She devoured Listening to Your Horse, half-dreading that she’d discover that she’d been somehow mistreating Red without knowing it. It was strange taking instruction from a page instead of from Susan’s familiar bellow, but as she read on, she grew a deeper appreciation for her tough mentor. It seemed that Jane, haphazardly, had done pretty well over the past weeks, at least according to the world-famous author, a healer of troubled horses and trainer of Olympic riders. He essentially advocated patience, spending a lot of time with the horse, never punishing, only asking. He probably wouldn’t have approved of Jane and Lancelot’s adventure over the stadium course, given his belief that a horse’s confidence must never be endangered by presenting it with too-sudden challenges, but Jane thought that Susan had intuited rightly that Lancelot needed to be reminded of what he could do.
The chapter on horse health before an event had sent Jane flying to Jose for liniment and bandages, and she ran her hands obsessively over Lancelot’s fine, sinewy legs, delicate looking but strong as steel. She minutely inspected his hooves for cracks and lavishly spread hoof conditioner on each night, though she suspected most of it smeared off on the pasture’s grass. She went over her tack: Emily’s sumptuous saddle, which she kept clean and polished within an inch of its life, was a dream, and while not entirely suitable for dressage, it had served them well so far. Lancelot had a martingale and a breastplate, and she could borrow Bess’s leg wraps. She considered his grooming. She’d let his light, fox-colored mane grow out somewhat from its closely pulled brush (she’d never cared for the plucked, pulled, and shaved styles most of the campers favored for their horses; they seemed pointless and a whole lot of bother for something that didn’t really do anyone any good). She decided on a single running braid, which suited him, even though she knew it would be frowned upon in a real event.
She read and reread the chapters on cross-country, mentally checking to see if the descriptions matched what she remembered feeling and doing in the saddle. For dressage, she had Robin there to watch and help her, and to quote arcane bits of advice from The Art of Dressage, which sometimes had a turn-of-the-century whiff about the prose. And now, on Tuesday afternoon, she was waiting impatiently to hear what Ben had learned from Advanced I’s morning lesson, before going into her own. She dawdled while tacking up, hoping he’d find her before she had to leave the barn. She finally had to give up, hearing Susan hollering for her, and joined the others in the ring. For the next hour, they drilled over low jumps, practicing turns and judging exactly where their horses should take off for each obstacle, counting strides aloud. Like Beau, Lancelot had a tendency to rush jumps, even easy ones, and the exercise was good. Susan had her do a circle of ground poles at a trot to further stretch and contract his stride, and when concentrating, he handled them effortlessly.
“He should be a stunner at dressage one of these days,” Susan mused. “He can really move, and when he’s focused he looks like a pro.”
Jane gave a silent cheer and patted her horse.
Ben was waiting for them at the barn. Jane and Robin led their horses farther away from the others to sponge them off, and he followed them, glancing around, Jane imagined, for Jessica.
But while Jane had been lunging Lancelot in the paddock, Advanced I, like her class, had been jumping, and there wasn’t much, Jane felt, that she needed inside information on there. But, grateful for Ben’s efforts, she thanked him and was glad to learn that at least Susan had outlined the kind of jumps she’d be facing: verticals, triple bars, ox-ers, and combinations.
“Well, you’ve done all of those,” Robin said reassuringly.
“Susan also said something about jumping an angle, but I didn’t hear all of it.”
“That’s a new one,” Jane said, pressing the sponge against Lancelot’s chest. “But I think this horse would jump a truck.” She stepped back for a moment to look at him. She’d spent so much time with him lately that she felt she hadn’t actually seen him clearly for a while.
“Ahem, should we give you guys some privacy?” Ben said, and Robin giggled.
“What?” Jane asked, a flush rising to her cheeks.
“You’re blushing again!” he mocked her.
“Stop! That always makes it worse!” Jane tossed her sponge at him.
“You two did look totally in love, Jane,” Robin told her.
“Well, I mean, look at him! Who wouldn’t be?” At that moment Lancelot, going for a fly, bonked her, hard, with his head, and she stumbled.
