The only problem I can see is how I’m going to keep my gift a secret from Colt until his birthday. I’m afraid if he asks me anything, I’ll spill the surprise at school on Monday.
But as it turns out, this isn’t a problem. Colt doesn’t show up at school on Monday. After school I jot down all the assignments for him. I bring home my books for him to use too. It’s what we’ve done for each other since first grade.
It’s not easy lugging everything over to his house. I trudge up to the Stevenses’ front door and ring the doorbell. Nobody comes to the door. I didn’t expect Colt’s dad to be home. I’m not sure where he works. He’s gone a lot. But I kind of thought Mrs. Stevens would be home. When I’m home sick from school and Mom can’t stay with me, Dad takes off work. And Colt’s mom works at the same place as Dad, the Jingle Bells Ad Agency.
I ring the bell again. No answer.
I think about leaving the stuff for Colt on their porch, but it looks like it’s starting to rain. I grab my books and dash across the street just as the sky opens up. I’m soaking wet when I crash into our house.
Dad pulls the door open before I can. “You look like you could use something hot to drink,” he says.
Dad, Ethan, and I are sipping homemade hot chocolate when Mom rushes in. She’s drenched. Whatever dress she’s wearing is bleeding colors all over the kitchen floor.
“Whoo-whee!” she exclaims. “It’s raining so hard out there I believe the animals are pairing up. And if I didn’t know our neighbors so well, I’d think they were getting into the ark business. Somebody’s building something over at the Stevenses’ place.”
Now that she mentions it, I did see a bunch of lumber piled up in their yard.
I get Mom a beach towel. Dad makes her a cup of hot chocolate. And Ethan gets her slippers.
While Mom sits down to sip her hot chocolate, I go to the front window and look across the street. A wood frame is already put together in the back of Colt’s yard. I hope they don’t plan on building another house there. It’s a big yard, but I wouldn’t want Colt’s new horse to have to share the lot.
I keep an eye out for Mrs. Stevens to come home. Twice I call Colt, but nobody answers. I don’t call anymore because I don’t want to wake him. But I wish he had somebody there with him. Maybe he’s just a little bit sick.
It’s getting dark when Mrs. Stevens’s car finally comes around the corner. I tear across the street, glad it has stopped raining. I call her name, but I don’t think she hears me. She pulls into their garage. The automatic garage door starts closing just as I get there. I duck under it, and the door rises automatically.
Mrs. Stevens gets out with her briefcase. She doesn’t look surprised to see me in her garage. “Ellie?”
“Is Colt okay?” I ask. I was in such a hurry that I forgot the bag of books for Colt.
“Yes,” she answers.
“That’s good. Um, I have his assignments. You know, so he won’t get behind. Only I left them at my house.”
“Thoughtful,” she says. “But unnecessary.”
“Huh?”
“Colt already has his assignments for the week.”
“Is he that sick?” I want to ask if I can see him.
“He’s not sick at all,” she explains.
“But you said—”
Mrs. Stevens blows out air the way horses do when they’re getting riled. “Colt and Sierra are spending the week in St. Louis. With their father.” I start to ask why, but she cuts me off. “Thank you for your concern, though.” She puts one hand on the garage door opener.
I turn and leave the garage. The door closes behind me.
When I get home, I hear Dad and the Bear discussing the used car commercial. Mostly it’s the Bear talking. He stays to eat a late dinner with us.
I fill everybody in on Colt’s mysterious St. Louis trip with his dad. “I don’t get it. Why would he and his sister miss a whole week of school? Why would their parents let them?”
Mom and Dad exchange looks. Ethan and I think they have their own sign language. They talk with their eyes.
“What?” I know they know something. “What aren’t you telling me? Colt is my friend. I have a right to know.”
“If he’ll be back in a week, I guess you can ask him yourself then,” Dad says. “Please pass those yummy mashed potatoes.”
I turn my gaze to Mom. She zips her lips closed, then swallows the invisible key. I get it. They’re not talking.
