I turned Maude out and she went straight back to the patch of clover she’d been inhaling before I forced her to actually do something productive. On my way to the barn I heard Erica’s truck pull in. I dropped the longeing gear on the spot and moved quickly.
As I was closing in on the hunter green F-150, Amber suddenly threw open the passenger side door and leapt down from the cab. I saw Erica do the same on the other side of the truck, and I forgot about Amber for a second. My body lurched and my brain imploded from the rush of sensation, the uneasy mix of panic and excitement.
Wait a minute. Just hold on. Amber is here. She wasn’t here before. She came here with Erica. I wasn’t aware that I was still walking until I ended up nearly on top of Amber. “Hi. Where the hell have you been?” I said.
“Indulgence,” she said, chin stuck out.
“You went to Indulgence?”
“That’s what I just said. Are you stupid today, or something? I mean, more than usual,” Amber clarified.
I didn’t answer. I moved past Amber and found Erica. “Hey. How’ve you been?”
She smiled. “Good. Busy. Last weekend’s show was good. Assault seems to have given me some street cred. Apparently he’s built up quite a reputation. Pretty much everyone knows him from his rogue days.”
“That’s good,” I said stupidly. The shirt she wore was tighter than usual. My mind was more or less blown.
“I tell everyone how you helped me with him,” Erica said.
Her eyes, when I looked in them, were unbelievably kind. They made me feel unworthy. I glanced downward. “I didn’t do it for anyone but you.”
Amber marched into the space between us, a wrecking ball in a private moment. “Why is all the longeing shit in a heap on the ground?”
I stared at her for several moments. I was slow to recall the answer because I didn’t care. “I put Maude on the longeline for a minute. Just to evaluate her.”
“You longed Maude?” Amber demanded.
I almost snorted. Now who’s talking stupid? I couldn’t say it to her because Erica was right there and I had to be better than I was. The perfect opportunity passed by me. It actually hurt me to watch it leave.
“Who is Maude?” Erica asked.
“The old grey mare Lawrence bought off the double-decker,” Amber quickly answered, then turned to me. “So how was she?”
“Not thrilled. But she longes fine. She knows the voice commands. She just hates being told what to do.”
“No duh. She’s old. Of course she’d rather hang out in a paddock and eat soaked hay cubes.” Amber started off for somewhere, then turned back. “Are you coming?”
Before I could even register what she’d said, Erica left my side to join Amber. She smiled at me over her shoulder as they walked away. There was a wide zipper down the back of her shirt. I stared after her, feeling twitchy and hot. She has no idea what she’s doing to me, I thought as I stood there alone. I wanted to touch her so badly. I wanted to pull that zipper open and take off everything else she had on too. I wanted us to be close, right on top of each other, connected in every way imaginable.
I started off for the barn. I needed something boring to do. Something to cool me down. I picked up the longeing shit and put it back where it belonged. I stared into the spotless stalls, down into the fluffy shavings. I really need some shit to shovel right now.
I heard faint voices, and I slipped behind the barn, feeling like a stalker. Erica and Amber had gone in with Maude. The mare stood with Amber, ears pricked and face content. Amber was talking, relaxed and happy like I’d rarely seen her.
I retreated before they could see me. Later, when I saw Amber alone, I pounced on her.
“So. When did this happen?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“This…thing with Erica. When did that happen?”
Amber stared at me with clear contempt. “I knew you were gonna make a big deal out of this. I know she’s your trainer and all, and you’ve got this…this weird thing about her, but she’s not your fucking property. She‘s my friend too. Deal with it.” Amber darted past me, moving fast.
“Wait. Amber.”
She turned around. “What?”
“I’m not mad,” I said. “I’m happy for you.”
“Okay…” She looked at me oddly.
I felt a smile on my face. “You made a friend,” I said.
“Okay. This shit ends now.” Abruptly, Amber took off.
“I’m so proud of you!” I shouted at her back.
“I am not participating in this mushy crap!” Amber screamed without turning her head.
I laughed softly, low in my throat, and headed toward the house.
