Taking the Reins

by Carolyn McSparren

  Charlie found the students’ dishes neatly stacked on the rolling cart in the common room, the kitchen clean and the table scoured. She rolled the cart back to the kitchen, where Vittorio and Sarah were loading the dishes from the colonel’s table into the dishwasher.

  Vittorio, who seldom spoke even when he was happy, merely rolled his eyes at her, sighed deeply and began to unload the trolley.

  “I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “We’ll work something out so you don’t have to stay late to clean up this mess.”

  “Good,” he said. “Go.” Sarah started to strip off her apron. Vittorio pointed a stubby index finger at her. “Not you. You eat, you clean.”

  “Mom...”

  “Hey, it’s his kitchen. Thanks, Vittorio. Leave the sweet rolls out. I’ll heat them up tomorrow morning for the students.”

  “Huh.” He turned away with an empty platter in his hands. “These people—they eat. Even that skinny girl with the scars.” Eating his food was the biggest compliment anyone could give Vittorio.

  “Wait until I start teaching them. Then they’ll eat us out of house and home.”

  She walked back to the stable, knocked on Mickey’s door and found him tucked up in bed with a graphic novel. “You manage okay?” she asked, then immediately regretted her words. “I mean...”

  “I managed,” he said with a grin. “Don’t worry about me. I won’t break my neck.”

  “What’s with you and Hank?”

  He didn’t answer for a long moment. She had started to turn away, when he said, “The colonel says he’s jealous. I may be messed up, but at least I’m physically whole.”

  “So he undercuts you and tries to make you fail?” Charlie said.

  “Hey, Charlie, it’s his problem. Don’t sweat it, okay? I can take care of myself.”

  After she said good-night to Mickey, she stopped by Mary Anne’s door, heard her moving around, but didn’t disturb her.

  She figured Sean would check on Jake. She really didn’t want to tackle Hank at the moment. But she would soon. He needed an attitude adjustment bad.

  She walked back to the house. Man, she was tired. She really hadn’t worked that hard physically today. Starting tomorrow, when she had to teach her students, she’d be totally exhausted by lunch.

  So why did she feel as if she’d been dragged backward through a knothole?

  Because emotional labor was harder than physical labor. Because she already cared about these people as people, not just students. Especially Jake. Now where had that come from?

  She was too keyed up to sleep, no matter how badly she wanted to. She needed some quiet time without anybody asking her for decisions or direction. She wanted to think about her students.

  One of them, at any rate.

  She walked out onto the dark patio behind the den and sank onto the glider. She stretched her legs in front of her and rested her head on the back. If she weren’t careful, she’d fall asleep out here and wake up unable to straighten her spine.

  F. Scott Fitzgerald was right—nights like this couldn’t be called anything except tender. A cool zephyr toyed with the hair at the nape of her neck and played across the skin of her throat and arms as gently as a lover’s caress.

  She closed her eyes and listened to the soft sounds of the evening. In mid-August such breezes were an unusual blessing. Normally, the temperature wouldn’t drop more than five degrees after the sun went down. The nights were steamy, the air a mosquito-laden miasma that wouldn’t relent until late September.

  But on a clear night like tonight, so many stars shimmered in the Milky Way that they tumbled like celestial milk poured from a pitcher. Charlie sighed deeply, and let the beauty seep into her bones.

  * * *

  UNABLE TO DECIDE whether to slip silently back into the common room or speak to her, Jake stood in the small stand of oaks and maples behind the patio and watched Charlie. He’d come out to see if he could recapture that peace he’d felt gazing at the stars at home when he was a kid. Instead, he was troubled by the same memories of those that hadn’t survived.

  He hadn’t expected to see anyone else.

  He could either melt back into the trees or say something to Charlie. If he didn’t choose one or the other, he might stand here until morning when Sean found him.

