Subira and I hurried down the path through the low-hanging clouds and fog. I don’t know what I had expected, but Mom throwing the contents of the slow cooker onto the floor hadn’t been on my list of predictable actions. To say she didn’t take the news well was an understatement. I was mad at myself for not asking Uncle Ian to talk to her first. He would have been much better at convincing her. He would have made her see why this was necessary.
I couldn’t make out anything beyond a few yards in front of me. By the time I got to the barn my hair and jacket were soaked, as if it had been raining.
“Hey, Derek,” I said, stomping my feet at the entrance to the barn, trying to dislodge the mud from my boots. The horses were still in their stalls, rustling sounds filling the barn as the horses moved their hay around, searching for that perfect breakfast bite.
Derek had Ness, Payton’s pony, in the tack-up stall.
Subira ran up to Derek, wagging her tail, giving a little whine to say hello to him. He leaned down to pet her. “Morning, B. How are you this fine morning?”
“Oh, you have no idea.”
“What’s going on?” He stood with one hand on his hip, his other holding a currycomb. Becoming his so-called boss was proving a difficult transition. I had always been the kid he had hung out with around the barn, the one he’d taught how to groom, the one with whom he’d joked and played games. How was I supposed to manage him when he knew all my moods and I couldn’t hide anything from him?
I shook my head. I was overanalyzing. “Nothing much. Just a bit of a rough morning.”
“The day hasn’t even started.” He rubbed at his goatee.
“It has for me.” I looked at him more closely. “I meant to ask before, what is that thing growing on your face? Some sort of hedgehog? Trying to look more grown-up or something?”
“Whatever, girl. You don’t know from style.” He smiled, walking over to a mirror that hung in the alcove of the front entry doors.
I followed and leaned against the wall, watching him as he turned his face right and left to check out his goatee from both sides. I cleared my throat, then said, “Jason’s starting today.”
“I know. You told me before I left Sunday.” Derek arched a brow, then walked back over to Ness, rubbing her with a currycomb in methodical circles.
Of course I had. “Well, we’ll see how it goes, I guess.” God, I hoped I’d made the right decision. “He should be here by ten, so I’m going to get caught up on some paperwork in the office. Can you have Jett ready for me then?”
The next couple of hours flew by. I figured out the schedule for the week, coordinating the horse training rides and lessons. Since we didn’t have many clients left, I finished scheduling in under a half hour. Dust motes filled the air, so instead of working on the bills, I opened the blinds, dusted the pictures on the walls, wiped down my desk and the top of the filing cabinet, tossed my stash of Toblerone bars and Sour Patch Kids from the desk drawer, then finally got to the huge pile that I’d been ignoring for the last two weeks.
Opening each bill was like working on a rotting, maggot-infested wound—I’d seen enough of those on the neglected horses we’d been called out to in the Sacramento area via animal welfare. First the farrier bill, the vet bill, the hay bill, the grain bill, the one for shavings and the additional broken feed buckets, the electricity, the water, and of course, Derek’s salary . . .
I closed my eyes for a moment and massaged my temples. Some of the bills were more than thirty days past due. I had already asked the vendors if I could pay next month. Now next month was here.
I pushed open the window in Dad’s office—my office—inhaling the moist air, closing my eyes, letting it fill my lungs. I stood on tiptoe and stretched up my arms as far as I could reach, then moved into a downward-dog yoga pose, releasing the pressure from in between my shoulder blades, loving the extension in my lower back. I’d never really practiced yoga, only taken a class or two at college, but of the poses I remembered, this was my favorite.
“Looks like you’re ready to rock and roll.” Jason’s voice startled me, and I practically fell forward on my head. He was holding a box, with two yoga mats slung across his shoulder.
I managed to right myself, though not as gracefully as I’d hoped. “You’re early.”
“Thought we’d get the day going. No use wasting any more precious time.”
Jason placed the box down, turned on my desk lamp and turned off the overhead light. He rolled the mats out side by side facing the window, a little too close to each other for my liking. Then from the box, he pulled out a blue glazed pot filled with sand. Inside stood three candles. He lit them all, and placed the pot on the table next to the window. He eyed me up and down. “You don’t plan on practicing in that?”