Erica
The show went on around me even where I stood, far from the ring, out in the field of trailers. The familiar scene of harried, edgy horses and people moving back and forth played out fuzzily in the corner of my eye. The air had that slight bite to it, carrying so much concentrated emotion it altered the atmosphere palpably.
I focused on D.M.’s legs, carefully strapping on his jumping boots. He stood placidly, and every horse in a 20 foot radius seemed to relax a bit in response. I hadn’t brought Assault along this time. The gelding was ever so slightly off, perhaps a little muscle sore from his recent efforts. Assault was in no way lame or reluctant, but the decision to give him some time off came easily. I sort of missed the gelding’s ornery presence, though. He certainly kept things interesting.
D.M. cocked a hind leg, letting his weight slump to one side, and waited for me to finish booting him up. I adjusted the final strap, threw on my helmet and we began our walk to the ring.
As I mounted up in the warm-up ring I could see the fences being built up. The stakes were higher, and the caliber of the horses moving around me had risen. We cut a path through the throng of horses and riders, passing almost stirrup to stirrup. Occasionally there was an audible clink of irons.
I kept my eyes up and firmly on the line I rode, as did everyone else in the ring. The space was full to capacity, the very posts and rails almost straining. But the seething mass of activity had a sort of choreographed flow. There was a kind of beauty to it that I saw clearly, and it meant something to me. Perhaps only me. I smiled quietly.
The class was announced, and everybody filed out of the ring, muscles tensed in anticipation. Poised to fight for the win.
I looked around, and I saw the crowd of onlookers had thickened. Every trainer who wasn’t in the saddle had gravitated toward the ring. Ben Miller and several other Millers loitered by the in-gate.
The chestnut mare blocked out my field of vision, a slow-motion burst of dull scarlet. She walked right by me, close enough to reach out and touch. The mare walked past the Millers, entering the ring. I could almost see the dollar signs in Ben Miller’s small eyes, and I looked away, faintly nauseous.
My eyes flickered back quickly. I didn’t recognize the chestnut mare’s rider. She was a bleached blonde who was probably younger than she looked. Rode hard and put away wet, I thought somewhat bitchily. The girl leaned down and shortened her reins with no finesse. She was loose in the saddle. Sloppy.
As she made her opening circle, I leaned forward, trying to put a name to the girl’s face. I was remembering something. I heard so much scuttlebutt just from being around my mother. I was adept at blocking it out, but occasionally, unwittingly, something touched down and stuck in my brain. The chestnut mare’s rider had recently gone on Ben Miller’s payroll. Rumor had it she screwed her way there. Watching her ride, I could see how one could come to believe that.
The girl turned onto the first line of the course. The chestnut mare accelerated smoothly to an athletic gallop. From the first fence, the girl’s weakness became painfully clear. She had no seat. She had no release, either. She clutched the reins, maintaining a death grip on the mare’s mouth from takeoff to landing. Her leg swung back at the apex of the mare’s jump, and she dug her heels into the mare’s f
lanks. That was all that saved her from falling. The mare landed with her ears flat back.
I watched with rapt attention. The girl did not improve as the course went on. As a rider, she was worthless. She was a wobbly, flailing burden, gripping, pitching and leaning unsteadily in the saddle. She was in the horse’s way each and every stride. Her steering was terribly crude; she merely cranked her mount’s head in the direction of each turn. She was so overtly unskilled I considered her abusive. Maggie, the kid I wouldn’t yet allow to canter off the longe, could have done better.
Through this treatment, the chestnut mare jumped clean and fast. She did her job and she did it brilliantly, even while carrying a lurching, hindering load. The mare got around the course through sheer athletic ability and drive. Not once did she refuse, run out or touch a rail. I sat on D.M.’s back, mouth slack, frozen. My eyes never left the chestnut mare. I knew what I was looking at, and I knew how rare it was.
As I watched, the chestnut mare tore down the final line, rising up over the last fence, feet tucked into her belly, mouth gaping against her rider’s chokehold. The girl nearly fell on her neck as she landed. The chestnut mare lengthened her stride, stretching out over the finish line. With an uncanny sense of timing, as her hind legs crossed the finish line, she dropped her head and lashed out, dropping her ungainly load with one buck and continuing on to the out gate. She came to a square, balanced halt and stood, ears pricked, waiting for someone to come and collect her.