11
Bullet
Wednesday after supper Ethan and I sit on our front porch to wait for the Bear. He flew all the way to his ranch in Tulsa, Oklahoma, on Tuesday just to pick up his horse. Now it’s taking him all day to drive back with his horse trailer.
After a while, the sun goes down and the moon rises. A low whine of crickets starts up. I describe this to Ethan the best I can. A dog is barking far away somewhere. Munch hears it from inside our house and barks back.
Sometimes I think about this whole world of sound that Ethan misses out on, and it makes me sad. But I know God makes it up to him in ways the rest of us can’t understand.
Are you sure Colt’s mother doesn’t know you’re giving him a horse? Ethan signs.
I’m sure.
But doesn’t that look like a barn to you?
Ethan’s right. All day long, eight men hammered away at what’s starting to look like the frame for a two-story barn. Colt’s backyard is almost twice as big as ours. It’s already fenced in too. How great would that be if they were putting up a barn!
There he is! Ethan signs.
A rusty, beat-up tan-and-silver horse trailer bounces along our road. It’s too dark to see into the cab of the truck pulling it. But it’s got to be the Bear behind the wheel.
He pulls into our driveway. Ethan and I run to meet him. I go straight to the back of the trailer and peer in. It’s dark. All I can see is that the horse is about Dream’s height.
“Out of the way,” the Bear roars.
I step back to give him room to put down the tailgate. “Why did you name him Bullet?” I ask. Ethan asked me that while we were sitting on the step. But I want to know too.
“He used to be fast as a speeding bullet.” The Bear walks up the tailgate plank.
“Colt loves to ride fast,” I say, getting even more excited.
Inside the trailer, something rattles. The trailer rocks. The Bear says, “Back!” And hooves clang, clang on the tailgate as the horse backs down the plank onto the driveway.
I stare at what looks like a gray ball of horse. Maybe it’s because it’s so dark, I tell myself. Maybe in the light of day . . .
“I warned you he wasn’t much to look at,” the Bear says.
I remember what Colt said about my horse looking more like a barrel than a barrel horse. He was wrong. But if any horse ever did look like a barrel, it would be this one. His sides stick out, and his belly looks too close to the ground. He’s the fattest horse I’ve ever seen.
“My foreman’s a lazy good-for-nothing,” the Bear growls. “He left ol’ Bullet here out to pasture night and day through the spring. And that’s a rich pasture. I admit it’s going on three years since I was at the ranch. Bullet put on a few pounds.”
A few hundred pounds, I think. I have the Bear and Bullet follow me into the backyard. When I open the gate, Dream nickers and starts trotting toward me.
Then she stops. I can tell by the way she’s standing that her ears are back. Her nostrils are wide. I hear her foreleg pawing the ground. She does not like this newcomer.
“It’s okay, Dream,” I call out. “We have a friend for you.”
Bullet whinnies. His whole chest jiggles like a barrel full of jelly. I walk over to him and stroke his neck. I should have given him a better greeting right off. “Don’t worry, Bullet,” I murmur. His neck is firm. Muscled. It surprises me.
Dream whinnies at Bullet. But it doesn’t sound like a warm greeting.
Bullet answers with a whimper.
; “Okay,” I admit, stroking his neck. “Maybe we don’t have a friend for you quite yet.”
Dream watches as we put Bullet in the lean-to. The Bear ties him in.
“The last thing this horse needs is fresh clover,” he says.
I know he’s right. But I still think every horse should have food around almost all the time. “We have hay in Dad’s shed,” I tell the Bear. “It’s low calorie, compared to grass and grain.”
I sign to Ethan, and he brings Bullet an armful of hay to munch on overnight. He signs to me, Thanks, Bear, for driving all the way to your ranch. And thanks for giving us your horse.
Ethan has a point. I thank the Bear for everything.
The Bear walks into the lean-to and checks Bullet’s rope. Ethan has already untied the Bear’s knot and replaced it with one of his own quick releases. Ethan is great with knots. “Nice,” the Bear mutters.
Dream stops pawing the ground. She does a half rear and takes off. Bucking and thrashing, she circles the yard. Then she slides to a halt a good distance from the lean-to and snorts. Again she paws the ground and lets out a whinny that sounds like a threat.
