We left the ring, and voices buzzed around me, but I didn’t process what they were saying because it was unimportant. The chestnut mare walked a short distance and then I halted her and dismounted. I went to her head and she looked at me. Her business face was gone, and emotion showed in her eyes. Joy. She saw me, and she knew me now. She knew me as a good partner. The chestnut mare touched my arm with her nose, lingering there for a moment, until Ben Miller stepped in and took her from me without a word.
Lawrence
The clock showed 4:03. I slid the final stall door open, facing the last horse in the barn. He flattened his ears when he saw me, pawing the stall floor ominously. Of course he had to be an asshole.
I squared my shoulders and walked up to him with purpose, clipping a lead to his halter and tying him short. I watched him and tried to guess if he was serious before I had to find out the hard way. The stable owners hadn’t mentioned any of the horses being aggressive, but then again I didn’t rate too high on their radar. I was sure they wouldn’t care if I wound up under one of their horses’ hooves, as long as I got his mane braided before he took me out.
The gelding’s ears stayed back, but he didn’t make any sudden moves. Resignation showed on his broad, well-built face. I decided he wasn’t homicidal, just unhappy with the grooming routine. “Totally with you on that one,” I told him as I sectioned off his mane.
Cursing fluently, I worked each section of hair into a neat little button, each exactly the same. I did it the hard way, with needle and fucking thread, because otherwise the braids just weren’t “professional” enough. I continued on, from the gelding’s withers to his poll, muttering steadily about the pointlessness of all this effort. Just for the sake of turnout. “You’d look just fine with your mane hacked off,” I said to the gelding. He sighed deeply, waiting for me to finish.
Braiding was among the things Solly Turner taught me. I protested heavily and fought not to learn it, but he maintained that the knowledge would come in handy. Knowing how to braid had saved my ass far more than once. Sometimes my only income came from braiding, and there was decent money in it. But it was absolute misery. Long, tedious, repetitive fucking misery.
When I was done I patted the last horse, untied him and got paid. Then I got in my truck and turned in the direction of home, blasting “Barracuda” so I wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel.
Once I was home I quickly fed the horses and threw them outside. I headed toward the house, slow and heavy. The barn could wait. Maybe I can get Amber to clean it for me. I snorted out loud at that thought and dragged myself up the front steps.
When I was inside the house I went directly to the cereal cabinet. Ah, Cookies ‘n Cream Crunch. More sugar per square inch than just about anything. I poured some into a bowl, already more alert just from the fumes.
Amber sauntered out of the bathroom just then. Her hair was wet from the shower but she was already fully clothed. Damn. It took me a moment to register the strangeness of her presence at this hour. “You’re awake?” I said incredulously. “Already?”
Amber tilted her head to the side. Crossed her arms. “I didn’t expect you to be such a little bitch this morning.”
“Why ever not?” I asked with just as much snark.
She glared at me. “You just got in. Don’t think I don’t know what you were doing all last night.”
I stared at her. “Braiding?”
“Wait. What?”
“I was up all night, and definitely not in anyone’s bed, if that’s what you were implying. I had a braiding gig.” I returned to my cereal. It was kinder than Amber any day.
She walked over. I’d taken her down a few notches. Amber knew the agony of braiding.
“I didn’t know,” she said. “I woke up and you weren’t here. You never tell me anything, so I just assumed you were with some girl.”
I glanced at Amber, letting her words percolate in my head. “You missed me,” I said.
She whirled away. “Bite me.”
I smiled, amused. “I would, but I’ve had strict orders not to.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Okay, that I can’t possibly interpret any other way.” I snorted quietly into my cereal.
The Cookies ‘n Cream Crunch came through for me, and I left the house behind, striding toward the barn. The rising sun burned in my field of vision, vibrant and brilliant in the previously dull sky. I squinted through the blinding light and saw Harry’s alert silhouette. He burst into motion, coming toward me at an extended trot until he was halted by the fence. I walked over and stretched out a hand, feeling his breath in my palm. I gave the side of his face a brief scratch. “Later,” I said to him. I stood with him for a minute, until Harry decided I wasn’t all that interesting and returned to the grass.
The barn stood empty and dirty. I gathered my tools and swiftly cleaned the first stall. Eloise always kept her stall neat. I cut across the aisle and cleaned around Soiree, a difficult task given the filly’s undying need for attention.
I managed to escape the stall and close the door on Soiree when I saw Amber appear in the doorway. “Hi. Are you here to help?” I asked brightly.
She nodded.
I struggled to stay on my feet, and thrust a pitchfork at her before she could backpedal.
Amber dodged the implement, staying firmly on her path of avoidance. “I’m not helping you shovel shit. But I have an idea,” she said quickly as my face fell. “The other day Erica was telling me all about this clinic she went to with her horse. I guess she goes to a lot of them. But anyway, you should hear what kind of money these people make doing clinics. You would be amazed. And I was just thinking, why don’t you try doing one?”
I paused, trying to wrap my head around what she was saying. “How does it work? What exactly does it involve?”
