Maggie jumped off her pony. "Juan!" She yelled.
Oh. Apparently when I told her to cool down her pony, she heard "make Juan cool down the pony". I sighed. I'd made progress with Maggie, but I was overwhelmed, not so much by what she didn't know, but by what she thought she knew. It was worse than teaching a rank beginner.
Mind-numbed and tired, I looked around, trying to see where Mrs. Allsteen had run off to. I was about to walk to the Allsteen's mansion when another structure caught my eye. Maggie's parents were sitting in a gazebo on the hillside that paralleled the outdoor ring. I stared at them for a minute, slack-jawed, and then suddenly remembered that they owed me money. I momentarily debated just running for it and kissing my 50 bucks goodbye, but I'd worked damn hard for that money. I would not let my distaste for Maggie's mother and her lifestyle of posh denial stop me from demanding fair compensation. And I didn't know for sure if they'd overheard me berating their daughter, anyway. They probably would pay me. Maybe.
I climbed the hill, and my eyes were quickly assaulted by Mrs. Allsteen in her designer outfit, and her husband (I assumed; he looked too old to be a boy toy) whose slacks that had been meticulously ironed. Definitely not horse people, those two. I doubted Maggie's mother had ever touched a horse, judging by her smooth hands and French manicure. Then I noticed she was drinking red wine. At ten in the morning. Isn't it a little early for that? Or a lot early? Oh, well, I shouldn't judge. I've got my own problems. But still... I shook my head and greeted them cheerfully. "Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Allsteen."
Maggie's mother smiled at me, but didn't bother removing her shades. "Hello, dear. My Maggie's a fabulous little rider, isn't she? With hardly any help, she had that pony working marvelously."
I tried not to be pissed at her for that gross under-estimation of my teaching skills, or at the very least, not to show it. "Um...by the end of the lesson, she had...improved dramatically." There. Was that diplomatic enough?
"How long will Maggie need to keep taking lessons?" Mrs. Allsteen asked. "Surely she must be a perfect rider already, or close to it."
Nooooo! You did not just use the forbidden phrase, "perfect rider". Do you want to see me have an aneurism? "Anyone who wants to ride horses has to keep learning throughout their lifetime," I answered. "There's always more to learn, and you can always get better. I've been riding for over sixteen years, and I still take a lesson at every opportunity."
My little speech received two blank stares. Finally Mrs. Allsteen took a sip of wine, draining her glass. She snapped her fingers, and a girl in an apron rushed over to pour some more wine. Now I was speechless. Well, don't strain yourself. Jesus Christ, lady.
I cleared my throat. "Well, I've got to get to my next appointment, so I'll just need you to...well, pay the bill." I didn't actually have an appointment after this, but I was willing to lie if it meant getting out of the land of the insane and super rich.
Mrs. Allsteen glanced over at her husband. "Darling, this girl needs to be paid."
Mr. Allsteen hunted around in his pocket for his checkbook and then began writing out a check. Slowly. As I waited, I wondered idly why he was so freaking stingy with his money, when he clearly had way more of it than brain cells. Finally, he tore out the check and handed it to me. The pained expression on his face would've been hilarious if I hadn't been utterly stupefied.
"Thank you," I said, and then bolted.
Lawrence
Amber's huge, battered truck spooked Harry as it lumbered into view. Eyes as big and white as golf balls, he stared at the beige pickup and quivered. Harry knew all about vehicles, so it was probably the noise of the truck that had him so freaked. Amber's muffler was totally shot, and had been for some time. Whenever I asked her about getting it fixed, she just said she'd always wanted a motorcycle. I knew she was trying to avoid the subject of money, or not having any. I understood that; I'd been there. Hell, I was still there. What I couldn't understand was why she insisted on refusing my offers of financial assistance. Well, okay, I did have a clue as to why she wouldn't take my money. But it was a stupid reason.
She shut off the pickup. Harry quit panicking, but he stared at the stationary vehicle distrustfully. When Amber flung the driver's side door open and jumped out of the cab, he spooked again, flying backwards with a deafening snort. I shook my head at him. "You're a piece of work."
