by Suzanne Weyn
“Is someone going to ride the pony?” Eric asked.
“No, but Pixie likes to be where Prince Albert is,” Taylor explained.
Dismounting, Eric rolled the barrels on their sides until an invisible line between them would have formed a triangle. Using his feet as a measure, he walked between the barrels, adjusting their distance from each other. “There’s got to be ninety feet between barrels one and two; one hundred and five feet between barrels one and three and between two and three,” Eric explained.
“What do you do with them?” Travis wanted to know.
“The idea is to ride around in a three-leaf clover pattern,” Eric explained, drawing in the dirt with a stick.
“That doesn’t sound too hard,” Taylor remarked from the gate. She hoped that by standing there she was giving Prince Albert time to see that Eric and Travis weren’t menacing or mean.
“The person who rides around all three barrels fastest wins,” Mercedes said.
“That’s what makes it tough,” Daphne added. “To pick up time, you have to get as close to the barrels as you can without knocking them over.”
“For now, just try out the course and see how you do,” Eric suggested.
“This is usually a girls’ event,” Mercedes said.
“What do you mean?” Taylor asked.
“It started out as the Girls’ Rodeo,” Mercedes explained. “I read a book about it. The Girls’ Rodeo is called the WPRA now, the Women’s Professional Rodeo Association.”
“How did you learn to barrel race, Eric?” Daphne asked.
“I was a junior counselor at a western riding camp last summer.” He nodded toward Jojo. “It helped me earn the money to buy him.”
“Yeah? You can’t afford a horse on a counselor’s pay,” Mercedes challenged.
“No, but I had other money saved,” Eric replied.
“And he got a good price on Jojo,” Taylor added.
Taylor hoped that enough time had passed for Prince Albert to get used to the two boys, so she took hold of his bridle and began to lead him into the paddock. At once, Prince Albert whipped his head back and forth, breaking Taylor’s hold on him. His two front feet lifted from the ground as he stomped down hard on the dirt, sputtering. Then he veered to the side and ran in a circle.
“Albert! Stop!” Taylor commanded.
“Don’t let him do that!” Mercedes said, running toward them.
Casting a look of exasperation at Taylor, Mercedes hurried to Prince Albert, who was about to begin a second circle, and grabbed his bridle strap. “You stop that! Bad boy!”
To Taylor’s surprise, he settled down to a walk.
“Get me that lead line on the fence,” Mercedes commanded. Taylor brought it to her, and Mercedes clipped the line onto Prince Albert’s halter. “You are on time-out,” Mercedes told Prince Albert as she led him toward the main building, with Pixie trotting behind.
* * *
Taylor propped her elbow on the half door to Prince Albert’s stable and rested her chin on her hand. Prince Albert sputtered, and Taylor could tell he wasn’t happy to be back in his stall. Mercedes had offered Pixie the chance to stay outside in the corral, but she couldn’t be made to leave Prince Albert’s side and so she, too, was now in her stall beside the black horse.
Feeling bad for her horse, Taylor reached into her pocket for the last of her carrots.
“Don’t give him a treat,” Mercedes scolded from inside Shafir’s stall across the aisle as she looped a lead line around the Arabian’s head. “He’s being punished.”
“It’s not his fault that he’s scared of boys and men,” Taylor argued.
“He can’t be allowed to break away from you like that,” Mercedes insisted. “He’s a well-trained horse, and I’m sure he knows better. But you’re soft with him, and he knows that, too. He’s testing you, like little kids do.”
What Mercedes was saying made sense to Taylor, and she put the carrot back in her pocket. “Are you going to work with Shafir?” Taylor asked.
“I want her to watch the barrel-racing work,” Mercedes explained. “If she sees Daphne riding Mandy and Eric on Jojo, maybe she’ll get the idea of what she’s supposed to do.”
Shafir’s pointy ears were forward, and her head was tilted attentively, almost as though she were following the conversation between Taylor and Mercedes. “I wonder …,” Taylor murmured as she pushed herself away from the stall door.
Hurrying down the center aisle, she turned left into the tack room near the front door. Scanning the horse tack quickly, she took a rope halter from a peg and quickly returned to Mercedes and Shafir with it.