“It’s a slightly abusive relationship, I’ll admit … .” Jane sighed. “And I’ll always love Beau first. But this horse can do anything. I can feel it.”
The sun was just cresting the top of the hills as Jane half-sleepwalked through the pasture to collect Red the following morning. She’d decided to try to be clear of the barn before Susan and the other riders arrived, since today she wanted to practice more cross-country, where there was a greater chance of being seen. Yawning, she greeted Beau and allowed herself a minute of comfortable communion with her first favorite, so solid and dependable, from the way he delicately chose a carrot from her hand as if it were caviar to his utterly unflappable attitude toward his life at the farm. Unflappable, or simply happy even without her. Well, good, Jane thought. “You deserve it, friend,” she told him. She was startled when she looked up to see that his ears cocked crankily backward, but she soon saw the source of his disgruntlement. Lancelot, as unpopular among the other horses as Jane felt she was among the campers, was idling toward them, ears pinned back, blowing in a surly fashion.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Jane greeted him ironically, and went to get his halter on before he tried anything with Beau.
Since she had to avoid the horses in the pasture and the girls who would soon be collecting them, once Jane had quickly tacked Lancelot, she headed him toward the far boundary of the farm, out of eyesight. The dawn’s freshness had lapsed into a sullen gray haze, and Jane had sweated through her T-shirt five minutes into her ride. It seemed unnaturally quiet, as if the birds were too hot to sing, and even the crickets were subdued. Still, the lowering sky brought out the fields’ sweep of deep green, and the stillness, Jane realized, tasting the air, was the pregnancy of rain.
After fifteen minutes of warming up, and waking up, Jane decided to do another slow canter of the fields. She wanted to make sure that Lancelot was used to the uneven, changeable footing of the pasture, and being ridden over it at moderate speed. She gave him the signals, and he almost burst from her hands, worrying the bit and kicking out his forelegs like a charger. Jane eased him back, while trying to check her position, forward and slightly out of the saddle. She suddenly felt a rush of pure exuberance, astride this high-spirited horse who held her up so high. She let him gather a bit more speed, and they soared along the line of white fence.
A strange shape caught the corner of her eye, and she slowed her horse, doubling back in a wide curve. As they approached it, the thing revealed itself to be two squat wooden barrels on their sides, with a gathering of brush on top sticking up like a bad hairdo. The barrels were held in place by poles on either side, and Jane realized that she was looking at one of the new jumps. It wasn’t terribly big, she noticed with relief, though it certainly did present an odd appearance. Lancelot eyed it casually, not particularly interested. Glancing around, though she wasn’t sure for what, Jane thought, Trying one jump wouldn’t be so bad, would it? She answered herself in the negative before she could change her mind and cantered Lancelot in a circle to square up to the mohawked barrels.
He hardly noticed it, and they were on the other side in one majestic, unconcerned leap. She had to laugh at how easy he made it look. She patted him as she slowed him to a trot and headed toward the creek, feeling guilty but very pleased.
The sky seemed to have bulked even closer to earth, and the air had taken on an electric glow, neon lighting the leaves of the trees. Jane knew that she had to go in, though she was reluctant to end their ride. Horses’
metal shoes and lightning were a bad combination, and a storm was definitely brewing. She picked up a faster trot and decided to take a shortcut across a woody, overgrown part of the creek that she usually avoided. As she navigated Lancelot through the small, brushy trees, she felt a sharp branch catch her leg and she swept her hand down to unhitch it from the cloth of her jods. The branch, released, arced away from her but then came down with a hiss onto Lancelot’s quarters.