"Nice way to greet me. Jerk."
The words came from Amber, not Harry. "I was talking to my horse, not you," I said quickly.
"Nice way to talk to your horse, then." She walked up to the fence line. "Hey, Harry. Did the Harley scare you? It's loud, I know." Harry pricked his ears and trotted up to her. She reached out and scratched him under his mane, and he wiggled his lip in appreciation. She glanced at me. "This is a nice horse. Why do you bitch about him so much?"
I sighed. "He really is a jerk. But occasionally he shows his nice side."
Amber smirked. "Maybe he responds better to a female hand."
I thought about making a very lude joke, but figured I didn't have the audience. "So are you gonna get that muffler fixed, or do you enjoy making noise pollution?"
"I told you. I like my Harley." She gave Harry a final pat and then turned away from the paddock. "I went to sell my blood today, and this chick said I was too thin. She said losing that much blood could be life threatening for someone like me. So I got real snippy and I said 'not having money for food can be life threatening, too', but she didn't back down." Amber snorted.
Amber was thin, I noticed. She'd always been tall but never heavyset, and she'd become painfully thin since getting that job at the track. She always wore plain, shapeless clothing which concealed her weight to some extent but not her beauty. Amber was strong and independent but she appeared to be intensely vulnerable, almost fragile. Her looks were like a beacon to men, but once they got what they wanted, they left her, partly because that was their inclination anyway, and also because her strength intimidated the hell out of them. And now she insisted she was gay. I had a hard time believing that was true, mostly because I didn't want it to be. I wanted to believe she was merely fed up with men because she'd been hurt so many times.
I wanted a chance to treat her right. I'd gotten close to her several years before, but in the morning's light she'd closed herself off again. Ever since then, I'd been trying to get back with her.
Amber rolled her eyes. "Okay, I drive all the way out here, and you barely speak. Fabulous."
The sunlight hit her hair just right, bringing out the red tones. Her expression walked a fine line between friendly and fearsome. Without thinking, I said, "You're so pretty."
Amber's eyes narrowed to slits. "No," she hissed. "We are not having this conversation again."
"I was just making a casual observation," I backpedaled furiously.
"The hell you were. I know you, Lawrence Cavanaugh. You don't make casual observations about girls." Amber was livid. I got the feeling she wanted to break both my arms, but somehow, I didn't think it would be at all unpleasant if she were the one wielding the crowbar.
"Sorry I offended you," I said sarcastically. "You know, most girls like being told they're pretty." I knew saying that to Amber was like asking for pain. But I couldn't take back the words that hung in the air.
For a minute, she struggled to find words to match the anger that sizzled inside her. I seized my opportunity. "You're pushing me away without even thinking," I said softly. "Maybe you should give me a chance."
She stared at me, apparently still shocked into silence.
I stepped forward, throwing all caution away. I wasn't afraid of her, scary though she might be. I knew she was capable of letting her guard down, but she needed a little encouragement to do so.
I pulled her into me, feeling the rigid contours of her ribs and spine against my arm. With one hand, I brushed a lock of hair off her face, then bent my head the couple of inches necessary to press my lips to hers, inhaling her sweet, slightly horsey smell. Memories came floodin
g back, as fresh and raw and achingly wonderful as ever. I kissed her deeply, trying to convey the feelings that my confused and barely literate self couldn't possibly vocalize. But she was limp and unresponsive in my arms, and I released her abruptly, my face heating up from the rejection. The look on her impossibly lovely face wasn't a look of rage anymore. It was...pity?
"Lawrence," Amber finally spoke up. "I'm not some guy-hating lesbian wannabe, okay? I actually do like girls."
I stood there stupidly, the burn of disappointment and embarrassment wilting my insides. "I'm sorry," I said dully. "I believe you now."
Amber had the good sense to leave then. Her engine blasted to life, and she maneuvered the monstrous vehicle expertly. I'd hoped I would feel better once she was gone, but instead I felt worse. I headed to the gelding's paddock at a lifeless shuffle. Vegas came up to greet me, and thrust his head through the halter I held out for him. I checked his legs, and they passed inspection easily. "Vegas, we're going to the field," I said to him. We would walk it first to check the footing, and then we would go as fast as I needed to.
