He sighed. "Fine, Cavanaugh. Do whatever you want." As I walked away, I heard him grumbling about how the Millers were going to give him hell for this.
The barn was quiet as I saddled Vegas. My limbs didn't hum with excitement; I wasn't pumped up like I should've been. I felt deflated. I lacked desire. Vegas sensed this. His head drooped below his withers; he looked half asleep. As I tightened the girth, I paused in mid-tug. Will this help? Or will it just hurt more?
Vegas nudged my arm, warming me with his breath. C'mon. Let's do this. He was right. It was time to get on with it. The girth was tight enough, so I reached for the bridle. Vegas took the bit right out of my hand. He strode out happily as I walked him to the polo field. I felt a little twinge of anticipation in my abdomen. The field spread out before my eyes; huge, flat and welcoming. The ground was soft beneath my feet. I halted Vegas and reached down, letting my fingers close around a mallet some careless person had left leaning against a mounting block. It was probably worth more than my truck. I stood for a moment at Vegas' shoulder, breathing deeply. It was the first time I'd picked up a mallet since that fateful day in Florida. This moment deserved a moment of silence.
Then I swung onto Vegas and let him walk out. He had a different walk on the polo field. I could feel the gallop in his walk. All it would take was a touch of my leg to make him fly. I walked him for ten long minutes, then took him up to a trot. Once again, the gait was powerful. He wanted to take off, I knew. He was more than ready to get back in the game. I finished the warm-up by letting him canter around the polo field several times. And then I touched his sides with the seams on my jeans, and we were galloping.
It was just as I remembered. Vegas and I were a speed-loving centaur, quickly conquering the yards of soft, grassy turf. The mallet wasn't a foreign object, it was another appendage. It belonged to my right hand, just as the reins belonged to my left. I compressed Vegas' stride, just to see if I had brakes, then accelerated, accelerated, accelerated. I located the little white ball lying in the grass at the end of the field, by the goalposts. Vegas honed in on it, too, and took me there without being told. The hardwood head of my borrowed mallet struck the ball forcefully, sending it halfway up the field. Vegas was a heat-seeking missile; he dug in and chased the ball. I tried a backhand shot, and smiled as the ball rolled past the goal line. I flicked the outside rein against Vegas' neck and he wheeled around. The gelding cantered in place, begging to be set free. I eased up on the reins and he exploded forward, flinging hoof-shaped pieces of turf into the air.
We zigzagged around the field, and I tried out every shot in my repertoire. I didn't have to think; my muscles (and my soul) needed no refresher course. The game was part of me; it flowed through my veins and consumed my thoughts at night. I needed it like I needed water. I can't believe I ever existed without this. I was overwhelmed. I needed a moment. I halted Vegas and let the joy wash over me like a summer rain. Vegas stood patiently beneath me as the moments multiplied. Finally, I urged him forward again. The wind whipped against my face and dried my eyes.
Minutes later I caught sight of a gleaming chestnut pony being led by one of the grooms. Neck arched, he pranced sideways at every little noise or flash of color. I watched enviously as Gibson, an exercise rider, climbed aboard Firewall. "Damn, I'd love to ride that pony," I said to the air. Vegas shifted underneath me. "No offense, Vegas," I added as an afterthought.
As Gibson put Firewall through his paces, I admired the gelding freely. Firewall was impressively fit and dangerously opinionated. Halfway through his workout, he decided to liven things up a bit by leaping into the air, kicking out with his hind legs, and trying to take off as soon as he hit the ground. Gibson rode as tactfully as possible, but he was firm with the gelding, and Firewall soon submitted, albeit with a glint in his eye and an occasionally swishing tail.
I had been slow to realize what Firewall's appearance meant. By the time I saw Paul Miller swagger towards the polo field, it was too late to avoid him, and I wasn't about to take the coward's route and flee. It was much better to face him head-on, and possibly destroy him on the polo field. For old time's sake.
As Paul rode in on Firewall, Vegas and I held our ground. My eyes drilled holes in Paul’s head. So do you still think you’re better than me? He looked surprised to see me. He probably thought I would just fade back into obscurity. Wishful thinking on your part, Miller.