“You think you can halter her?” Mercedes asked in a doubtful tone.
“Something tells me she’s ready,” Taylor replied quietly as she stood in front of Shafir and took out her last baby carrot. “She wants to be involved in the games.”
Smelling the treat from across the aisle, Prince Albert whinnied imploringly.
Ignoring him, Taylor offered Shafir the carrot. The Arabian bent her head forward with interest and then grabbed it between her teeth.
“That’s a nice girl,” Taylor said, stroking her muzzle. She kept talking soothingly and petting Shafir, all the while working the rope harness over her mouth, up her muzzle, and then over her ears. As Taylor had suspected, the mare appeared to be ready for this step.
“Wow! How did you know?” Mercedes asked, impressed.
“I wasn’t sure,” Taylor admitted. “I only saw that Shafir is interested in everything going on around her, so I thought she might be ready to join in.”
Mercedes removed the lead line she’d put over Shafir’s neck and took out the loop; then she clipped it to the rope halter. “Come on, Taylor. Let’s show her the barrel racing,” Mercedes suggested, leading Shafir out of the stall.
“Okay,” Taylor replied, stepping into the aisle.
Prince Albert neighed at her. “I know you want a carrot, but I don’t have any more,” Taylor told him, presenting her empty hands as proof.
Prince Albert just stared expectantly.
“Sorry, fella. I have nothing left,” Taylor apologized.
“Taylor, come on!” Mercedes shouted.
“I’m coming,” Taylor called back.
When she was halfway up the aisle, Taylor checked over her shoulder. Prince Albert was staring at her. Taylor felt guilty, but she knew she couldn’t give in. “I’ll get you another carrot later,” she muttered guiltily as she ran to catch up with Mercedes.
Taylor and Travis stood side by side, balancing on the bottom rung of the fence, watching the action inside the paddock. “She’s really good,” Taylor commented as Daphne sped around the barrels while Eric timed her. Travis nodded, waving away the dust cloud that Mandy’s pounding hooves had stirred up.
Taylor looked at Eric standing beside the barrels with his stopwatch and wondered if Eric admired Daphne’s skill on horseback. How could he not?
Mercedes stood in the corral off to the side, next to Shafir, both of them watching intently. She had unclipped the Arabian mare from the lead and was furling the line into a loop as she focused on Daphne careening around each barrel at top speed.
“Great, even better than last time,” Eric said when Daphne slowed to a walk. “See if you can come even closer to that first barrel next time so you get off to a strong start.” He turned to Taylor. “Want to try?”
“You can ride Mandy, if you want,” Daphne offered as she swung out of the saddle.
A small knot of nerves formed in Taylor’s belly, but she didn’t want to give in to it. She wanted Eric to see that Daphne wasn’t the only one who could excel at barrel racing. “Okay!” she agreed.
“Good luck,” Travis said as Taylor went around to the corral gate. She replied with an anxious thumbs-up.
“Hey, Mercedes told us it was you who harnessed Shafir,” Daphne said when Taylor was in the corral. “Nice job! Did she resist you?”
“Not at all,” Tay
lor reported, taking the reins from Daphne.
Taylor stole a sideways glance at Eric, checking to see if he was paying attention to the conversation. She hoped he was impressed that she’d been able to get a halter on the half-wild Arabian.
“Take it slow the first time,” Eric advised while Taylor adjusted the stirrups to the right length for her legs. “Just walk the cloverleaf pattern right now. Follow the lines I made in the dirt.”
Climbing into the saddle, Taylor signaled Mandy to walk toward the barrels. The gray mare was smaller but wider than Prince Albert, and it took Taylor a moment to adjust to the difference. In some ways, Mandy was easier to ride. “Smart girl,” Taylor praised Mandy, who walked the course without even having to be told what to do. “She’s a fast learner,” Taylor said to the others.
“I know. She’s great that way,” Daphne agreed.
“Try it at a jog now,” Eric suggested.
At the faster gait, Taylor got a sense of the excitement of the event. Sitting forward, she flicked the reins, moving Mandy into a lope.