This time Bullet paws the ground and snorts in response.
Even Pinto Cat arches her back and hisses at Bullet from the safety of Dream’s side of the yard.
“Hey! You guys are supposed to be friends,” I tell them.
The Bear stares from Dream to Bullet and back. “Long way from being friends. I’d say they’re arguing.”
And I’d say they remind me of Colt and me.
* * *
As I fall asleep that night, I try to imagine riding with Colt—me on Dream and Colt on Bullet. But the dream keeps fading. Even I am having trouble imagining that inside that round barrel of horse, a real quarter horse is waiting to come out.
12
Changeups
The next morning I get up early enough to take Dream out for a short ride before school. I’ve dreamed about doing this. And now my dream has come true.
I just hope Colt feels the same way when I give him his horse on his birthday.
Dream and I head out of town. About a block from home, the gravel road turns to dirt. The sun is shining through the trees. Birds are singing. I hear a mourning dove, a woodpecker, a cardinal, and a lot of other chirping.
As if my horse can read my mind, she breaks into a canter, slow and easy.
I can imagine all kinds of things. But I can’t imagine life getting any better than this moment right now. Everything in me feels thankful. And I wonder if it can be worship to be sitting on a pinto, feeling the morning breeze, and hearing the pounding of hooves on a dirt road.
After my ride, I brush Dream. Then I check on Bullet. “How’s it going, ol’ boy?”
I turn him out to the backyard. He goes straight for the grass. I run my hand down his neck, back, and hip. They feel equal in length. That’s something to look for in a horse. It means good balance.
I move back to his head and scratch behind his ears. Dream loves this, but I guess Bullet doesn’t. He flicks his ears and pulls his head away. I keep scratching until I find a spot right under his jaw. When I scratch there, he closes his eyes halfway and relaxes. “You like that, don’t you, boy?”
I take my time examining Bullet’s head. Small ears. Broad between the eyes. The only slender part on this horse is at the throat, where the halter’s throatlatch goes. He has a nice, clean line there. I know that’s a good sign—it usually means the horse can bend his head and neck easily. That’s important for a barrel horse.
Flecks of white are sprinkled through the gray on his face, like white freckles. But he has a pretty face. A good head.
I back up and get an overall look at Bullet. It’s hard to see past the fat and roundness. But his body is square. That’s something Mr. Harper says he looks for in a quarter horse. Plus, his legs are straight and not too fine boned. Bullet has good shoulders. Solid withers. And a strong back, even if it is too round and broad right now.
“Bullet, you are going to make Colt Stevens a great quarter horse,” I whisper. “I just hope he can see that.”
When I leave for school, the two horses are on opposite ends of the yard. They aren’t fighting. But they sure aren’t acting like friends.
* * *
“Wait until you see what I got Colt for his birthday!” Larissa exclaims.
We’re at lunch on Thursday. All anybody can talk about is Colt’s birthday party. And Colt isn’t even here to enjoy it.
“I still can’t believe I’m going to miss the whole party,” Ashley complains. “I wish Dad wouldn’t make me go to that horse show in Breckenridge. What did you get Colt, Larissa?”
Larissa shakes her head. “I’m not telling. One of you might spoil the surprise.” She looks at me a second too long. “But I’ll give you a clue—electronic!”
“Electronic?” Cassie repeats.
“And handheld,” Larissa adds. “But that’s all I’m saying.”
They bat around other ideas for gifts. I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want anybody to know what my gift is until Colt sees Bullet for himself.
Ethan beats me home after school. I find him sitting on our front step, watching the building going up across the street.
I sit beside him and stare into Colt’s yard. Wow! How did they build it so fast? The entire frame is up, filled in, with a big door in front and high windows. Through the front windows you can see a loft upstairs and stalls downstairs.
Are you sure Colt’s parents don’t know he’s getting a horse for his birthday? Ethan signs.
How could they?
Maybe they saw Bullet and figured it out. He shields his eyes from the sun for a better look. It’s definitely a barn.