“I had no idea it was ‘Riffraff Play Free’ day,” Paul sneered. “Had I known, I wouldn’t have bothered to come.”
Is that how you want it, Miller? Fine by me. I shrugged. “I’m not afraid to play dirty with someone whose hands are spotless.”
Paul’s temper flared visibly. His eyes dropped to my right hand. “Is that my mallet?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Come and get it.” Then I whipped Vegas around and floored the accelerator.
With Firewall’s frenzied hoof beats pounding in his ears, Vegas sprinted across the field, adrenaline charging through all our veins. As the gelding raced past the ball, I hit a near-perfect backhand shot, sending it between the goalposts. Vegas pivoted on his hind legs, and surged forward to race Firewall to the goal.
Firewall was fresh, fit and frustrated, but Vegas and I had played with the best in the sport. I smiled as I heard the chunks of turf hitting Firewall’s shiny coat. Paul’s mallet struck the ball again, and my arm burned. That hurts so good. Vegas was flying, and I checked him a bit. I wanted Paul to catch up so I could have a little fun with him.
Firewall matched Vegas now, stride for stride. Paul’s face was a deep red, his jaw clenched. He tried to hook my mallet to prevent me from making the shot. I shook him off easily. The ball soared across the field. The ponies galloped in hot pursuit. Firewall’s shoulder made contact with my leg. I glanced over at Paul. “You just gave me an excellent idea!” I shouted over the horses’ hoof beats.
I nudged Vegas with my outside leg, and the gelding slammed into Firewall. Vegas looked slight, but he was a master of the ride-off. Firewall stumbled and nearly went down from the sudden impact. I enjoyed a clear shot at the ball, and patted Vegas’ neck as Paul tried to find his stirrup again. He saw me smirking, and clearly thought it was time for him to bring me down to size. “So, Cavanaugh,” he snarled, “Who’d you screw to get a horse like that?”
I didn’t answer, or let my face change, or respond in any way. I just brought Vegas up to speed again, lined him up with the ball, and swung the borrowed mallet, sending the ball under Vegas' belly as his legs sliced through the air. It wasn't an easy shot, and it was impossible for many players, including Paul Miller. He was too aggressive; he rushed into it instead of waiting for the timing to be right. The first thing I'd had drilled into me as a kid learning to ride was how to feel the horse's legs underneath me at all times, no matter what.
Paul was at my side in a nanosecond. Firewall was breathing fire by now. His eyes were red, his ears flattened. He wasn’t used to losing. I let Paul get tantalizingly close to the ball and then swiftly hooked his mallet. He cursed out loud, and Firewall bucked in frustration. "See?" I yelled. "That's how it's done!"
"Not bad for a stable hand," Paul shot back. The malice in his words was diluted by the sweat rolling down his forehead and the rasp of exhaustion in his voice. A few years back, those same words would've opened wounds in my fragile little ego. But now they bounced off me, because I knew that only one of us had evolved and grown since those painful, volatile teenage years. And only one of us had realized the dream that every polo player carries with him at all times.
Firewall and Vegas, who were now linked by their riders' mallets, had doubled back to head for the ball one last time. The chestnut gelding was irate; his face was tight with rage. Vegas was pulling faces at him, egging him on. Firewall lunged at Vegas, snapping his teeth dangerously close to my hand. You need some space, Firewall? I'll give you space. I freed Paul's mallet and turned Vegas sharply to the left. "Sorry," I said to Paul as I cut him off. "It's so hard for
me to control this animal. I'm just a stable hand, you know."
Firewall was forced to slam on the brakes to avoid a head-on collision. Paul fell forward onto his mount's neck, and Firewall jerked his head up, shoving Paul back into the saddle. I hit the ball one last, satisfying time, and watched it land, framed by the goalposts. Then I brought Vegas down to a walk. He was thoroughly spent but quite cheerful. I dismounted, loosened the girth and hand walked him until his breathing regulated and the sweat dried on his coat. I left Paul's mallet where I'd found it.
As I stripped off Vegas' tack, Wilson appeared at my side, like he was apt to do. He looked at Vegas for a minute. "Looks good," he grunted.
I tried not to show how much his compliment meant to me. "Thanks, sir," I mumbled, and quickly distracted myself with Vegas' leg wraps.