  The colonel kept reminding him that he couldn’t avoid choice, and that he should make small ones that didn’t matter. He wasn’t crazy enough to believe that if he killed a butterfly in Mexico, he could trigger a tsunami in Samoa, but something warned him that where Charlie was concerned, his smallest decision might cause a personal earthquake for both of them. His decisions hurt people and left him alone. She had enough on her plate without adding him to the mix.

  She straightened and looked into the dark. “Is somebody there?”

  She’d made his decision for him. “Just Jake,” he said. He came out and walked up to the patio. When she motioned to the glider, he sat down beside her. The roses around the patio smelled sweet, but the scent of pure woman was headier by far.

  Where his thigh lay along hers he felt his skin tingle. How long had it been since he’d reacted to the nearness of an attractive woman? After the attack, his body had shut down along with his mind. The doctors told him it was his way to heal faster by pulling whatever energy he had into his core. He didn’t believe them.

  He was used to being numb, but if he allowed himself to feel, could he control the intensity of his emotions? Or would they wake hungry for sensation like a newly wakened grizzly starved for blackberries?

  Charlie had caught her breath when he sat beside her, and her shoulders tensed. Even though she’d invited him to sit with her, she might be afraid of him. That would be funny if it weren’t so disturbing.

  Her hand lay on her thigh. He could reach over and take it. If he chose. She wouldn’t make that decision for him.

  She’d probably slap his hand away and bolt for the house. He wouldn’t be able to stay here if that happened, and he admitted he wanted to stay. A small choice but a choice all the same. This woman, this place, were already beginning to smooth out his soul.

  When she realized he didn’t intend to touch her, she relaxed and asked, “Where did you learn to drive draft horses?”

  “In Missouri. On my father’s farm.” Simple question, simple answer. “Where did you?”

  “Here. On my grandfather’s farm.” She waved a hand. “I spent every moment I could here—vacations, school holidays. I spent a whole year on the farm while my parents were stationed in Belgium. I wanted to graduate here, but the colonel said I had to join them after they came home.”

  “You don’t sound happy about that.”

  “Try furious. Granddad fought to keep me, but nobody fights the colonel and wins. Oh, he thought he was doing the best thing for all of us. He always does.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe I said that.” She touched his hand. “The colonel really is an excellent psychologist. I mustn’t undermine him in your eyes.”

  She removed her hand, but he could feel the lingering warmth of her fingers. “Not so expert with his own family?” He’d assumed the colonel was a genius with everyone, not just his patients. Thanks to him, Jake could at least acknowledge that most of his problem with decisions arose from his survivor guilt.

  Actually, to discover the colonel had feet of good Tennessee clay was somehow reassuring. “Haven’t you heard that old cliché that psychologists and psychiatrists raise bratty kids?” Charlie said. “You’ve plowed with horses, so you know the difference between telling a horse to ‘gee’ or ‘haw,’ don’t you?”

  He nodded although she couldn’t see him. “Go right or left.”

  “When I was twelve, I hung out at the post stables in Maryland after school nearly every day. I didn’t own my own horse, but there was a
big half Percheron that I rode whenever I could. Daddy hated that I didn’t go in for golf or tennis or some team sport that would—and I quote—serve me in later life. When we moved, I wanted to buy Doyle and bring him down to Granddad’s, but Daddy wouldn’t let me. Mom, as usual, backed him up. He said I already had horses to ride during my vacations, and we certainly couldn’t ship a horse to the District of Columbia and pay expensive board. He just didn’t get it. Leaving Doyle for the next kid to ride nearly killed me.”

  He felt his heart go out to her. When he left home, he’d missed the horses almost as much as he missed his family, even though leaving them behind had been his choice. “I’m sorry.”

  “He still doesn’t think he did anything wrong.” She spread her arms wide. “What was the big deal? I could ride when I came down here. After Mom got sick, I didn’t have time for extracurricular activities anyway. We declared a truce for her sake, but I’ve never forgotten.”

  She turned to him, and even in the dark he could see the glint of tears in her eyes. “After she died, when he said gee, I went haw.”

