Truths I Learned from Sam

by Kristin Butcher

  “Well then, I reckon we’ll have to teach you.”

  He says it as such a matter of fact that I don’t even consider arguing. Besides, how hard can it be? All I have to do is sit.

  ———

  The next morning I wake up to the delicious smells of bacon frying and coffee brewing. For a few minutes, I let the tantalizing aromas float over me and weave themselves into my dream. Then reality works its way into my dream too, and suddenly I’m wide awake. But I’m not in my comfy bed in Vancouver. I’m on a narrow, lumpy futon in a dingy trailer in the middle of nowhere, and down the hall in the kitchen is a man I’ve known for about sixteen hours.

  Then I inhale the food smells again and suddenly remember — it’s my day to cook! Crap! I must have slept in. What time is it? I scramble for my watch on the TV table and blink at its face, trying to clear the sleep from my eyes. It’s 8:15. Really? Just 8:15? That’s practically the middle of the night. The only time I’m up that early is when I have to go to school. A girl should not be awake at 8:15 on her summer vacation. It’s obscene.

  I disentangle myself from the bedding and swing my feet to the floor. The scratchy indoor/outdoor carpeting beneath them makes me wonder if I spent the night on a miniature golf course. I have to pee something fierce, but I don’t want to run into Sam in the hall. He might be my uncle, but I’m not ready yet to show off my pajamas — T-shirt and flannel sweats actually — nor my morning bed head. So I dance around as I throw on jeans and a fresh T-shirt and drag a brush through my hair.

  By the time I make it out to the kitchen, I feel nearly human. My bed is even made, and yesterday’s underwear is stashed away in a pocket of my suitcase.

  Sam is on his cell. “Great,” he says to the person on the other end. “That sounds real good. See you about ten.” He switches off the phone and smiles. “Good morning, sleepyhead. Or should I say good afternoon?”

  I make a face. “It’s not late. At home I wouldn’t be up for a couple more hours yet.”

  He makes tut-tutting noises. “Shame on you. And shame on your mother for allowing that.”

  “Ha!” I retort. “She sleeps later than I do! She doesn’t move until she smells the coffee.”

  Sam lowers his head and squints at me through his eyebrows. “So that’s where you learned that trick.”

  Now I feel like a jerk. I shake my head. “No. I know it’s my day to cook. I didn’t forget. I would have made the coffee. Really. I just didn’t realize I was going to have to set the alarm to do it.” I look past him to the dirty plate and frying pan on the counter. “I guess I missed breakfast, huh?”

  “There’s coffee,” he says, “and juice in the fridge. I would’ve rustled up something for you, but I didn’t know what kind of breakfast food you like — or if you even eat breakfast.” He spreads his arms to take in the kitchen. “But you’re welcome to cook up whatever you can find.” He glances at the clock on the stove. “The only thing is we need to get going by nine if we’re going to have that tour of Webb’s River.”

  The air is still full of bacon and egg smells. That’s the breakfast my stomach is set on, but there’s no way I can cook, eat, and clean up in thirty minutes.

  I sigh and reach for the coffee pot. “Do you have any cereal?”

  Chapter Seven

  By 9:00 a.m. on the nose, we’re on our way to Highway 97 via a web of back roads I never noticed the day before. Finally, I’m seeing some houses and the occasional business. When we get to the highway, Lizzie heads west. But only for a minute. Before she even gets up to speed, Sam turns her onto another secondary road on the opposite side of the highway.

  This is clearly the hub of Webb’s River. Though it’s just one secluded road, I spot, scattered among the trees, an art studio, a woodworking shop, a nursery, a small medical/dental office, a junkyard, and a brew-your-own wine store. I also see signs advertising home businesses.

  After about ten minutes, Lizzie starts down a private driveway. The narrow road zigzags through the trees. So do the sun’s rays, dappling the road with broken light.

  “Where are we going?” I ask. The words are barely out of my mouth when Lizzie breaks free of the trees. Straight ahead is an open gate under a wrought iron arch with a sign. GREENER PASTURES — JOHN TOOBY & SONS. Then I see a sprawling house and barns, cattle grazing in a distant field, and corrals of horses. Lizzie crunches along the gravel drive, churning up clouds of dust. Finally, we come to a stop in front of a barn.