“Well, from what I gather you teach a certain number of lessons on a single day or over a weekend, and people haul in and ride. And you charge. Handsomely.”
I leaned back against Soiree’s door. “Interesting. But do you think anyone would attend a Lawrence Cavanaugh clinic?”
“Why the hell not? You were a polo god! You were on the top of the heap.”
“And now I’m nothing,” I pointed out.
“So what.” Amber was energized. “I know this could work. We just have to market it right. You bring something different to the table; you have a different portfolio of experience than other clinicians out there. You’re a high goal polo player, and you also have a vast knowledge of problem horses. I mean, I know you were floundering with Harry until Erica showed up, but they don’t have to know that.” Amber trailed off for a moment before getting back on track. “Anyway, I really think this could work.”
I stared at her for a moment, bombarded by words. I still wasn’t sure, but it seemed like it was worth a shot. “Yeah, we could try it,” I said.
Amber lit up. “I’ll help you set it up, if you want. You’re gonna need me to help, because I can tell you’re already lost, and there’s a lot of organization and stuff that goes into setting up a clinic. I can help with that, though, and I know someone who’s really great at graphic design. You just show up and look pretty.”
I blinked a few times. “Sure. Yes. Okay.”
“Great. I’ll do it for ten percent of the profits,” Amber said swiftly.
“You should really do it for free, you know, seeing as you’re living under my roof without paying a dime,” I countered.
“But I would be much more motivated to make this a successful clinic if you gave me ten percent.” Amber gave me a hyena smile.
“Fine. Ten percent it is.”
Amber was in motion, excitedly pacing the aisle. “We’ll need to figure out a date and fees and all that, and then we can start advertising. Erica can talk it up to her hunter/jumper friends, and I will get you some awesome flyers. I’m thinking you on Vegas, at a gallop, bareback, bridleless and shirtless.”
I watched her flurry of moveme
nt, deeply confused. “Wait. I thought I had credentials and all that. Why would we have to resort to a sexy ad campaign?”
Amber gave me a look that clearly implied the word duh. “Like you said. Your credentials are kind of shaky. Besides, sex sells. Your bod will draw them in, and when you deftly fix their petty horse problems, you’ll hook them.”
Erica
My eyes looked at the ring. I stood still, positioned to watch what remained of the jump-off. I was aware of the shifting colors and forms in front of me, but I didn’t see anything. I was too deep in my head; my thoughts rushed and clamored, too thick to let anything in.
My heart pumped aggressively, and I felt a strange unease in my gut. My muscles twitched and knotted periodically. I felt an urge to burst in many directions, to do something. I had to do something. But what is there to do?
I knew what I had ridden minutes before. The possibilities stretched on in my mind, almost farther than I could dream. The chestnut mare’s talent was limitless. She was the complete package; all the factors lined up within her. Ability. Drive. Speed and scope, balance, a razor-sharp mind.
And there was her willingness to go out and do her job. No matter how she was treated, she laid down a brilliant round. She was professional right down to the bone. But after our round, I had sensed something else in her. Passion. The mare absolutely loved to jump, like no horse I’d ever known. And that would take her far. That would take her anywhere.
The loudspeaker uttered a menacing crackle of feedback, drawing me out of my head. I listened as the ribbon winners were announced. D.M. and I did not make it into the ribbons. The chestnut mare won.
I took in a deep breath, letting it out in a shudder. I knew what had to be done. I didn’t know how it could be done, or if it could be done. But I needed to try like hell to do it.
Ben Miller stepped into the ring, collecting the blue ribbon with an entitled smirk. I strode forward, meeting him at the gate before he could be engulfed by people who wanted the same thing I did.
“Congratulations,” I said, with a quick nod to the ribbon in his hand.
“Thank you for your part in it,” he said with a false little smile. He began walking. He probably thought he had thrown me off.
I wasn’t that easily thrown. I went with him, stride for stride. “I need to talk with you,” I said.
“What is it that you want to talk about?” Ben asked. I was sure he knew. How could he not?
“I want to buy the chestnut mare,” I said without hesitation.
I knew what I was doing. I was making a desperate grab for a horse that could take me everywhere I wanted to go. I had flopped on my back and exposed my soft underbelly to Ben Miller. I was opening myself up to the burn, the awful sting of humiliation. Of heartbreak. But I had to try. I could not fail to try, because the feeling of walking away without having tried and fought for that horse would be far worse than anything Ben Miller could throw at me. I could not allow myself to stand back and let this opportunity slip past me. If it was taken from me, well, that was another thing.
Ben stopped and faced me without reacting further to my declaration.
“I know you’ve been reluctant to sell her,” I said quickly, nervously filling the silence. “I understand that. But I am ready and willing to pay whatever price you name.”
I babbled on, unable to stop. “I will get the money. I’ll get a loan from my parents. This is an investment in my future. They’ll support this decision, I know they will. It’s time for me to get serious, if I’m going to make it in this sport. If I’m going to get where I need to go. I need this horse.” I looked at Ben, breathing shallowly. Guarded and hopeful.
Ben smiled carelessly. “She has been sold,” he said without elaboration.