  He longed to take her in his arms, but she might mistake his comfort for something else. Besides, if the colonel walked out to the patio, he might deck Jake. How could the man be so empathetic toward his patients and so blind to his daughter? “He does miraculous things as a psychologist,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll help you. I can’t believe you let me run my mouth like that.”

  “I’m honored you told me.”

  He expected she’d bolt, but she stayed quiet and moved the glider with her toe.

  Maybe he could lighten the atmosphere between them. In the distance the sound of a bullfrog filled the silence. Jake took that as his cue. “Well, Mr. Bullfrog, I hope the lady you’re courting appreciates your fine bass baritone.”

  Charlie sighed and relaxed. “I wonder what he did to shut down his rivals.”

  An answering chorus settled that question.

  “They sound like one of those Russian army choruses,” Jake said. “No tenors need apply.”

  “The peepers have their own choir,” Charlie said. “And then there are the cicadas—they remind me of fingernails on a blackboard.”

  “Not this late in the summer.”

  Sitting beside him, Charlie felt grateful that he’d directed the subject away from her and her life. It was so easy to open up to Jake. Was that what Mary Anne had sensed? What had she told him when she was locked in her room? He might not trust himself, but Mary Anne trusted him. So did Charlie.

  And boy, was that dangerous. “We’d both better get to bed,” she said, stopping the movement of the glider and standing up. “Tomorrow’s going to be a tough day.”

  She left him sitting alone and fled up the stairs to her room. Did cold showers work for females? She washed off her makeup, brushed her teeth, pulled on the T-shirt she slept in and crawled into the big Lincoln bed, sure that she’d sleep. But her mind kept churning.

  Jake was a stranger, a student and a soldier. Triple threat.

  After Steve died, she vowed never to allow anyone remotely military into her life again. No more warriors. No more dragging around the world after them and making a new home each time, the way her mother had done for her father. No more sudden deployments to Nowheresville or the other side of the world. No more shaking with terror every time the doorbell rang for fear it was the bad one—the notification that her husband was dead. Once was enough. She and Sarah had never been enough for Steve. Oh, he’d tried, but in the final analysis the pleasure of being with his wife and daughter couldn’t compete with his need to be back in the action. Between deployments, he loathed being a garrison soldier. He was addicted to danger and eventually, like most addictions, it killed him.

  Warriors were great to have around when Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun were just over the horizon and coming fast. Not so great when they weren’t.

  Sitting next to Jake, she could feel her resolution to avoid warriors weakening. Bad. Bad and stupid. Jake might seem gentle, he might be an ex-soldier, but she could still sense the testosterone.

  She’d fallen for Steve on sight. In the fourteen years they’d been married, she’d never looked at another man, even though that meant months of celibacy while he was on temporary duty or deployed somewhere she and Sarah couldn’t follow.

  He’d really had to work to kill her love for him, but he’d finally managed.

  No matter how attracted she was to Jake, he was her student. Not acceptable. He also had psychological problems that she couldn’t possibly inflict on Sarah.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “OKAY, YOU TENDERFOOTS—tenderfeet—time to take your breakfast dishes into the house, pick up your hats and gloves, and learn the fine art of stall mucking.” Charlie realized what she’d said after the words left her mouth. She gave a quick glance at Hank, but he seemed not to have caught her incredible gaffe. Calling him a tenderfoot! How could she?

  She caught Jake’s eye and felt herself blushing. He’d made the connection, all right. He gave a tiny nod as though to assure her that he absolved her. For a man who ignored his own lunch, he was too aware of the nuances of other people’s behavior.

  “I did you a big favor this morning,” she continued. “I’ve already fed and watered the horses. From here on you’ll do that before breakfast. Then we muck stalls. I did not do that for you.”

  “I’m exempt from mucking stalls,” Mickey said cheerfully. “I don’t swing a pitchfork too good from a wheelchair.”

