Nocturne

by Syrie James

  As Michael drove up under the portico, Nicole asked, “Why do you have two barns?”

  “That one’s my hay barn,” he said, indicating the older building. “It’s been here in one form or another since I first

  “You turned them loose? Didn’t they run off or freeze?”

  “The valley penned them in and protected them from the worst weather, and they grew three inches of hair on their bodies.”

  “I didn’t know horses could grow long hair,” Nicole said with a laugh.

  “Oh yeah, they looked like woolly bears. I used to feed and water them in the old horse barn that stood here. But I gave all that up a while back, when I started writing books. Now I just keep two quarter horses for pleasure and riding. A few years ago I decided to tear down the old horse barn and put up this one, along with the new riding arena.” Michael opened his cab door. “Wait there, I’ll come around to you. I de-iced the area this morning, but it still might be slippery.”

  As Michael walked around the front of the cab to her, Nicole cautiously stepped down onto the frozen pavement and took a deep breath of the icy cold air. It smelled fresh and clean, imbued with the heady scent of pine. “Mmm. I love that smell. I wish I could live up here forever.”

  As she spoke the words, Nicole saw Michael dart a sharp look in her direction. A dismayed blush stole across her cheeks. It almost sounded as if she’d issued a very forward proclamation to become his vampire bride—but she hadn’t intended anything of the sort—had she?

  Michael held out his arm to her. Nicole couldn’t read his expression. Was he upset? Annoyed? Abashed into silence, she slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow and let him lead her across the driveway to the newer barn.

  The huge barn doors seemed to be frozen shut. Michael slid one open with an effortless, one-handed shove. Inside, the pleasant smells of hay and horse immediately enveloped her. The barn was surprisingly warm, which Michael said was courtesy of the big natural gas heaters hanging from the ceiling that kept it at a steady 55 degrees. The interior was entirely insulated, he explained, pointing out the hayloft up top, the tack room, and the grooming area with its hot water heater and wash rack unit.

  There were four box stalls with open Dutch doors, from which two beautiful horses draped in quilted blankets were looking out at them with interest. The stalls had eight-foot walls, paneled in wood on the bottom half, and topped by black metal bars like a wrought iron gate. The horses began to nicker quietly as Michael approached with Nicole at his side. Michael removed his parka, hung it on a peg, then stopped outside the first stall, where an elegant, sorrel-red male horse stood on a bed of hay.

  “This is Posse,” Michael said. The beast shot his head up and darted a wary look in Nicole’s direction, nervously moving his feet, wrinkling his nose, and flattening his ears with an angry snort. “It’s okay, boy,” Michael said softly, stroking the horse’s face. “She’s a friend.” Nicole longed to pet him, but the horse continued to eye her with suspicion, now baring his teeth.

  “He doesn’t see many people other than me and my ranch hand,” Michael said. Gently placing both hands on either side

  “That’s better,” Michael said. Glancing at Nicole, he added, “If you’d like to pet him, he’s okay with it now.”

  “He’s ‘okay with it now’? What did you do?”

  “I talked to him.”

  “But you didn’t say anything.”

  “Yes, I did. I just didn’t say it out loud.”

  Dumbfounded, Nicole tentatively reached out and stroked the front of the horse’s face. He calmly accepted her touch. “So you just . . . think at him?”

  “I call it mingling with the mind of the horse. It’s particularly handy for riding at night—which is often the only time I can go out. Horses have excellent night vision, but mine is better. After 150 years, I know the trails around here like the back of my hand. Together, we can cover ground at breakneck speed in pitch-darkness, in territory you normally could never ride after sunset.”

  Nicole, at a loss for words, tried to grapple with that extraordinary notion. “Can you talk to other animals?”

  “Just horses. They’re very intuitive creatures. I think they sense that I’m more of a predator than a typical human, so it’s a skill I’ve had to develop over time. I’ve had a couple of centuries of practice to get it right.”

  “You’re like the Horse Whisperer without the whispering.”