  “Why are we here?” I ask as we get out of the truck.

  “You want to learn to ride, don’t you?” Sam says.

  “I thought you were going to teach me.”

  “I would, but I have to go to 100 Mile House this morning.”

  “Couldn’t I come with you? We could do the riding thing later.”

  He shakes his head. “Not this time. It’s business. You’d be bored — believe me. Besides, this way we can kill two birds with one stone.” He winks. “You’ll be fine. If there’s one thing these Tooby boys know, it’s horses.”

  ———

  Turns out there are four Tooby boys, but it is son #3 who is assigned the task of turning me into a horsewoman. His name is Micah, and he’s drop-dead gorgeous, so I don’t care what he knows about horses.

  “Hey, Dani.” His voice is low and smooth. He slides a finger along the brim of his black Stetson and flashes me an orthodontically perfect, toothpaste-commercial smile. That’s when the bones in my legs vaporize, and I feel like I’m learning to ice-skate all over again. Thank god the wall of the barn is there to hold me up.

  “Hey.” His blue eyes are hypnotic. I try to look away, but I can’t seem to. Don’t want to.

  It’s Micah who breaks the spell. “Well, I guess we better find you a horse.” He points to one of the corrals. As we walk toward it, he says, “So Sam is your uncle, huh?”

  I nod.

  “And you’re staying with him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “For how long?”

  “Six weeks.” I keep my gaze fixed on the corral. It’s easier to act normal if I don’t look at Micah. “My mom’s away on a trip,” I say, but I don’t go into details.

  “So where’s home?”

  “Vancouver.”

  “Big city. Lucky you.” Then, because we’ve reached the corral, Micah changes the subject. “All these horses are real gentle — perfect for greenhorns.”

  I sigh. “Well, they don’t come any green-hornier than me.” Too late, I realize what I’ve said, and I am instantly mortified. My face is burning, so I know it has to be red. I am such a loser! I wish for a speeding bus or maybe a herd of stampeding cattle to throw myself under. Please, God, take me now. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” I mumble.

  Micah just smiles and turns back to the corral. “Do you see anything you like?”

  Yeah, I do. Oh, right — he’s talking about the horses. I focus all my attention on the corral. I know there must be criteria for choosing a mount, but since I have no idea what it is, I am forced to come up with my own. Mostly, it has to do with appearance. One horse has a scraggly tail. A second has wild eyes. A third is the wrong colour, and a fourth has a sway back. I certainly don’t want the snorter, nor the one with flies buzzing round it. The only horse I’m drawn to is a tawny-coloured mare with a black mane. “That one.” I point it out to Micah.

  “Good choice,” he says. “Sweetpea is as gentle as they come. What made you pick her?”

  I’m embarrassed to explain my selection process, so I just shrug. “She reminds me of Sam’s horse.”

  “There’s a good reason for that,” Micah says. “Sweetpea is Jasmine’s dam.” Then he smiles, and I feel myself starting to melt again. I throw my arms over the top rail of the fence and pretend to study Sweetpea more closely.

  “She doesn’t have the diamond on her nose like Jasmine,” I tell him.

  “Well, her sire had a little input in the matter too, if you know what I mean.”

 
I know exactly what he means. I also know he’s smiling again, but I don’t dare look. My knees will buckle for sure.

  He ducks between the rails and strolls across the corral. Sweetpea neighs as he approaches but doesn’t move a muscle while he straps a bridle on her. Then he leads her back to where I am and wraps the reins around a rail.

  He pats Sweetpea’s shoulder. “You ladies get acquainted while I saddle up.”

  Sweetpea doesn’t pull back, snort, or even roll her eyes when I reach out to stroke her nose. And she doesn’t so much as twitch an ear when Micah sets a felt pad and blanket on her back and then swings the saddle on top of that.