She possibly could have held on for a rear, possibly could have maintained her seat for a fast bolt, but the sawing, bucking explosion under her came too quickly for Jane to react. The reins tore through her hands as Lancelot scissored right, twisting his hindquarters in a catlike leap away from what he felt as the hated whip. This sent her over his left shoulder, frantically grabbing for her reins, then his mane, then anything at all as the earth rose up to meet her. She landed hard, skidding on the rock-and-pine-cone-studded dirt, then felt herself dragged like a rag doll—her left foot was caught in the stirrup. Jane couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Her helmet glanced off a tree trunk, and the ground ripped into her back, almost pulling her shirt over her head. With one panicked wrench, she kicked out as hard as she could, and then the crazed, earth-turning motion stopped, and she lay very still, listening to the dull tattoo of hoofbeats pounding away.
For a minute, Jane fought for her breath, heaving out in ragged bursts, then she was seized by a racking fit of coughing. As she coughed, she became aware of her body, feeling in particular a pinecone wedged under her back. Groaning, she managed to flop over and away from it, then lay on her stomach for a moment more, trying to find herself again. Her head was throbbing dully, and other parts of her hurt, but she was so dizzy and disoriented that she couldn’t sort out everything that did. Then she heard a deep, throaty rumble and the two feet of woods that she could see around her dimmed. It began to rain.
Her arms were shaking so badly that it took her several attempts before she forced herself up on her knees. She grabbed a tree trunk next to her for support and made it to her feet. Her helmet felt like a vise, and she tore it off her head as she stumbled forward—her shoulder throbbed so painfully that she felt slightly faint. But Lancelot was running somewhere in the field, and it was starting to storm. She had to find him.
A crack of lightning in the distance spurred her on, and as she splashed across the creek and scrambled up the muddy slope of the far bank, the rain poured down in gusts and torrents, held off in some spots by the trees and flailing down in others. She limped as fast as she could from the woods, and finally made it free from the line of trees blocking her view. She saw the fields stretched before her, empty and sodden, blurred gray as a Monet in the streaks and shadows of water that flooded down. She saw no red horse, stirrups dangling, reins flying, anywhere.
Thunder rumbled again. Though she was far from the barn and the riding arena, Jane could make out, at least, that there seemed to be no one outside, probably all having fled to the shelter of the barns. No one would hear her call for help. She desperately tried to guess which part of the acres of pasture Lancelot would run to, if not the part close to the barn. The shed!
Jane had a long way to run to reach the far paddock, having to recross the creek and make it up the steep hill beyond. By the time she limped-ran through the gate, she had a stabbing stitch in her side that made her bend nearly double. But she soon felt a warm flood of relief as Lancelot whinnied to her, a high, frantic note in his voice, his head peering out from around the corner of the lean-to. Jane straightened up as best she could and hobbled toward him, throwing her right arm around his neck and leaning against him while she tried to calm her hammering heart. She realized that Lancelot was trembling beneath her hands.
When she felt a bit less shaky, she pried herself away from her horse and looked him over. The thorny branch had left a tiny nick on the side of his powerful, curved quarters, now splattered with mud and rain, but other than that he seemed fine. She gave a quick prayer of thanks that he hadn’t stumbled over the reins or otherwise come to harm. He was breathing hard, obviously still upset, but he accepted her ministrations willingly enough. She spoke soothingly to him and rubbed the mark between his eyes until he seemed less anxious. Then Jane turned to examine the weather outside.
It was still pouring, and the occasional thunderburst rolled over the sky, but the sound seemed farther away. Still, Jane didn’t relish the thought of leading Lancelot back to the barn, a good fifteen-minute walk through fields pooling with water and with an animal that was essentially a lightning rod. But Jane could see no break in the clouds, and they couldn’t huddle in the shed forever. Susan would be looking for them, wondering what Jane was doing out here … .
The shoulder that she’d landed on twinged painfully again, and Jane realized that she hadn’t checked the extent of her own damage. Her T-shirt was ripped through at the shoulder, and her left arm was scored with scratches, some bleeding, some just raised welts. Her left shoulder, bare through the torn fabric, was the worst; as she gingerly moved her arm back and forth, it seared with a strange, deep burning sensation. Her back hurt, too, and Jane gingerly felt under her shirt, which seemed to be torn in the back, too. Her fingers came away damp with blood, but not a great deal of it. She ached all over, as if she had, well, fallen off a really large horse and been dragged through the woods. “We’ll live,” she told Lancelot, and he snorted at her.