Everyone around me stood similarly dumbfounded and unmoving for a long moment. Then Ben Miller stepped forward, opening the gate and taking the chestnut mare’s reins. His rider still lay in a heap where she’d fallen, but no one seemed to take notice of her.
The girl didn’t get up, and a couple of people ducked under the rails to investigate. I could see her talking to them, so she clearly wasn’t dead or anything. Horses shifted around me, impatient. The riders spread out, keeping their horses moving. I clucked to D.M. and he moved off at a slow walk. If I let him stand too long he was apt to go to sleep on me.
A siren went off in the distance, and soon the ambulance pulled up ringside. I glanced over at the girl as she was carried off on a stretcher. I thought she looked perfectly capable of getting up and walking. They probably called the ambulance because she was holding up the class.
With the obstruction removed, the class resumed. I watched a few more rides before my number was called. D.M. bounded into the ring, agreeable as ever. I rode a careful, steady line from one fence to the next. All I cared about was making the jump-off. Our ride was slow but clear, just the way I wanted. I patted D.M.’s broad shoulder as we left the ring behind.
I watched the next four riders go clear. It appeared the jump-off would be crowded. When the last rider left the ring, the jump crew rushed in to modify the course for the jump-off.
I kept my focus on D.M., working to keep him tuned and ready. I took him away from the milling crowd by the ring, staying within earshot of the loudspeaker. I worked him through transitions, compressing him, setting him back on coiled hocks, then pushing him forward. I did my best to get him fully with me, and the surroundings blurred. My mind narrowed; my concentration sharpened until I was aware only of the motion of my horse underneath me and what we were saying to each other. I kept him working right up until my number was called. The sound ricocheted around in my head, shattering the stillness I’d created, louder than it should have been. I turned D.M. and we trotted through the horses and grooms and hangers on. I knew he would be there for me, and if I guided him right we might just pull it off.
I went right over the starting line. We were ready, and there was no reason to linger in the neutral territory by the in gate. We were atop the first fence in two of D.M.’s massive strides. The sizeable vertical was unthreatening from his back. He cleared it with laughable ease, and I smiled in the moment even though I knew what remained of the course would not be so easy for D.M.
I built speed in the few stretches where I could, but the majority of the lines forced me to shorten D.M., collect him aggressively, fit him into the striding. D.M. could easily lose the momentum he needed to clear the four foot fences when I arrested his natural rhythm and stride length, which led to uncomfortable moments for both of us.
The course was tough, with the fences set close. D.M. came through for me as only he could, allowing me to manufacture his every step, carrying out my wishes even when it felt awkward, even when he must have felt fear. Because of his willingness I got him through the course without rattling a pole. Each time I faced a decision I guessed right. I leaned down as we went over the finish line, thumping D.M.’s neck, rubbing the hair back and forth.
The gate opened, and I was mildly aware of people saying things to me. I dropped the reins on D.M.’s withers and reached down to rub him with both hands. The gelding’s head lowered and he sighed. He was tired. I became aware that my body was weak and quivery, and I sat slumped in the saddle, suddenly feeling all the combined effort we’d expended to get through that course. I removed my feet from the stirrups and slid off D.M.’s back. I stood with him for a moment, and we leaned into each other.
I was walking D.M., half aware of what was going on by the ring, when I noticed Ben Miller standing with the chestnut mare. The chestnut mare had no rider. My pulse picked up a bit. Without thinking, I walked straight up to Ben. “Where’s your rider?” I asked him.
Ben tilted his head to the side. Sizing me up. “I think she’s at the hospital,” he said. He didn’t seem too concerned.
“Oh,” I said. “I guess she’s not going to make the jump-off.”
With beautiful, nearly scripted timing, the loudspeaker shouted the chestnut mare’s number. It reverberated over us. With a little shiver of adrenaline, I stepped forward. “So. How would you like to see your horse go under a rider?” I asked Ben.
He smiled, and summoned a groom. “Take her horse,” he instructed curtly. And he handed the chestnut mare’s reins to me.