  Micah explains each step as he goes, and I hang on every word, partly because he says that if I’m going to ride, I have to learn to saddle the horse myself, but mostly because I like the sound of his voice. I watch him reef on the girth straps and then buckle them. Sweetpea stands perfectly still throughout the entire process. For her, it’s just another day at the office. Finally, Micah leads her out of the corral and holds the reins out to me.

  I stare at them stupidly.

  “Take them,” he says. “You need to get used to each other.” Then he points into the distance. “I want you to walk Sweetpea to that empty corral over there. That’s where you’re going to practice mounting and dismounting.”

  “Just mounting and dismounting? That’s it?” This does not fit the vision I have of Micah and me galloping off together through a meadow of wildflowers.

  He flashes that irresistible smile again. “Actually, that’s quite a bit.”

  “But aren’t I going to ride?”

  “First things first. Getting on and off a horse isn’t as easy as it looks, and if you can’t get on, you sure as heck can’t ride.”

  He has that right. Who knew mounting a horse could be so difficult? Even with the mount block, it’s a challenge. Getting on from the ground is even harder. It’s like scaling a skyscraper and then straddling it. Definitely not a natural motion — at least not for me. And there’s so much to remember too — how to hold the reins, where to stand, where to put my hands, how to shift my weight. After forty-five minutes of practice, I am exhausted, and I haven’t even done any riding yet. The rest of our lesson is taken up with learning how to sit on the saddle and control the horse with the reins and my legs.

  The next thing I know, it’s noon, and Sam is back. I do my best to dismount like a pro. I want to show him that I’ve actually learned something and haven’t just spent the morning staring at Micah.

  He smiles at me. “Well done.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, right. You can see what a fast learner I am. It’s taken me two hours just to learn how to get on a horse.”

  “That’s an important thing to know, and unless you were brought up around horses, it’s not something that comes natural to most people.”

  “Not to me, that’s for sure.”

  “Aw, don’t listen to her, Sam.” Though I don’t see him coming, Micah is now standing beside me — close enough that his shirt sleeve is brushing my arm. I can feel my heart hammering. “Dani is a quick learner. She did just fine. Next time, we’ll have her barrel-racing.”

  “Next time?” I look from Micah to Sam.

  Sam shrugs. “As much as I’d like to teach you myself, I think it’s probably best for you to stick with Micah. The truth is, there’s more than one way to skin a cat — or, in this case, teach you to ride a horse — and we don’t want to confuse you with different methods.”

  Micah grins. “All right then. We’ll see you tomorrow. Same time?”

  “Sounds good,” Sam says.

  I couldn’t agree more.

  Chapter Eight

  On the way back to Sam’s place, I pump him for information about Micah. Subtly, of course. I don’t want him thinking I’m interested in the guy. I start by asking about the ranch.

  According to Sam, Greener Pastures is one of the largest spreads in British Columbia and has been in the Tooby family for several generations. Though well-known for cattle, the ranch’s real claim to fame is breeding horses. As a sideline, it offers day-trip trail rides and — for hardier types — overnight wilderness adventures. Sort of like African safaris, I guess, but Cariboo style.

  The oldest Tooby son, Mark, works at the ranch full-time. Micah and son #2, Steve, are both at university, so they only help out in the summer. The youngest son, Randy, is still in elementary school, so aside from weekend chores of mucking out stalls and pitching hay, he isn’t too involved yet.

  I ask all the sons’ ages, though it’s really only Micah I care about. He’s nineteen. Perfect. Now all I need to know is if he has a girlfriend, but there’s no way I’m asking Sam that. I’ll just have to find out on my own.

  As it turns out, Micah is the one who brings up the subject — the very next day. He asks me if I have a boyfriend. I am so shocked I miss the stirrup as I go to mount and almost do a face-plant in the dirt.

  “Not at the moment,” I tell him as I once again grab the horn of the saddle. And then — because this is the perfect opening — I nonchalantly add, “What about you?”

  He shakes his head. “No. No boyfriend. I prefer girls.”

  For a split second, I forget the guy is a god. All I’m thinking is that he zinged me, and I need to get him back. A retort jumps onto my tongue and is out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Really?” I reply. “I would’ve sworn you were gay.”