Lawrence again
This is Cavanaugh. Leave a message.
"Lawrence, it's Amber. I'm sorry things got awkward between us. Shit happens, though, right? Just give me a call, okay?"
"It's Amber again. Are you okay? It's been five days. Please call me. You're all I've got."
"Hey, it's...well, you know who this is. I don't have to fucking tell you, do I? Look, I'm so very sorry that I didn't just fall out of my clothes when you kissed me, but you don't have to be such a fucking baby about it. I thought our friendship was more important to you than getting laid, but I guess I was wrong. I don't want to hate you. So don't give me a reason, okay?"
"I'm coming over there. And you'd better give me an explanation, and it better be damn good. That's all I have to say. Jerk."
I'd finally gotten around to checking the messages that had my phone vibrating for a week and a half. There was nothing in them that surprised me, really. I deserved to be called a jerk, and worse. I had done exactly what everyone else in Amber's life wound up doing; I'd abandoned her. The fact that I was avoiding her out of self preservation was no excuse. It was cowardly, and I knew it. I was her only friend and ally in this intimidating world, and she needed me.
But she didn't need me like I needed her to, and that was a hard reality to swallow. So I choked instead.
The day was hot, and I wiped sweat droplets off my nose, burning the back of my arm with stubble. Suddenly I heard the distant rumble of Amber's truck. I had expected it, and listened for it all morning. Feeling oddly numb, I walked towards Vegas' stall with his saddle on my arm and set it on his door, on top of a white saddle pad marred by dust streaks and sweat stains. His bridle hung on a hook nearby, within reach. I brushed some dirt and shavings off of his back, but the rest of him was clean enough. With the command "up" he lifted each of his feet for me to clean. I considered my next move. Polo wraps would take a long time to put on, but forgoing leg protection was just stupid. I heard her truck roll into my driveway and grind to a halt. Then she slammed her door. Hard. I started to feel panicky and Vegas shifted his weight uneasily, probably wondering if we were about to be attacked by something. I reached out to touch him. "It's okay," I said softly and slowly. To myself, I added, "You are such a fucking coward."
I heard Amber's boots hitting the concrete, probably almost as hard as she wanted to hit me. I set the saddle and pad on Vegas' back, concentrating more than was really necessary on the task of strapping the pad to the saddle's billets.
Amber's footsteps ceased. I knew she was standing right behind me, but I couldn't look at her. It would be as disastrous as looking into an eclipse. I slid the saddle back a few inches so it would rest on Vegas' back in the proper position and smooth the hair underneath.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Saddling Vegas." I knew full well what she was asking, but I decided to play stupid.
"That's not what I meant. Why are you doing this to me? It's like I'm dead to you."
I didn't have an answer to that, so I just buckled Vegas' girth to the billets and walked behind his rump to do the same on the opposite side.
"This is so unfair." I heard her teeth grind together. "What did I ever do to you?"
"Nothing," I mumbled. It's what you won't do.
"Don't be so cryptic," Amber growled. "Tell me what's going on, asshole."
"I can't." Abruptly, I tightened the girth by three holes. Vegas shifted uncomfortably. I usually tightened it gradually, one hole at a time. Feeling like an even bigger jerk, I pulled the billets again, loosening the girth slightly. "Could you hand me that bridle?" I asked Amber.
She hesitated, then reached for the bridle and held it out to me. I took it without looking at her. I thought I heard her sniffle, but that wasn't possible. Amber wasn't a crier; she got angry. But then I heard that plaintive little noise again. I slipped off Vegas' halter, sticking my thumb in his mouth to get him to open it for the bit. The crownpiece went over his ears. I straightened the cavesson, which always got crooked somehow. Next came the noseband and throatlatch. The little buckles had to go in a certain hole, the little leather straps had to go in the keepers. It was a good distraction. At least until Amber started openly sobbing, and I couldn't maintain this indifferent charade any longer.