I threw the reins over her long, narrow head, taking just a moment to touch her neck, accustoming her to me. The chestnut mare looked me over swiftly, and then her eyes returned to the course within the ring. I sensed no apprehension, in fact what passed between us was pure professionalism. I felt it distinctly. The mare knew her job, she was ready to go into the ring, and she recognized that I would be accompanying her. My strange identity was of little consequence to her. A good, bad or indifferent rider didn’t phase her. She had proven that beyond a doubt.
I stuck my foot in the left stirrup, hopping in place to build momentum. Then I mounted up, gathering the reins. The crowd parted as we covered the distance to the ring. I felt the rhythm of her walk underneath me, not notably fast or slow. Her relative youth and inexperience showed a bit. She was surprisingly crooked. The line she walked wavered; she drifted slightly, leaning on my inside leg.
The gate opened up for us and she stepped into the ring. Her head came up; I felt her anticipation loud and clear. I took my time with the courtesy circle. It was my only real chance to feel her out before we tackled the course. The mare maintained her steady drift, her shoulder bulging into my aids, and I was surprised by how difficult it was to ride a decent circle on her. I made a mental note to factor in her crookedness on the turns. And then I had no more time to plan and think. It was time to just ride.
The mare galloped over the start line in a light, balanced jumping pace. She neared the first fence quickly, and I deepened my heels, waiting to feel her jump for the first time.
I felt no acceleration on her part, no push, no last second heave. She was simply airborne, as if lifted by a strong gust of wind. She hung, suspended for a moment in the air, and she landed softly, quietly, as if on tiptoe. My mouth fell open a little, and my head twisted toward the next fence. The chestnut mare turned in response, and galloped on. Her footfalls played in my ears, soft as a caress. Her long, thin neck lifted and stretched out in front of me as she rose above the second fence. Again I
was struck by the ease of her effort. The lightness. I had never ridden a horse so responsive, so self-sufficient. My seat floated above the saddle; my calves rested against her sides. My hands did nothing but release at the apex of her jump. She responded to shifts of weight, my line of vision, and thoughts. She gave me everything, just handed it over without question.
We made a sharp turn to the third fence, a liverpool. She was up and over the rails and the sparkling water below in another effortless leap. This was beyond power. I couldn’t even feel the power in her movements, but I knew it had to be there.
I looked ahead to the tight section of the course that had been so hard on D.M. It was an intimidating oxer that led to an in-and-out and a vertical, nearly on top of each other and angled sharply. It would require a careful ride on most any horse, and most of the riders I’d seen in the jump-off had dropped rails, either by pushing for too much speed, or pulling back a few too many times and shutting down their horse’s impulsion. I knew how I wanted to ride it, and I wanted to find out how the chestnut mare would cope with my plan. I encouraged her to build momentum on the approach. She’ll need it to clear that oxer.
The series of fences would be best ridden as a bending line, I felt. It remained to be seen if the chestnut mare was capable of jumping that way. I used my inside leg strongly at the girth, shaping her between my aids. In a few moments we left the oxer behind. Facing the in-and-out, the mare settled back on her hind legs, well prepared for the two jumping efforts in succession. She tackled the in-and-out handily and galloped on to the vertical, meeting it perfectly. Her earlier crookedness was no longer in effect. She was completely different on course. Her talent and ability was absolutely freakish.
Now I wanted more. I wanted to see exactly what she could do. I wanted to prove what she was capable of in my hands. I pressed her with my calves, urging her forward even more until she was flying, still patting the ground with swift, light feet. We took the next fence at an angle, then rolled back to a sprawling oxer, reaching it in the blink of an eye. She stretched out over it, kicking out over the back rail, landing and barely making a sound. And I pushed her forward again and she leapt over the finish line. The clock stopped, ending our round, showing a time that I couldn’t believe because it felt like we had done so much, too much for less than a minute, a collection of fleeting seconds. Now suddenly it was over, and I didn’t want it to be. The chestnut mare came to a halt, and we stood there, holding up the show as I struggled to come back to reality. To go on.
Training Harry Page 39