  To say that I catch Micah by surprise is the understatement of the year, and right before my eyes, he goes from cool to crushed. He couldn’t look more deflated if I’d punched him in the stomach.

  I gaze down from my seat on Sweetpea and pretend to shoot him with a gun. “Gotcha!” I grin and waggle my eyebrows.

  His face relaxes. Then he shakes his head and grins back at me. “And here I thought you were a nice girl.”

  I shrug. “Hey, you started it.”

  That’s all it takes. The ice between us is broken, and we spend the rest of the lesson exchanging shots and laughing.

  ———

  Sam and I make lunch together. It’s supposed to be his day to cook, but I don’t mind helping. Actually, I kind of like it. Sam knows his way around a kitchen, but he’s really relaxed about it, so there’s something restful about working with him.

  We take our quesadillas and coleslaw outside into the sunshine. Sam hauls a couple of lawn chairs out from under the trailer and sets them on the grass.

  I sigh and turn my face to the sky. “Listen.”

  After a few seconds, Sam says, “To what? I don’t hear anything.”

  “Exactly!” I inhale deeply like I’m refuelling my soul. “That’s the point. It’s peaceful here. No traffic noise. No rest-of-the-world sounds at all. It’s like this place is all there is. Birds singing, grass waving, sunshine, wildflowers — that’s it.” I turn to him. “It’s like you have your own little Garden of Eden.”

  Sam cocks his head thoughtfully for a few seconds before answering. Then his eyes become dark slits that look right inside me. “You might physically resemble your mother,” he says, “and you might have the same sharp tongue that she has, but in some ways you’re very different. Your mom wouldn’t last more than an hour out here. She’d think it’s pretty, but she’d be happier just looking at a picture of it. A picnic is about all the outdoors she’s interested in — and even then, she’d want it without the bugs.”

  I bite into my quesadilla and nod. “Yeah, Mom is definitely a city girl. She likes the hustle and bustle, the nightlife — the shopping! She really likes the shopping. She’d go into withdrawal here for sure.”

  Sam wags a thumb toward the shed. “I could give her a good deal on some horse manure.”

  I laugh.

  “What about you?” Sam asks. “I thought seventeen-year-old girls lived to shop.”

  “Yeah, I like to shop. Of course, I do,” I say. “But I like other stuff too. The stores will still be in Vancouver when I get back. In the meantime
, I’m going to enjoy what Webb’s River has to offer.”

  “Uh-huh,” Sam says. But something about the way he says it and the way his face is threatening to smile make me suspicious.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  His forehead buckles in feigned confusion. “Not a thing.”

  He’s a good actor, but I’m not buying his performance. I know he’s making fun of me. I reach out and smack his arm.

  “Ow!” He rubs it as if he’s actually hurt. “You’re violent.”

  I roll my eyes. “As if. I did not hit you hard. And anyway, you had it coming. It’s not nice to tease.”

  “Who’s teasing? You said you were going to enjoy what Webb’s River has to offer. I was just agreeing with you.”

  I feel myself starting to blush, but at the same time a smile is tugging at my mouth, and I have to tense my cheek muscles to keep a straight face. I slug Sam again and shake my finger at him. “I know what you’re hinting at,” I say, “and you’re wrong. I really like learning to ride — and that’s it!”

  He shrugs innocently. “That’s what I thought you meant. Golly. There’s no getting along with some people.” Then he stands up and puts his hand out for my empty plate. “Want some lemonade?”

  “Sure,” I say, grateful for the change of subject. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  When he returns, Sam is juggling two glasses of lemonade and a big plastic bag. He hands me one of the glasses and then the bag.

  “What’s this?” I say.

  “Since you can’t get to the shops, I thought I’d bring the shops to you.”

  “Really?” I beam. “You got me a present?” I set the glass of lemonade down on the grass and open the bag. Then I gasp in surprise. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but it isn’t this. I look from the bag to Sam. “Boots! You got me boots.”

  “Well, we can’t have you wearing running shoes when you ride,” he says. “It just isn’t right.”