I went wooden. Hard and numb. My mouth fell open; I felt my teeth dry up in the wind. “When?” I said harshly.
“Just now. Right after your round.”
I wanted to run but I couldn‘t move. “You’ve been holding onto her for a while now. What made you change your tune so suddenly?” I asked.
“I got a very good offer,” Ben said smugly. “You made her look good, Erica.”
A searing fireball of rage plumed in my head. I stared at Ben, feeling my muscles start to unlock. My fingernails dug into the soft flesh of my palms.
Ben looked at me, amused. “Don’t be upset,” he said glibly. “You had your chance.” And he walked away.
My hands gripped the wheel in a stranglehold. I drove slowly. I was bound to no particular route, and I followed the smooth blacktop blindly. Occasionally I made a turn. The traffic was minimal, and the overall effect was soothing.
D.M. was home in the sunshine, blissfully content. I’d taken him home, unhitched the trailer, put everything away. Then I’d gone up to my room, just wanting to pass out for a few hours or days. It didn’t happen. My room was of no comfort to me. It was a pleasant enough space, but it felt like a holding area. A storage facility. It stifled me, and I had to leave.
The surface under the tires changed, jolting me. I focused on the scenery, and I knew where I was. My eyelids grew heavy with moisture. What am I doing? I took my foot off the gas, slowing everything to a crawl. I should turn back. Right now.
I blinked several times, and my vision cleared up. I could see the hay fields spread out all around me. The first few weathered farmhouses were visible. On the horizon, down in the ditch, I could just make out a cluster of white. I saw the cluster spread out, and the tiny forms spilled out onto the road. The chickens. And I lost it. I let my forehead hit the wheel and I started to shake.
I was lost. And unwittingly, I had come here, because that was what I did when I was lost. When I had no one to talk to, no one who would understand or even just listen, I came here. It was becoming a pattern, a theme in my life.
I trusted Lawrence. I told him things that otherwise would’ve been locked inside me, contaminating me from within. It was beautiful, in a way, how open I was with him. And a part of me felt like it needed to stop.
I lifted my head, staring into the distance. I knew my choices. I could go to him, and I might regret it, sooner or later. I could stay here, alone in the cab of my truck and cry myself into some semblance of relief or numbness. I could go to him.
My foot found the gas pedal, pressing down on it. The scenery rolled by, slightly muddied like a watercolor painting. The chickens, by the time I reached them, were down in the ditch. On the other side.
The maroon Ford was parked crookedly by the house. Amber’s Chevy was gone. As I removed the key from the ignition Lawrence stepped out of his house like he’d been summoned. A firework went off in my waterlogged mind. Steam filled my head.
I opened the door and slid down from my seat, finding the ground. Lawrence was right in front of me. “Erica.”
I couldn’t think straight. I knew I should explain myself. Faintly embarrassed, I let my eyes drop. They traveled the line of his forearm.
He waited for me. Without questioning or pushing or pulling away. He was solid, grounding me.
“I just came here…I need to talk to someone. I hope that’s okay.” I cringed just a little at my faltering speech, the muddy sound of my voice.
Lawrence reached out toward me. His hand hung in the air for a moment, brushing my wrist. Lighting up a nerve or two. “You should know by now that it’s okay.”
We sat down on the front steps, with his hip touching mine. I didn’t think much of it. We had a partnership going, maybe even a friendship. As time went on there was less space between us, less dead air in between words. Even the silences seemed purposeful, and neither of us ever felt the need to break them prematurely.
Sitting there, with a willing listener who seemed to care, I broke. I spilled my guts, and the unsaid words poured out of me. Unable to stop or compose myself, I rambled on incoherently. I threw everything at him. I told him how I found my horse, and how hard I worked to get him where he was now. I told him what it was like on the show circuit
, where I was and where I needed to go, and in a long string of fractured sentences I told him how the chestnut mare had appeared on the scene, jolted me and caused me to question everything. I went back to the few brief minutes when she had been mine, and I told Lawrence how she never would be. Then I stopped, and listened to my own breathing for a moment. I was feeling incredibly stupid. Stupid and relieved.
I couldn’t look at him. My eyes ached and my face was hot. “Thanks for listening,” I said. “I’m sorry I went on like that. I’m really sorry.” I made a move to get up.
“Wait.” Almost before the word left his mouth Lawrence’s hand snagged my wrist, holding me to him. “Don’t apologize,” he said, his eyes finding mine. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I don’t have the answers, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
I shook my head slowly. “It’s so stupid. I shouldn’t be making such a big deal of it. The horse was never mine. Ben has the right to sell her to whomever he wants.” I looked at Lawrence helplessly. “I just don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
He looked at me with clear empathy, and I had to look away or I knew I’d start crying. “You lost something, though. A possibility. And it hurts. I know it does.”
I bit down, teeth on teeth. “Because I care too much.”
“You can’t possibly care too much, Erica.”
I turned my head to look at him. “You can care too much. Believe me. And it can hold you back just as much as not giving a shit at all.”
Training Harry Page 40