"There's an empty paddock out back," Wilson said as he walked away. "Put him there when you're done."
I led Vegas to the secluded little paddock. It had once been used for quarantine, but it had stood empty for some time, and the grass had grown lush and tall. Vegas dug in with enthusiasm. I watched him graze for a moment, then headed back to the barn to wait for Barbara.
I didn’t have to wait long before her fire-engine red Ford Mustang pulled into the parking lot. As she walked up the sidewalk, I wondered if she would find it odd that I just happened to be lurking around the stable. Nah. Barbara likes to see the best in people. I smiled at her. “Barbara. What a happy coincidence.”
“Lawrence! I haven’t seen you in such a long time. How are you?” Her smile was unnaturally wide. It kind of overwhelmed her face a little.
“Oh, just fine,” I answered. “Wilson generously offered to let me practice on his field. Isn't that nice of him?"
She nodded. She smiled even wider. She even looked breathless at the mere mention of his name. This is too easy.
Barbara was trying to look around discreetly. "Do you know if he is...around?" she asked, attempting to sound indifferent.
"Yes, he is. I think I saw him heading toward the hay barn." I had deliberately chosen the place where he was least likely to be. "I'll walk with you."
"Okay," she said agreeably.
Barbara was a lovely person, but I couldn't wrap my brain around her attraction to Wilson. The whole "opposites attract" thing, I guess. I figured when they got together they'd either balance each other out or drive each other insane. And not in a good way.
I used my time with Barbara to sell Wilson. I sold him so much it almost made me sick. Gradually I realized that Barbara didn't need any encouragement from me or any other third party. She needed Wilson to man up and take her roughly in the barn, or profess his undying love, or basically do anything but what he'd been doing, which was nothing. If I wanted to close this deal and keep Vegas, I was going to have to get Wilson to close the deal himself. Too bad I can't just do it for him. A roll in the hay sounds pretty good right now. I wrenched the hay barn door open, and peered inside. "He's not here," I said to Barbara, doing a pretty good job of sounding perplexed. "He might be in his office."
As we neared the stable, I noticed a midnight blue Corvette pulling into a parking space. I stopped in my tracks. My memory blared. I've been in that car before, and it was a really fun ride. I glanced at Barbara. "I'm sure Wilson's in his office," I said to her. "I need to go...take care of something."
I headed toward the Corvette as its driver stepped out onto the pavement. She wore her typical uniform - tight pencil skirt, unintentionally see-through blouse, and stilettos. Her name was Mary; she was Wilson's accountant, and she was fairly oblivious to the fact that she tended to make men drool and lose their ability to talk right. She was married to her job, but occasionally she liked to cheat on it.
"Lawrence," she said. "It's been a long time."
"Uh-huh," I said in reply. My vocabulary was kind of gone. I let my eyes roam her body, and noticed hers were exploring mine.
“I have an appointment with Wilson,” she said, glancing regretfully toward the stable.
“So cancel. Tell him you’re stuck in traffic.”
“I used that excuse last time.”
“Okay…then tell him you’re having ‘feminine problems’. He won’t ask questions, believe me.”
She giggled. “You’re a terrible influence on me. Come on. Get in the car before Wilson sees us.”
Erica
It was officially time to buckle down. D.M.’s first show of the year was approaching faster than a Thoroughbred who'd just heard the rattle of oats in a bucket. I needed to start the show season off with a bang, preferably a big one. I wanted my competitors' rails to fall like enemy soldiers on a battlefield. My draft cross and I had some things to prove.
D.M.'s training schedule was intense. The big horse was working harder than he ever had in his life, and he was justifying my convictions in a big way. Muscle fatigue didn't sour him. He didn't start screwing around when the schooling sessions or conditioning rides got a little boring. He wasn't an opinionless robot, but a willing partner with an exemplary attitude. As I headed out to the gelding's pasture, D.M.'s extra-large halter in hand, I thought about how lucky I was to have this horse. What he lacked in breeding and athleticism he made up for with his willingness to work hard and learn. So many brilliantly talented horses made their riders' lives miserable with their willful and resistant behavior. A certain polo pony in training comes to mind. I could still vividly remember the day Harry spun out from under me when I made him execute one too many circles. D.M. would never dream of unloading his rider. I don't think the thought has ever crossed his mind for a second.