“I didn’t think we’d be starting with yoga today,” I said, running a hand down the front of my britches.
“Rule number four. Yoga. Did you already forget?”
“Can’t we start tomorrow? I’m already dressed for riding.”
“Are you challenging me?” Jason sighed, then squatted and started rolling up one of the mats. “I’m wasting my time,” he muttered under his breath.
“No. God, no. I was just thinking it would be easier. But it’s not a problem. I’ll go get changed.”
“I’ll give you five minutes.”
By the time I got back, Jason was sitting cross-legged, his thumbs and forefingers together, palms up on his knees, his back to me. He wore a tight gray shirt and red yoga pants, and a wide woven bracelet on each wrist. I tried not to disturb him as I pulled off my jacket and Danskos, and sat next to him on the other mat, wishing I was anywhere but here. This seemed completely unnatural, and, if I really thought about it, kind of crazy.
I could just imagine what Derek—and my dad—would think if they saw us here like this.
“Let’s start with settling your mind. We’ll do a bit of chanting, then we’ll begin.”
I let out a groan.
“Don’t go dismissing it until you’ve given it a chance.” In front of him sat an instrument I’d never seen before. Like a small keyboard. He played the keyboard with his right hand while pumping the back of the instrument with his left. It sounded a bit like an organ. “Just fake it ’til you make it. It’s the easiest chant.” He laughed, and closed his eyes and sang a tune in Sanskrit. Lokah, Samastah, Sukhino, Bhavantu. He repeated this over and over, and I had to admit, it had a bit of a soothing effect, though I never closed my eyes, and turned several times back toward the door to make sure Derek wasn’t watching. I didn’t sing along, but Jason didn’t comment on that. When he finished, he told me with time it would come easier.
Then he placed his smartphone on the table and attached a cord to a small set of speakers. U2’s “Beautiful Day” filled the office. We got into child’s pose, and Jason started talking about how we needed to offer the practice to others in our lives, and how the best way to ride was to clear our minds of thought, and to be in the moment, just like horses were.
“They never think of the past or future,” Jason said. “What happened in the past, stays in the past, and we can’t predict the future, so the only thing we can control is now, and right now, the only thing you need to think of is simply, nothing.”
We moved through some poses that made my thighs and arms shake. My hips and chest were especially tight. While in triangle pose, Jason came off his yoga mat and stood next to me, and I practically lost my balance right then. He placed a block in front of my shin, moved my hand to it, then placed his hand on my hip and adjusted it by pulling it to the left and up. His thighs pressed into mine from behind, pushing my whole body to the right.
“You need to stay in one line here, and keep your hips straight, as if there was a wall behind you.”
I flinched, and tried not to jerk away, feeling heat in my face and wishing he’d move. What would Chris think about this? Jason slowly released me, and I glanced down, trying to keep my balance. He went ba
ck to his mat, and took the triangle pose himself. Then he asked for ardha chandrasana, or half-moon pose. Unlike me, he had no problems with the pose, and instead of getting into the full pose, I watched him instead, taking the chance to catch my breath.
When we finished, he bowed and said, “Om, Shanti, Shanti, Shanti.”
I bowed in return. “So. Can we ride now?”
Jett stood groomed and tacked up in the cross ties. He pawed at the ground, as if anxious to start his training for the Gold Cup as well.
Jason walked up to Jett, and reached out his hand toward his muzzle. Jett mouthed Jason’s palm, his lips searching for a treat. Jason moved methodically, calm and sure of himself. He ducked under the cross tie and stood next to Jett in the tack-up stall, one hand on Jett’s neck. His fingers patted Jett while he scanned the tack. He ran his hand down the back of Jett’s front leg and laid it on his hoof. Jett, expecting the next move, tried to pick up his foot, but Jason gently pushed it down. Jett complied. Once satisfied with whatever he was looking for, Jason asked Jett to lift his foot by gently squeezing the tendon that ran down the back of the canon bone toward the hoof. He examined Jett’s shoes, running a finger along the edges, brushed some dirt with the brush on the back of the hoof pick off the bottom of the hoof, touched the frog, tapped the hoof, then placed it down. During this whole time Jason didn’t say a word to me, only made low sounds that I couldn’t decipher. But Jett listened, his ears moving back and forth like radar dishes.