  “Put on your doggone leg braces,” Hank snapped. “Aren’t you supposed to practice standing and walking?”

  “He can’t pick up a pitchfork full of horse manure yet,” Sean said, and turned to Mickey. “Good try, kid. I didn’t get my sergeant stripes putting up with slackers. I will personally find some nasty chore you can do sitting down.”

  “You’re retired, Sarge,” Mickey said with a grin. “You ain’t the boss o’ me any longer.”

  “But I am,” Charlie said, and slapped the back of the wheelchair cheerfully. “While the rest of us are learning to muck horse manure out of stalls, I’ll set you up in the tack room with saddle soap and harness polish. I’ll bet you know how to put a spit shine on leather, am I right?”

  Mickey groaned. “When do I get to try out that handicapped carriage the colonel was talking about yesterday?”

  “After you’ve learned how to handle the reins and been approved by an instructor. Me. And you won’t be driving alone for a while.”

  She glanced around the table. “Since our regular grooms are on vacation, you’ll be doing their work as well as learning to drive. You can get used to handling reins by practicing on a rein board that emulates what it feels like to drive a horse. We have three in the tack room. We’ll rotate, since I imagine some of you need more practice than others.” She smiled at Jake, who had joined them after breakfast. She hadn’t bothered to try to get him to eat breakfast with them. Lunch was another matter.

  She was grateful that he acted as though nothing had happened between them last night.

  “Our grooms, Maurice and DeMarcus, feed and water at seven every morning.” She slid into one of the remaining chairs around the common room table. “Then they muck stalls and help harness and put to the horses.”

  “Put to what?” Sean asked.

  “That’s what you call harnessing a horse,” Charlie said. “And a horse that is harnessed to a cart or carriage is called being ‘in draft.’ There are a lot of peculiar terms and traditions about carriage driving because it’s been around such a long time. Any of you ever see the big parades from England with the fancy golden carriages and all the white horses?”

  Several heads nodded. Jake’s didn’t move.

  “The carriages are fancier than ours, but we do the same things. The horses are already well broke and used to being
in draft, but there’s not a horse in the world that won’t spook in certain circumstances.” Charlie glanced at Mary Anne and saw her twist her hands in her lap. “It’s not like driving a truck or a motorcycle. Remember, the horse wants to survive, too. The motorcycle doesn’t give a darn.”

  Charlie decided to see if she could borrow a small pony and cart from one of her carriage-driving friends for Mary Anne to try. She might be less frightened behind a pony. She could progress to a horse. If they were lucky.

  “Now, you’re also going to learn what it takes to run a farm like this. Yesterday I picked up twenty bags of rolled oats from the feed store, and some trace mineral blocks. They need to be unloaded from my truck. Then later, a load of bagged wood shavings is being delivered from a sawmill in Mississippi.”

  “Mary Anne can’t pick up fifty-pound feed bags,” Hank said.

  “I can pick up anything you can,” Mary Anne snapped.

  “Sure you can,” Hank snickered.

  “This is not a contest,” Charlie said. She noted that Hank’s snide remark had brought Jake’s gaze up, but he said nothing. Jake’s fuse might be long, but she suspected it would burn hot once somebody lit it. If he hadn’t had some propensity for violence, why would he have joined the army?

  She continued. “The horses that are not actually on the driving roster are in pasture. That includes four Percheron mares, two of whom have foals at foot. We’ll take a look at them after lunch. One shire mare is pregnant with a late foal, the other is barren this year. So, with luck, you’ll get to see a baby born sometime soon. If we can catch her having it, that is.”

  “Can’t you tell when it’s coming?” Mary Anne asked.

  “Theoretically. But mares are sneaky. We’ll bring her into the foaling stall when she starts showing signs she’s close to labor, but she’ll probably wait until the darkest, stormiest night of the year when everybody’s back is turned before she drops her foal.” She nodded. “Okay, people, let’s get to it.”