I turned around, horrified and shamed by what I saw. Amber's face was contorted, her thin frame shaking as she wrapped her arms around it, trying to keep herself together. I pushed the stall door open and went to her, because nothing, absolutely nothing was important when she was crying. It took a hell of a lot to make Amber cry. I held her, trying to comfort her, self hatred at an all-time high. I was a horrible person, and I deserved the pain I felt. I deserved to remember how it felt to make love to her, and know that would never happen again.
Amber's voice, muffled and still distorted by emotion, reached my ears. "I don't understand..."
"I'm sorry," I said, feeling as inadequate as the words themselves. "I should not have shut you out like that. I'm so sorry."
"That's not an explanation." Amber sounded mad again, so my embrace had done its job. "These last ten days have been hell. I want an explanation. I deserve a fucking explanation."
I knew Amber would not go down quietly. She did not hand out things like forgiveness and trust. I had known, deep down, that I would have to do this. But that didn't mean I was prepared for it.
I let go of her, and she folded her arms again, staring at me expectantly. "This better be good."
I stared at the floor, wishing that a hole would open up for me to fall into. "I think I'm in love with you."
She took a sharp intake of breath. "Oh God. No." I could feel the pity radiating from her. "You finally find someone to get serious about, and it's me?"
"Looks that way." Sounds like something Wilson would say, I thought randomly.
"You are really good at making yourself miserable," Amber announced. "Like, scary good. You've got it down to an art."
"Well, I needed another talent," I joked feebly. "To go along with whacking polo balls around and fucking.”
Amber still looked concerned. "I'm really sorry, Lawrence...I wish I could help you. Like, if I could unscramble my chromosomes or molecules or whatever it is that makes me like girls, I totally would. But I can't do that, obviously. And it's not like I can stop dressing slutty, either, because I don't even do that." Amber stopped babbling to take a breath.
"You could start dressing slutty," I suggested, before she could start again.
Now Amber rolled her eyes. "How would that possibly help you?"
"Oh, it would help me a lot. You have no idea."
"I seriously doubt that. And anyway, it's just not happening."
I feigned outrage. "Some friend you are."
"I'm not a very good friend, am I?" Amber was serious again. "Actually, I'm a pretty terrible friend."
"Stop blaming yourself." I laid a hand o
n each of her bony shoulders. "You did nothing wrong. You were just...you." I smiled pathetically.
Amber shook her head emphatically. "No, I did lots of things wrong."
"Name one."
"Well, I never should have slept with you. That was a terrible thing to do."
A smirk crept onto my face. "Yes, I suffered so..."
Amber glared at me. "Of course it was fun at the time. But was it really worth all this...turmoil?"
I smiled slightly. "You know me. I always choose having fun over avoiding turmoil."
"Yes, you always do. You moron."
Erica
I sat in the cab of my truck, staring at the pristine white fences on either side of me. My head suddenly felt too heavy for me to keep upright, so I rested it on the steering wheel. Tears rolled off it and fell quietly to the floor.
The sunlight woke me up in the morning, before my alarm had a chance to blast through the stillness. After helping with the morning feeds and spending a little time with D.M., I found some breeches and a shirt that looked fairly presentable. The traffic was almost nonexistent as I drove a little too fast down the road.
I was heading to a client's farm to give a lesson, but I was early. On a whim, I stopped and pulled over. Searching through the contacts in my cell phone, I found the number I was looking for and hit the "send" button.
The phone rang twice, and then a chipper voice answered. "Erica! What a surprise!"
"Hi, Angie," I said warmly. "How's Trucker doing?"
Trucker was a Thoroughbred I had bought off the track eight months before. He had a ridiculous registered name (who names a horse "Trucker Hat" and expects it to win races?) and a lack of talent (he'd sent poles into orbit when I tried him over tiny fences, and he was an average mover) but his heart and soul were golden. The rather runty dark bay was a trier and a giver. Any mistakes his rider made were hastily forgiven, which made his shortcomings a non-issue. Lack of talent might be a liability, but lack of reactivity was a major selling point.
Training Harry Page 11