I reached the pasture, and hollered "D.M.!" The gelding's head shot up when he heard my voice, and he looked around, nickering throatily when he located me. Abandoning his grass, he trotted up to me with the horsey equivalent of a big grin on his face. I rubbed the broad blaze on his huge head, then slipped his halter on. He was clearly ready to go to work, but today's ride would be a vacation of sorts.
D.M.'s big, solid feet pounded the ground as we trotted along a trail cut through the back half of my parents’ property. I sat up and squeezed with my calves, encouraging him to use his hind end. "Going on a trail ride does not mean you can bumble around on your forehand," I said to him in a light tone. He responded to my aids, and the sound of his footfalls became much softer. "Good," I praised him. "That trot will build muscle. That's a good boy."
After an invigorating trot and canter, I brought D.M. down to a walk and let the reins slide through my fingers, allowing the gelding to stretch his neck, look around, and enjoy himself. He took full advantage of his freedom, looking this way and that, pricking his ears, and snorting happily. Occasionally, he spooked half-heartedly at a flying bird or wayward chipmunk, but I was unconcerned. I sat, relaxed and comfortable in the saddle, and allowed my mind to wander along with the horse underneath me.
When I came home on the day I discovered Trucker's bad situation, and in the days that followed, I had seriously considered giving up training and showing horses. I had always known that not every trainer was patient and kind with their horses, and that competition could bring out the worst in people. But this time, I had seen it up close, and it had hit close to home.
Since the age of twelve, I had been an integral part of the family business. We bought horses, made them better, took them to shows, and sold them. These horses came from the racetrack, lean, taut with muscle and explosive energy. They came from rival barns that sold them at a loss, lacking the time or the vision to bring out their full potential. Sometimes I found them in backyards, surrounded by chain-link fencing, or worse, barbed wire.
I loved finding horses and coaxing the talent out of them, giving them a job to do, and seeing them develop. Their muscles changed shape, making them appear more athletic or beautiful, but what I loved the most was seeing them become more confident. They came out of their shells; they grew bolder, or more affectionate. I came to realize that this was who I was, and I couldn't walk away
from it, no matter how much it hurt to know that one of my horses was suffering. Quitting would not end Trucker’s suffering, or that of any horse. But if I kept doing what I did best, I could, and would, help horses.
I couldn't stop people from taking advantage of their horses. It was an ugly and grim reality in my new little world. All I could do was be the best rider and trainer I could be for my horse, and show them how to do it right.
I picked up the reins, moved my outside leg back a few inches, and made the first canter stride with my seat. D.M. responded to my whispering aids, powering forward into a canter. His forehand was elevated, his hind hooves landing beneath my seat. In that moment, he felt ready to step into the Grand Prix ring. He was becoming an athlete, ready to live up to my hopes and dreams. I felt a quiet, humming thrill deep within my core.
I was going to make D.M.'s doubters eat their words.
Lawrence
I lay back on the mattress, chest heaving as I struggled for breath under the weight of the brunette bombshell sprawled on top of me. I didn't mind the familiar feeling of slight suffocation, though. It wouldn't last long, knowing Mary.
Sure enough, she slid off me in about ten seconds and began hunting for her clothes. I sat up in order to savor the view while I still could. She speed-dressed, stepped into her shoes and put her hand on the doorknob, while I was still trying to remember my name. Then, as if she had suddenly remembered that there was such a thing as common courtesy, even in circumstances like these, she paused in mid-flight, glanced in my general direction and smiled stiffly.
"You know," I said to her, "Shouldn't it be the other way around? I detach and run for the door, and you want to cuddle?"
Her eyes widened, and she got that deer-in-headlights look. There was a reason Mary could afford that nice car and those designer see-through blouses she wore. Mary was a total workaholic. She never took a vacation, never visited her family in Rhode Island, didn't socialize, and probably ate rarely, too. All she did was occasionally screw around with me, and once the fun was over, the guilt hit her like a cement mixer flying down the highway. Mary was phobic about emotions and feelings, to a degree that most men would struggle to understand.
Training Harry Page 13