“All right! That’s it!” Eric cheered her on. “Way to go!”
Taylor’s heart raced with the thrill of turning sharply around each barrel. She cleared the first one, and then the second. Gripping Mandy with her legs, she leaned forward in the saddle, giving Mandy more rein so she could stretch her neck out, driving the horse faster.
“Look at her go!” Mercedes cheered.
Taylor was coming around the third barrel when, suddenly, Shafir was right in her path. She had been standing calmly a minute ago, but now she was galloping headlong toward the barrels.
“Shafir! No!” Mercedes shouted.
“She wants to play!” Daphne cried.
“Whoa!” Taylor pulled back on Mandy’s reins to keep from colliding with Shafir, but the mare couldn’t stop in time. To avoid the crash, Mandy veered sharply to the right.
Taylor lost her grip. In the next second she was sailing through the air.
* * *
Taylor lay on her living room couch with a bag of ice wrapped in a kitchen towel on her right ankle. Travis sat in a straight-back chair beside her playing Mario Kart with the sound off. “Was I asleep?” she asked him.
“For a little bit,” Travis reported, still playing. “How do you feel?”
“My ankle’s freezing.”
Travis rolled his eyes. “But does it hurt?”
Moving carefully, Taylor tried to rotate her ankle. A stab of sharp pain made her cringe. “Yes! Yes, it hurts.”
Jennifer came in with a fresh pack of ice in a dry towel. “It’s not too badly swollen,” she remarked as she took away the old pack. “How does the rest of you feel?”
“I’m fine,” Taylor insisted. “You heard what the doctor in the emergency room said; it’s only twisted.”
Jennifer shut her eyes and breathed deeply. “Thank goodness,” she said. “When Mrs. LeFleur called and said you’d been thrown — well, you can imagine. I immediately thought the worst.”
“So did Mrs. LeFleur,” Travis said, putting down the game control. “She was shaking when she came to the corral and saw you on the ground there. For a second I thought she was gonna faint.”
Taylor remembered what Mr. Romano had told her about Jimmy LeFleur and how he’d never seen Jimmy or Mrs. LeFleur again after the accident.
“I don’t know if you should ride anymore, Taylor,” Jennifer said. “It’s just too dangerous.”
“Mom!” Taylor cried. “Don’t say that!”
“You could have been hurt much more seriously,” Jennifer insisted.
“Daphne said everybody falls eventually. You just have to get right back on,” Taylor argued.
“You’re not getting back on any time soon,” Jennifer replied.
“Mom, please! Don’t be like that. I’m fine!”
“Well, you’re not riding again until that swelling goes down.”
Taylor’s shoulders sagged with relief. “That was a close one,” she said quietly to Travis once Jennifer had gone back into the kitchen. “I’d die if she wouldn’t let me ride again.”
“You wouldn’t die,” Travis disagreed. “Besides, it was your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Yeah, you were showing off for that Eric guy,” Travis said, turning the Mario Kart game on again.
“I was not!” Taylor maintained indignantly, though Travis’s words caused her some doubt. Had she been going too fast because she’d wanted to show Eric how well she could ride? Maybe Travis was right.
The doorbell rang and then the door opened immediately. A tall, lanky man dressed in oil-smeared coveralls walked into the house. “Hey, Dad,” Taylor greeted her father, Steve Henry.
Taylor realized she was smiling from ear to ear and quickly adopted a less thrilled expression. She hadn’t seen her dad in nearly a month, not since she’d gone down to the car repair place where he worked to plead with him to let her keep Prince Albert and Pixie. Back then he’d said he would come by to visit her at the house that week, but she’d known he wouldn’t. In fact, she’d seen very little of him since the divorce.
“How’s my little bronco buster?” Steve asked. “Your mom says you took a tumble while you were Wild West rodeo riding.”
“It’s not a joke, Steve,” Jennifer said, coming back into the living room.
“I know. But she looks okay to me.”
“Her ankle’s swollen,” Jennifer told him.
Steve walked around the couch to get a look at Taylor’s ankle. “Hey there, Travis,” he said, slapping Travis’s palm as he went. “I think she’ll live,” he said to Jennifer. “You went to the hospital, right?”