“It’s good to know what he looks like now,” Jason said, “to know his conformation, to know where he stands at when he’s normal, so that I have something to refer to if I’m ever trying to pinpoint an ailment.”
I didn’t respond, understanding but surprised, and impressed, at his thoroughness. It was how my dad would have approached a new horse in training.
“What type of bit do you ride him in?”
“I’ve been using an elevator bit,” I said. “It helps me get control. He gets very excited when he sees the jumps, and I need to be able to slow him down. To bring him back.”
“Hmmm. We’ll switch that to a loose-ring snaffle bit today. It’s a lot gentler. Derek? Can you bring me one? He looks to be a five and a quarter.”
I hadn’t even noticed Derek still waiting around. He looked at me for approval. A snaffle bit was one of the softest bits, and although I would normally approve, Dad and I had tried riding Jett in a snaffle, and quickly came to realize he took off with me after big jumps. I didn’t have the strength to pull him back.
“I’m not sure I feel comfortable—” I started to say to Jason’s back as he inspected Jett’s hind leg.
Jason stood, turning toward me. He raised an eyebrow. “Remember? We were going to do it my way.”
A flash of annoyance went through me. I tightened my fists at my sides and counted to ten before I said anything rash.
“Derek. Can you get that bit?” I didn’t want to show any weakness, but I also didn’t want to seem confrontational.
Jason undid the bridle, then took it off so that Derek could switch bits and put the halter on while we waited. He took stock of the saddle. “This saddle pad is no good. See here?” He placed his fingers between the hollow of the saddle pad and the saddle, right above Jett’s withers.
“I’ve researched all kinds. This gel one is supposed to be the best.”
“Maybe for other horses, but not for him. And besides, it’s mostly a gimmick. It feels all cushy, but in reality it will slip, leaving no protection for Jett when you come down on his withers after a high jump.” Jason placed his hand on Jett’s back. “He’s got unusual conformation. His withers are higher than most warmbloods’, more like a thoroughbred’s. We need to use a regular cotton pad and a thick fleece. It’s lighter and breathes better, too.”
I had to bite my lip. I wanted to tell him where he could shove that saddle pad. Dad and I had agreed on the perfect fit for Jett. I lifted a finger to my mouth to bite at my cuticles, but stopped myself, grabbing my riding gloves instead. They were good protection from myself.
“Did you want to ride him today?” I asked.
“No. I want to see you both go.” Jason replaced Jett’s bridle himself and readjusted the saddle.
“Then let’s get going.”
The drizzle had turned to rain, and Jason had to raise his voice so that I could hear him above the pounding on the metal roof. I preferred to ride outside, but today we didn’t have a choice. At least we had a covered arena. Many barns in California didn’t.
“We’re going to start off with flatwork. I want to see you working him as if you were riding in a dressage show,” Jason called to me as he took down some of the jump course I had set up in preparation of our lesson. Both Jett and I kept our ears cocked toward Jason, trying to hear him over the rain. After circling the arena a couple of times at a walk, I trotted, then cantered.
Jason had me bending Jett to the right and left, doing extended trot, collected trot, extended canter, and collected canter.
“Stop for a second,” he called.
To show off, I stopped Jett instantly, his hind end almost sliding underneath like a Western reining horse. If Jason was impressed, he didn’t show it.
“Your hand position is too low.” Jason walked over to us. I halted at the center of the arena. He reached up and touched my hand to raise it up a good three inches. His hand lingered on mine, before he pulled it away. I looked away, feeling myself blush again. On the yoga mat was one thing, but off the mat it really felt too intimate.
“Better?” I said, placing my hands and arms at the height he had raised them to, trying to ignore the contact.
