute corrections, explaining Macintosh’s temperament and habits and how best to work with them. Ty quickly slipped into her own habit of total concentration, speaking little, making adjustments with her body as Steve indicated.
It was only when Steve instructed her to smile that Ty realized she’d been frowning, deep in concentration, trying to make her body relearn movements once ingrained. “Sorry,” she called out, just as Bubba led Cantata into the ring.
“Nothing to apologize for. Ah, Bubba, here you are. I was worried Cantata might be giving you trouble or that perhaps you’d gotten lost on the way to the tack room,” Steve joked, guessing that Bubba had purposely lingered over grooming the mare to give Ty extra time with Steve coaching her from the ground. “Ty looks good, doesn’t she, Bubba?”
“Not half bad,” Bubba agreed, handing over the mare’s reins to Steve. Steve and Bubba’s eyes met and Steve mouthed the word thanks.
Ty couldn’t suppress the wide smile that spread over her face when she heard their comments. Lord, it was great to be back in the saddle again. And these two men had just earned her undying loyalty for not making her feel like a total bumbling clod. Macintosh was wonderful, too: smooth, powerful, and so exquisitely trained that he responded to the lightest of aids. His trot skimmed over the ground, legs flexing and extending with an airy precision. His canter was unbelievable, too, like sitting on an enormous, puffy cloud as it drifted over the summer sky. Ty had felt as if she could canter forever on his back—that is, until she started noticing the twinge of pain in her ankles. The unnatural and, more pertinently, unaccustomed angle they were forced into from dropping her heels deep in the stirrups had caused them to stiffen (though freeze might be the better term). A fine trembling had started in her inner thighs from gripping the saddle, and her lower back was aching as though someone had taken a baseball bat to it.
“Hey, Ty,” Steve called, interrupting her mental checklist of aches and pains. “Why don’t you bring Mac into the center of the ring? You can hop off, and I’ll switch saddles.”
With equal parts relief and regret, Ty walked the big chestnut over to where Steve, Bubba, and Cantata were grouped. She closed her hands, bringing Macintosh to a halt in front of Steve.
“He’s a great horse.” Ty leaned forward to rub the gelding on his slightly sweaty neck. The color of his sleek coat had deepened slightly, now a rich, dark copper, and she smile
d as Macintosh dropped his head to rub the cheek strap of his bridle against the inside of his foreleg. Her own horse, Charisma, had often done the exact same thing when the workout was finished, as if saying that the bridle she tolerated was all very well and good, but enough was enough.
How she’d missed all this, Ty realized with a start: the intense physical rush that came from being involved with these beautiful animals.
With a final pat to Macintosh’s muscled shoulder, Ty straightened and dropped her stirrups. Tight lips masked a grimace as a dull pain wrapped itself around and seemingly through her ankle bones, like a snake twisting its way through the limbs of a tree. In an effort to block out the pain, she focused all her energy on lifting her right leg over the saddle.
Oh, God, this is awful, Ty whimpered silently, her thigh muscles screaming their protest. “Steve, thank you for letting me ride him. He’s so smooth.” Ty felt she did a pretty decent job of enunciating through gritted teeth. By keeping her molars clamped tight enough, she sounded almost normal. Moreover, she couldn’t start howling.
“Yeah,” Steve replied, holding Macintosh’s reins while Ty lowered herself to the ground. “He would have made an excellent dressage prospect. Thing is, he can jump just about anything you put before him. He’s got great scope. Fearless, too. Macintosh’s only weakness lies in being a one-speed wonder—getting him past that easy, rocking chair canter of his is like waiting for molasses to drip in January.”
Ty felt somewhat like molasses herself. She’d slipped down from the saddle, tentatively planting her feet on the ground. Her bones seemed to have disappeared, replaced by a toxic slime oozing through her system. She’d read articles in which athletic coaches explained how lactic acid was produced by the muscles during exercise. Well, if one of those coaches were to run some super-sophisticated biochemical test on Ty right now, she’d no doubt qualify as a hazardous waste site. She stood gripping the sides of the saddle for a few seconds, hoping it would be enough time for her legs to lose their jelly-like state, praying that neither Steve nor Bubba would notice the pathetic and oh-so-humbling shape she was in. She worked out! She wasn’t some couch potato who deserved this kind of muscular pain!
Unfortunately, her attempt at disguising her current state of agony succeeded only too well. Steve’s next words sent Ty’s mind reeling, her system into deep shock. “What do you think about warming up Cantata for me?”
“But, but . . .” Ty stammered, unable to form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.
“You did a real nice job on Mac. Cantata’s a little heavier on the bit, and her gait is a lot more forward; you won’t need to use much leg on her. Actually, she gets a little goosey if you do. In that respect, she’ll be a real holiday after riding Mac.”
Could she have formed the words, she was sure she would have protested, demurred, asked for a rain check, figured out some way to get out of this, but her mind was obviously functioning at reduced capacity. Too many things were going on. Here Steve was, still being nice, no, downright kind to her, allowing her the privilege of riding, not one, but two of his horses. It was thrilling. It was scary. She didn’t know what to think.
Not that it mattered, for Steve’s next words tipped the scales completely. “This could work out to be a big bonus, Ty, your being a decent rider and all. It means that once we get more horses, I can rely on you to be warming up one while I’m coaching or when we’re at a show and I’ve got more than one horse entered in a class. You’re only going to improve with a bit more practice.”