  Michael laughed. “Posse and I have an understanding,” he went on, scratching the horse on the neck. “I don’t let anyone else ride him, and he won’t take apart his automatic waterer anymore.”

  “Take apart his what?”

  Michael pointed out a mechanical device in the horse’s stall that consisted of a little flap over a small bowl of water. “When I first put the automatic heated waterers in their stalls, Posse completely disassembled his and then laid out all the parts neatly on the straw in front of it. He’d created a problem for himself because now he couldn’t get any water—but every morning for about a month I’d come in and find it disassembled. Finally he told me he was doing it to piss off my ranch hand—who, by the way, is a great guy—and that he didn’t want anyone but me riding him.”

  Nicole smiled. “Sounds to me like Posse’s a genius who knows how to get what he wants—and lucky to have a master who understands him.”

  Michael introduced her next to his other horse, Pockets, a beautiful, seal-brown quarter horse with a black mane and tail and black legs with two white stockings.

  “She’s an eighteen-year-old mare, and a very gentle soul,” Michael said as he opened the stall door. He and the horse affectionately greeted each other. Michael then gazed briefly and meaningfully into the horse’s eyes, stepped back, and waited as the animal walked obediently out of the stall and stopped before him. The beast took a brief, interested look at Nicole, then turned back to Michael and lowered her head slightly.

  Michael took off Pockets’ blanket and lifted her legs one at a time, quickly cleaning her hooves with a hoof pick. Nicole

  “Don’t be shy.”

  “What?” Michael’s voice broke into Nicole’s thoughts and she blinked, the memory scattering as her cheeks grew warm.

  “Pockets loves to be petted,” Michael said.

  “Why did you name her Pockets?” Nicole moved closer and stroked the front of the horse’s face.

  “It’s short for Hip Pockets. I’ll show you why.” Michael grabbed a halter from a peg outside the stall and slipped it over the horse’s head. “Wait here. I have to get something from the cellar.” He dropped the lead rope to the floor and strode off.

  “Wait, what should I do if she—?” Nicole began in alarm.

  “Don’t worry,” Michael called back over his shoulder. “My horses are taught to ground tie. Not for my sake—we communicate just fine without it—but it helps my ranch hand, and you’ll find it useful. Once that lead rope hits the ground it means stand still, as if she’s tied to a rock or a tree, just like you’d teach a dog to stay.” Before disappearing through a door, he added, “Scratch her neck. That’s one of her favorite things.”

  As Nicole grazed her fingertips against the horse’s neck, the horse dropped her head and pushed up happily against her. “You are so sweet,” Nicole said, looking into the horse’s soft, doe eyes, and feeling the velvet on her nose while she breathed on her hand.

  They shared a peaceful, quiet moment together, which changed the second that Michael returned with a big bunch of carrots in his hand. At Michael’s approach, Pockets jerked her

  “Here’s how she got her name,” Michael said, smiling. He shoved a carrot into the back pocket of his jeans and turned around. The horse leaned forward and, with teeth and tongue, expertly removed the carrot from his pocket and chowed it down.

  Nicole laughed.

  “She’s been doing that since she was a filly. She’s a carrotaholic.” Michael broke off a chunk of carrot and handed it to Nicole. “Keep your f
ingers pressed tightly together, so she won’t mistake one for something good to eat.”

  Nicole offered the treat to the horse, who eagerly fed from her hand. Nicole enjoyed the nuzzling sensation.

  “Have you ever ridden before?” Michael asked.

  “Just once, when I was kid. I rode a pony at a fair.”

  “Well,” he said with a smile, “you are now going to learn to ride a horse.”

  CHAPTER 16

  A CITY GIRL BORN AND BRED, Nicole had always been a little envious of the horsemen and horsewomen depicted in books or movies, who seemed so content and comfortable around their animals. Still, the prospect of riding a horse made her a little nervous.

  Under Michael’s direction, the experience proved to be unlike anything Nicole had expected or imagined.