“That’s a good angle,” Jason said, barely touching my sleeve now. “What you want is a good lever on his mouth. Not too high, not too low. It’s all about physics. You’ll need to exert a lot less power on his mouth if you have the right contact, allowing him to come underneath you, giving you greater control. It’s not about the severity of the bit, but how gently and persuasively you ask for him to listen to you. If you ask quietly, yet firmly, he’ll give, and come back to you even at the biggest jumps. But you have to stop jerking on his mouth. The right angle will help.”
“I never jerk on his mouth.”
“You may not think you do, but the angle is way off. That’s why he’s tossing his head. You should be able to tell the difference now.”
I started riding again, conscious of my hand position. He had me riding in circles and figure eights, and I had to admit—if not out loud—that although the higher hand position felt awkward, it was better in some ways, giving me finer contact with Jett’s sensitive mouth, lifting him into a higher frame. As long as I could remember I’d always ridden with my hands where they had been, but now Jett came underneath me, responding to my cues as if I didn’t even have to move a finger, with only my thoughts to guide him. After forty minutes of dressage-type movements, Jason had me canter over ground poles, each spaced one to two strides apart.
“All right then. That’s a wrap for today.”
I looked over at him confused. “What?” I called above the rain.
“That’s a wrap for today!”
“We haven’t even jumped yet!” The rain poured down around us.
“We’ll do more work tomorrow.” Jason picked up the jump poles, putting them away.
I walked Jett closer to Jason and stared down at him.
“I want to win the Cup this year.” I glared, hoping I appeared more fierce than angry.
“I realize that. Let’s take it nice and easy.”
He turned and walked out of the arena.
I took a deep breath like we’d practiced that morning, but it didn’t make a difference. Jett tossed his head, agitated, his body twisting, wound like a spring. He sensed my anger, and combined with the blowing rain and now a harsh wind, it made him anxious. I rode on, my hands gripping the reins, my legs too tight around Jett. Around the next corner Jett jumped several feet to the left. I felt
like a rag doll, tossed, but I grabbed onto his mane to regain my seat. My heart rate shot up even higher. I glanced behind me to see what had spooked Jett. A hawk had landed on a nearby branch, watching us.
I reached down, touching Jett’s neck. He had cooled out enough, and his breathing had settled. I hopped off, throwing a wool cooler blanket over him.
“Jason!” I called out as I walked back into the barn. He stood, his back to me, talking to Derek. Derek laughed at something. Subira leaned against Jason’s leg while Jason scratched her head. Traitor, I thought, frowning at Subira.
“Great job, Brynn,” Jason said as I neared. I narrowed my eyes. Derek moved to take Jett’s reins from me, his laugh gone now, his smile disappearing as he noticed my expression.
“What the hell was that all about?” I enunciated each word carefully. “I’m not someone you need to teach the basics to. I did your yoga shit this morning, didn’t I? We need to work on our jumping, not some stupid dressage moves. Don’t forget, I’ve been doing this for years. My dad was one of the best trainers out there. He rode in World Cup qualifiers.”
Jason leaned against the corner of the tack-up stall. His face was devoid of emotion, like the concrete walls of the stall. I sensed Derek found my outburst amusing, but lucky for him he didn’t say anything as he continued to groom Jett.
“Tell me, Brynn, did your dad ever win?” Jason asked, bending over to pick up a rock.
I frowned at him. “Of course he won. What are you getting at?”
“What did he win, Brynn?” He turned the rock over in his fingers. Such a small rock handled so gently in his big hands.
“I don’t know.” I hesitated, thinking back to the pictures hanging on the wall of the office. “Shows. Grand Prix. Too many to remember.” I pulled at the chinstrap of my helmet, unbuckling it.
“Too many to remember?” Only the sound of the rain on the roof echoed around us. Jett’s tail stopped swishing. Derek paused his brushing and watched us.
“Yes. Too many to remember . . .” I paused then. Asshole. He got me. Dad may have won, but he’d never had the prestige of winning the World Cup, like Jason had. Dad was always second or third, never first when it mattered most.
Learning to Fall Page 14