Jane decided there was nothing else for it. She knew she had to get back on after falling off, anyway. It was a psychological and practical necessity hammered into all the riders from their very first spills. Jane didn’t trust her left leg to hold her as she remounted, so she led Lancelot out of the shed and into the downpour, sidling him next to an overturned water bucket. Shakily, she managed to throw a leg over and clamber aboard, her ankles wobbling in her stirrups and her fingers trembling over her reins. The big red horse was still nervous, circling and tossing his head, taking little sideways jumps that unnerved Jane herself. She fought for composure, knowing that he would not calm down unless she did. She petted him and found her seat, firmed up the reins, and relaxed her back. When she felt ready, she asked him for a trot, and they made their way through the fields back home as the rain poured down.
Chapter 16
Secret Agent Man
What happened to you?”
“Oh. My. God.”
“Are you all right?”
Jane hadn’t had a choice except to bring Lancelot to the barn, but when they were hit with the glare of lights and the staring faces of half the campers, lounging on hay bales and folding chairs, cleaning tack, she stood, flummoxed, in the doorway, hoping for a second that she could hide, retreat. She didn’t see Robin or Ben.
“I’m fine,” she mumbled, and tugged Lancelot toward his stall. He rolled his eyes nervously at all the people crowding the aisle and dashed inside; Jane ducked after him, sliding the door firmly shut. Faces grouped around its bars.
“Jane, what happened?” asked Shannon, her eyes goggling.
“Nothing, I just fell.”
“Should we call Susan? She’s at the house,” Megan piped up. Jane could only see the top of the girl’s head and her two bright, worried eyes.
“I don’t need Susan, I’m fine,” she said tensely. She turned her back on them and started undoing Red’s tack. She gritted her teeth as her shoulder throbbed. She could barely lift his saddle from his back and had to take his bridle off one-handed. “Darn it,” she whispered as tears pricked her eyelids. Abruptly, she sat down in the corner of the stall and put her head in her hands.
“Jane?” she heard Robin’s voice. “They just told me you—oh, Jane.” Then Robin was beside her, gently tugging her hands from her face. She put her arm around Jane and helped her from the barn.
Stinking of a weird combination of floral bath gel and antiseptic ointment, Jane lay comfortably on her bunk, listening to the rain typing furiously on the cabin’s tin roof. Robin was lying on the opposite end of the be
d, her feet tucked under part of Jane’s pillow, reading. Jane shifted the sling that crossed her chest to snuggle farther under her blanket. She felt oddly cheerful. Maria had made a fuss over her shoulder, but Jane was convinced that there was nothing really wrong with it. It hurt—it hurt a lot—but so had her head, and that had healed. Susan had told her that she shouldn’t ride the next day, but Jane had just nodded absently at her. She’d told Susan essentially the truth about her fall, though she’d downgraded her activities in the field to a trail ride, and her trainer hadn’t pressed her.
The best part of the day by far had been when Ben took her mud-encrusted, blood-spattered, shredded T-shirt and tacked it to Lancelot’s stall door, adding a handwritten sign: BLOODY BUT UNBOWED. Jane couldn’t speak when she saw it, and then he had hugged her for the first time, and not only couldn’t she speak, she also couldn’t breathe. Susan had made him take it down, scolding him that it would scare the other campers, but not before Robin had taken a picture of it. Ben reluctantly dismantled his work, but he hadn’t given Jane the shirt back.
Now Jane, warm and relaxed from her bubble bath, propped securely in bed with her best friend nearby, luxuriated in a brief spell of cozy laziness. The rain and her scraped, bruised, and aching limbs kept her from the barn, and she felt a bit like she was on vacation. A vacation from camp. The thought made her smile, and she looked over to Robin, frowning with concentration over her book, her toes sporadically twitching, jiggling Jane’s pillow.
A Horse of Her Own Page 15