  “I use a special kind of bridle which I braid by hand from rawhide,” he explained, slipping the lightweight woven bridle over the horse’s nose and head. “My father taught me how to make these when I was a child. Many Native Americans used a similar device. They call it an Indian Hackamore.”

  “There’s no bit,” Nicole observed in surprise.

  “I don’t believe in bits. Would you like it if someone stuck a hunk of metal into your mouth and banged it against your tongue and gums?”

  “No,” Nicole admitted, “but people have been using bits on horses for ages, haven’t they?”

  “That doesn’t make it right. A well-trained horse doesn’t need one. Most people steer a horse by pulling on its mouth instead of intuitively feeling and telling the horse what they want to do.”

  “Not all of us have telepathic communication skills,” Nicole pointed out.

  “Any human being can learn to communicate to a horse with their body—to become one with the horse. I’ll show you how it’s done.” As Michael slid open the doors to the adjacent arena, cold air filtered in.

  “Aren’t you going to put a saddle on her?” Nicole asked.

  “I have saddles,” Michael shrugged, “but I rarely use them. Riding with a saddle is like riding a bus. You’re not actually driving the bus, you’re just sitting on it as a passenger. If you really want to ride a horse, you have to feel the horse with your legs. You have to ride bareback.”

  Nicole stared at him. “Bareback?”

  “Trust me. You’ll love it.”

  Nicole was dubious as they entered the immense, covered outdoor arena, which had a lofty ceiling and a sandy floor enclosed by a five-foot-high circular fence. Scattered piles of snow had accumulated against the walls in certain areas, blown in by the wind, but for the most part the space was pristine. She could see their breath in the frosty air as they talked, but her sweater, hat, ski jacket, and gloves kept her warm.

  “I used to be constrained to do all my riding at night or on overcast days,” Michael said. “Sometimes even that was a problem. They have a saying up here: if you don’t like the weather,

  “Oh no! What did you do?”

  “I raced for cover under the trees and had to wait for night-fall. It was a pain. Now I can ride whenever I want, day or night, rain, snow, or shine. So, do you want to go first?”

  Nicole abdicated that privilege to him. Michael leaped up nimbly onto the horse’s back in one swift motion, as easily as if he’d swung his leg over a rail.

  For the next quarter of an hour, Nicole sat on the fence and watched with delight as Michael exercised the horse, at first simply walking, trotting, and cantering around the arena in one direction or another. Michael rode with a kind of understated elegance that was a pleasure to see. His legs hung naturally at the horse’s sides, his knees only slightly bent, his shoulders to the back of his hips to his heels in a perfectly straight line. No matter how fast or slow he rode, he maintained a graceful, relaxed, but straight profile. The amazing thing to Nicole was that, even without a saddle or bridle, he always seemed to be in perfect control, leaving the reins lying loosely over the horse’s neck and using only his legs—and presumably his thoughts—to give her direction.

  Michael demonstrated a couple of tricks, bringing Pockets up onto her hind legs and dancing, to which Nicole responded with cheers and applause.

  Then the real fun began.

  “Don’t move from that rail,” Michael sternly instructed Nicole.

  Michael leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck. Pockets broke into a gallop, tearing around the arena at breakneck speed, which escalated—to Nicole’s astonishment—into a blur of motion. Nicole had never seen anything, be it man, beast, or machine, move that fast. It was like a bolt of lightning, like liquid color racing around in a circle at the speed of light. When they slowed and became visible again, they returned to Nicole’s side at a trot. She was speechless.

  “Your turn,” Michael said, his lips twitching with the effort to hide a smile as he casually dismounted before her. The horse had barely worked up a sweat.

  “What on earth was that?” Nicole cried, when she found her voice. “Is she a vampire horse?”

  Michael laughed. “No.”

  “Then how—”

  “It’s not that much different than when I carried you to and from the house to the conservatory. Usually, I let my horses carry me. But sometimes—when I want to go really fast—I carry them.”

  “You carry them?” Nicole repeated in disbelief.

  “It’s all in the arms, thighs, and knees, and a bit of the mind—a mingling technique that’s taken me a long time to master. I transfer my speed and strength to them. They think it’s fun, like being on a roller coaster.”