I shake my head. No way. They started building before we got Bullet.
I don’t think I’ll ever understand Colt’s parents. Maybe they’re just building that thing to make their place look better. Maybe they’re running out of room in the garage for all Mr. Stevens’s toys. He has a mini tractor, a riding mower, weed whackers, power washers. Maybe he’s going to collect more antique cars or something. He used to try to get Colt to work on old fancy cars with him. But Colt was never into cars. He’s like me. He would rather have a horse.
* * *
Friday night we’re all at the ballpark an hour early. The Bear is already there. He and Ethan’s coach are eating hot dogs, although the snack stand isn’t even open yet.
When the other team arrives, the Bear leaves the field and comes to sit with us in the bleachers. He’s showing teeth. I’m almost sure he’s smiling.
We stand for the national anthem. Then the announcer introduces the players from both sides.
I know this is a Youth League game. These kids are just second graders. The only people in the stands are families of the kids. But it still feels like the World Series to me.
The scratchy speakers squeal. Then the announcer says, “And the starting home pitcher will be Ethan James.”
We’re on our feet, screaming so loud we drown out the groans of a few parents who must have seen my brother pitch in the last game.
“Do you think I should sit in the dugout or behind the plate to sign for Ethan?” I ask the Bear.
He leans down to answer. “Neither. He knows the catcher’s signs. That’s all he needs, just like every pitcher.”
I’ve never thought about that. Baseball players have their own sign language. Maybe Ethan has an advantage there.
Mom, Dad, the Bear, and I are on our feet for Ethan’s first pitch. It’s a strike. We scream. Ethan has to at least feel the sound vibrations. Two more strikes, and the batter is out. Mom whistles so loud my ears ache.
After the third out, our Ethan is a hero. His teammates pat him on the back. They actually look like they’re all friends . . . until Ethan bats.
I know that in some leagues pitchers don’t have to bat. I wish my brother could switch to those leagues. He strikes out in three pitches.
�
�Can’t help with that,” the Bear mutters. “I didn’t get to be the Bear by batting.”
“That’s okay,” I tell him. “I have a friend, my best friend, who’s a great batter. He’ll help Ethan.” I guess I’m kind of glad Ethan still needs Colt.
After three innings my brother has given up only two hits. No runs. Even I can see that his fastball is really fast. But his best pitches are the slow ones he surprises the batter with. Kids are striking before the ball reaches the plate. That’s the changeup the Bear taught him.
When the coach starts to put Ethan in again for the bottom of the fourth inning, the Bear storms out of the bleachers and onto the field. Play stops until he has a word with the coach. Then there’s a change of pitcher and Ethan has to go sit on the bench.
“Why did you do that?” I demand when the Bear gets back. “Ethan was doing great.”
“If you want him to keep doing great, he has to take care of his arm. He’s thrown enough pitches for one day.” The Bear stares at me. I guess he can tell I don’t like Ethan being on the bench again. “You want to know how Bullet has so much life left in him?”
I nod, hoping he’s right about Bullet having a lot of life left.
“I rode him hard. But I always quit before I rode him out.”
I think about that for a minute. “So you’re saying Bullet can still, like, maybe do the barrels? Or run a figure eight?”
“You’ll have to be careful until that weight comes off,” the Bear warns. “But Bullet’s still got his stuff. How ’bout I show you tomorrow morning?”
13
The Party
Saturday morning when I go out to the backyard, I sense something has changed. Then I notice what’s different: Dream and Bullet are grazing just a couple of feet apart. You can’t make two horses be friends any more than you can make two people be friends. But sooner or later, horses work it out. And it looks like that’s what’s happened with Dream and Bullet. Their tails switch together. And their ears flick from side to side—relaxed, not angry.
All horses need to know where they belong in a herd. Even a herd of two. One has to be the leader, and the other agrees to follow. I can tell by the way Bullet keeps eyeing Dream that my horse is the leader. They have their pecking order set now. And both horses are happier. It’s almost too bad Bullet has to live at Colt’s.
Cowboy Colt Page 5