Ty shot him a suspicious glance, half convinced that this was an elaborate put-on, skeptical that he was truly thinking in terms of their working as a team, that there might be a future for them as partners, but Steve was busy pulling off his own saddle from Cantata. In a stupefied daze, Ty found herself lifting the saddle flap and releasing the buckles on Macintosh’s girth.
You’d definitely call Cantata a different ride from Macintosh, thought Ty. Newly added to the list of aches and pains were her shoulders, biceps, and triceps, those areas rebelling from Cantata’s being a much hotter and more forward horse than the warmblooded Macintosh. Ty also now possessed an exact definition for the term goosey. That’s what happened to an excitable thoroughbred’s hindquarters when you made the mistake of sitting a little too forward in your seat and allowing your legs to slip behind you. It had taken three laps around the ring before Cantata quieted down once more. Ty hadn’t made that mistake again. One goosey session was enough to last her shoulders for the foreseeable future, thank you very much.
Ty might as well be ruthlessly honest with herself. She could think of only one point on her body that wasn’t feeling sore and abused: the tip of her nose.
She was in truly pathetic shape, but she was also feeling gloriously happy. Alive. Cantata had been an exhilarating challenge from the first nudge of Ty’s heels. Adrenaline had rushed through her as she focused on collecting the young, headstrong mare, keeping her controlled and nicely rounded in her gaits.
But even more thrilling had been the opportunity to share the ring with Steve and watch him work. During the moments when she’d been walking Cantata on a loose rein, allowing the mare to stretch her long, graceful neck and the muscles of her back, she’d been able to observe Steve cantering Macintosh over the jumps he’d set up.
When you loved a sport, an activity, an art form, and had the rare chance to watch a true master at it, the experience was profound, inspirational. For Ty, it was that and more. During the years when she’d avidly scoured the sports programs on cable TV, or attended shows where Steve was competing, the stage where he’d ridden had been the show ring. There, it was all the glorious brilliance of the competitive moment—but brief, like a comet shooting across the night sky. Today, she saw a whole other aspect, no less moving, no less brilliant, and, now that she was older and more mature, ultimately far more satisfying.
It was the work. The intensive training. Again and again, Ty saw Steve take Macintosh through careful, precise movements, broken down to their most basic elements. Then she watched how he gradually, patiently rebuilt them, adding and expanding until they became a flow of twists, turns, flying changes, and jumps.
It made her appreciate anew just what it took, what it meant when the moment arrived for horse and rider to canter through the show ring’s in-gate, primed to negotiate a jump course of enormous technically and physically demanding fences. That afternoon, Ty glimpsed a small part of the effort and preparation that served as the foundation for the grand, fluid, and, above all, harmonious style with which Steve Sheppard rode his horses. Ty wouldn’t have missed the chance to watch for the world. A short time later, Steve left Ty and Bubba, ran to his truck, steering it carefully over the bumpy pasture, where Ty had parked it, then roared down the driveway, already late for his appointment with the representative from the insurance company at their local offices in Riverhead. Steve’s opinion of insurance agents, never very high in the first place, had sunk to an all-time low following Fancy Free’s death. They’d been stalling for way too long now, giving him the run-around, demanding an autopsy, documents, second and third opinions from veterinarians—demanding every imaginable thing under the sun before agreeing to review the claim, let alone cough up the money they owed him.
He’d provided everything they asked for. He still couldn’t bear to think of the autopsy report; knowing he’d been right to put Fancy out of his pain was cold and measly comfort indeed. But at least it meant that Steve had been vindicated in the eyes of the insurance agency. An awful, tragic accident but one the company was obliged to cover financially.
And, by God, they were going to hand over his money.
“Why don’t you let me take the saddle off Cantata for you? I need to give it another oiling, anyway. The leather’s in pretty sad shape,” Bubba suggested as Ty and he led Cantata and Macintosh into the barn.
“Oh, I can do that, Bubba.”
Bubba eyed her speculatively. Steve was right; this was
a woman who’d drive herself into the ground rather than give up. Ty had been moving more and more stiffly with each passing second, though she’d held up real well in the saddle, an impressive feat for someone who hadn’t ridden in eight years. He hadn’t even seen her start to wince and shorten her stride until Steve took off for his meeting. Didn’t want Steve to know how bad she was hurting. Stubborn, Ty was. Well, Steve and she should get along dandy, then. Steve, too, was as stubborn as a mule. Now he’d have two hardheads to look after, Bubba reflected wryly.
If she just kept moving, her legs might not buckle on her, and she wouldn’t land in a heap in front of Bubba’s oversized workboots. And anyway, she wanted to help put the horses away. Ty wasn’t sure she had the courage to face the flight of stairs up to her bedroom.
They hooked Cantata and Macintosh to nearby cross ties, the horses facing each other, then proceeded to untack and rub the horses down.
“Bubba, tell me about yourself. Where did you and Steve meet?”
“Out here. I was between jobs when Shepp bought this place. I heard he was looking for help, so I showed up one day. Shepp took me on, taught me everything I know. Which was considerable—didn’t know squat about horses.”
“Had you wanted to work with them?” Ty asked curiously.
“Hell, no.” Bubba patted Macintosh’s neck affectionately. “I just wanted work. Damned hard to find if you’re a black man who only made it through high school. By the time I met Shepp, I had a wife and two kids to support. We’d been squeaking by—I’d been doing carpentry for some local contractors, lawn mowing, working as a grocery clerk—but none of the jobs ever lasted. I’d have tried fishing, too, except I get seasick. Feel queasy even looking at the ocean when the surf’s up.”
“Dramamine?” Ty asked, gingerly picking up a soft brush and going over the mare with long, even strokes.