  “Okay. I have no idea how that works, but seriously, it was amazing. I think we should forget about me riding. How could I follow something like that?”

  Michael wasn’t about to let her get out of it, though, and neither was Pockets. Probably responding to one of Michael’s

  “That’s a pretty clear offer, if I’ve ever seen one,” Michael said with a grin.

  “All right, let’s do this. But I just want to walk. Slowly. Nothing fancy, okay?”

  “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

  “How do I climb on?”

  “Like this.” Michael put his hands around Nicole’s waist and effortlessly lifted her up onto the animal’s back. “Take a deep breath and sink down onto the horse. Let your legs hang naturally, don’t squeeze. Relax your back, arms, and shoulders, while maintaining good posture.”

  It was a lot to remember. Nicole did her best to settle astride the horse’s back as directed, feeling a little precarious, and surprised by how warm the animal was. Even through the heavy fabric of her jeans, Nicole could feel the horse’s moist body heat radiating up into her thighs. As Nicole instinctively gathered the reins into one hand, Michael said:

  “Remember, the reins are a crutch people use to communicate with the horse’s mouth. Hold onto them, but know that you can communicate through your body. When you want the horse to walk, just open the door.”

  “Open the door?”

  “Gently tense the back of your thighs and tighten your butt cheeks. That signals the horse to move forward. Tell it to walk.”

  Nicole tried to implement his instructions. Nothing happened.

  “Try again,” Michael said. “You’ll get it.”

  Once more, Nicole focused on the body parts he’d described. “Walk,” she said. To her surprise, the horse moved forward.

  “When you want her to stop, take a deep breath, let it out, relax, and say whoa. If she doesn’t stop, then lightly pull back on the reins.”

  It was more than a little scary to be riding bareback atop this great beast, and disconcerting to have nothing to hold onto. Michael walked by her side as they slowly ambled around the arena, and he taught Nicole how to turn or moderate her speed, using subtle pressures of her legs.

  “Keep your arms close to your body,” he said, “so everything’s as close as possible to your center of gravity. That’s perfect. You’re doing great.”

  “Yeah—great. I’m
not falling off,” Nicole quipped.

  After a while, however, Nicole found her balance and began to relax a bit. The horse was very well trained and responded to her commands. Sensing her newfound confidence, Michael leaned back against the fence and told Nicole she could take the horse on a turn on her own.

  As Nicole rode slowly around the arena, she stroked Pockets gently on the side of her neck. She could feel the horse’s hard spine and muscles beneath her thighs. Every movement of the animal’s body seemed to ripple through her, as if they were moving together. Nicole knew she was totally green, that it took people years to become adept riders; yet for the first time, she had an inkling of what Michael meant by the phrase

  That’s when Nicole heard the sound. It came out of nowhere and was very close by, a sharp, loud crack, like the report of gunfire. What the hell? Nicole thought in alarm. Was someone shooting at them?

  At the sudden noise the horse shied sideways and took off running. Nicole gasped in sheer terror, the pit of her stomach falling out, trying to hold on for dear life with her thighs and heels as she pulled back on the reins. The horse wouldn’t stop. It raced across the arena like a rocket. Nicole felt herself slipping from its back. She made a desperate grab for the horse’s mane but it was too late.

  She was falling, falling into thin air.

  Then just as suddenly she was being swept up by Michael’s strong arms and held snugly against his chest.

  Nicole’s mind whirled. Her heart pounded. Michael’s lips were at her ear. “Are you all right?” he uttered urgently.

  “Y—yes,” she stammered, struggling to calm herself.

  Michael gently set Nicole down on her feet, and without another word he dashed like a streak of light toward the frantic horse, who was racing around the arena with flared nostrils and terror in her eyes. Suddenly Michael appeared on Pockets’ back. The horse reared in surprise. Then, as if by magic, she began to slow down, the fear left her eyes, she dropped her head, and her breathing slowed. Michael trotted over to where Nicole was standing and stopped.