Steve bent to sit on the end of the couch, but Jennifer put a hand up to stop him. “Not in those greasy clothes, please. I’ll get a towel for you.”
“Whatever,” Steve replied, standing.
Once Jennifer set down the towel, he took a seat.
“Mrs. LeFleur said she remembered you,” Taylor told him. “She called you little Stevie Henry.”
Her dad grinned. “Yeah, that’s what they called me back then, Little Stevie, because I was a shrimp. Thank goodness I grew in high school.”
“Guys grow a lot in high school, don’t they?” Travis asked. Travis was the same height as Taylor. For the first time, she realized he was worried about growing taller.
“Yep. That’s the average time for it,” Steve confirmed. He patted the bit of excess belly fat he carried under his mechanics jumpsuit. “Nobody calls me Little Stevie anymore.”
“I wonder if Mrs. LeFleur would recognize you,” Taylor said.
“Is she the one running the place now?” Steve asked.
Taylor nodded.
“That makes sense; it was her uncle’s. She used to give lessons and take out trail rides. She was a blue-ribbon jumper, too. I remember that they had all her ribbons and medals displayed in the front office. She had a ton of them.”
“Did Mrs. Ross ever come to the ranch?” Taylor asked.
“That rich woman?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t have known what she looked like.”
Taylor pulled herself up onto her elbows. “Did you know Mrs. LeFleur’s son, a kid named Jimmy LeFleur, when you were there?”
Steve wrinkled his forehead and sat forward as he tried to remember. “Was he a blond kid?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, wow!” he said, sitting back in his chair. “I do remember him. He wound up in a wheelchair after a bad riding accident.”
“A wheelchair! Did he ever get better?” Taylor asked.
“I don’t know. I only saw him once after that, and then he and his mom never came back again.”
Taylor spent Tuesday on the couch with her ankle propped on a pillow. The TV played a game show as she helped her mother prepare for a luncheon she was catering. Taylor peeled long ribbons of carrots to decorate a salad. “I’m supposed to be injured, you know,” T
aylor complained to Jennifer. “Shouldn’t I be resting?”
Jennifer came out of the kitchen holding a large wooden bowl filled with hard-boiled eggs. “Okay, then turn off the TV, and you can go lie down in your room.”
Taylor’s ankle still throbbed, but she wasn’t in enough pain to simply do nothing. “Why don’t I just sit here and read a book,” she suggested, aiming for a compromise.
“If you’re well enough to read you can peel a carrot,” Jennifer replied. “Come on. I need some help.”
“But my fingers are turning orange,” Taylor grumbled, holding her hand up to show off what she considered a definite orangey tinge.
“They look fine to me. Keep peeling,” Jennifer insisted. “You can read once I leave.”
With a sigh, Taylor went back to work. What she was trying to accomplish was tricky. On the one hand, she was downplaying her injury so her mother would let her go back to the ranch by Wednesday. On the other hand, Taylor wanted to act like she was hurt enough that Jennifer wouldn’t put her to work.
“You can’t have it both ways, you know,” Jennifer said, making Taylor wonder if her mother had actually read her mind.
A short, athletic woman with brown hair in a blunt bob cut to her chin came in the front door. “Have what both ways?” asked Claire Black, Jennifer’s best friend since childhood. Claire was an animal rehabilitator, which meant that she went out to rescue lost, abandoned, or injured animals. Taylor had often gone with Claire on rescue calls, which came from an individual or the county sheriff. It was on one such rescue that they came upon Prince Albert and Pixie abandoned in a small private stable by a divorcing couple who, they learned from neighbors, had simply driven away.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Taylor told her.
Claire’s brindle-coated pit bull, Bunny, trotted up to Taylor and licked her hand. Then she moved down to Taylor’s ankle and sniffed before sitting on the floor, as though guarding the injured ankle. “Look! She can tell that’s where I’m hurt,” Taylor said to Claire.
“Animals know stuff like that,” Claire agreed. “How do you feel?”
“It still hurts,” Taylor admitted.
“Are you scared to ride again?” Claire asked.
