Summer at Mustang Ridge

by Jesse Hayworth

  Lucky lost interest in getting scratched, craned around, and took a nip at Foster’s sleeve. He got an “Ah-ah” in the cowboy’s deep, warning growl, and subsided, looking suddenly angelic.

  Shelby smothered a laugh. Foster shot her a wink. “He keeps this up and little Lucky Bugg is going to find himself nicknamed Bugger instead of Lucky.” To Lizzie, he said, “We’re going to use a butt rope to nudge him along.” He demonstrated by clipping a long, soft cotton rope underneath Lucky’s chin, looping it around his body and under his tail, and then back around, so Foster could pull on the lead and tail rope at the same time, urging the young horse to take a few steps with a rope push from behind. “Okay, here we go. But first, which way are we going to lead him?”

  Lizzie hesitated, then pointed to Sassy.

  “Yep, that’s exactly right. We’re going to lead him in the direction he’s going to want to go. That way, he’s likely to do the right thing, and then we can praise him all over and back for being a good boy. Especially when we’re starting off, we want to set him up to succeed.”

  Which, it turned out, was easier said than done. Foster’s first attempt to lead Lucky went fine until he actually pulled on the butt rope, at which point the little guy squealed, humped his back, and went into a series of stiff-legged little bucks, just like the little wild foals had done.

  Rather than standing back and waiting until he settled, though, Foster just guided the squiggles in the direction he wanted, while ignoring the goofiness. When they reached Sassy, he gave the foal a couple of pats. Then he looked at Lizzie. “Ready?”

  To Shelby’s surprise, her daughter slipped through the fence, grabbed Sassy’s halter, and marched the mare to the other end of the paddock. Then she slipped back through the fence.

  “Good job,” Foster said, nodding as though he hadn’t expected anything different. “Okay, let’s try that again.”

  Good job? Shelby wanted to stand up and cheer, Snoopy-dance, heck, do the macarena, the robot, and the hokey pokey all at once, even though she’d be running the risk of spraining something. Instead, she grinned broadly and made herself stay put on her muck bucket as Foster and the foal wiggled their way to the other end of the paddock. Set yourself up for success, indeed. She wasn’t sure if this was really the way he would normally have taught a foal, but by the fourth pass, Lizzie was staying in the paddock with Sassy, standing with a hand on the mare’s shoulder. And Shelby had gotten over being all misty-eyed.

  This was real. It was happening. The little girl who’d spent the first week hunkered in the corner of the kitchen with her hoodie pulled up, watching whisper-quiet movies on her iPad, had blossomed into a tan, pink-helmeted kid who made “come on, you can do it!” faces as Lucky came toward her.

  Shelby’s heart wobbled in her chest. And as man and child high-fived—gently, so as not to scare the horses—she let out a soft sigh. Mine, she thought, watching the two of them together. They’re mine.

  “That’s good for today,” Foster decided after the sixth pass, when Lucky marched from one end of the pen to the other like a pro. “We don’t want him to start thinking this feels too much like work. So now we make it fun again. Come here. I’ll show you.”

  Shelby held her breath as he coached Lizzie through unclipping the lead, bundling it up in her hands, and using it to rub the foal all over his body, getting him used to the feel, and then ending with a good scratch. Lucky, bless him, didn’t move an inch. He just stood there, making joyful faces as she found his itchy spots.

  “Finally, let’s give Mama a treat”—Foster produced a small piece of carrot from a pocket—“and we’ll call it a success.”

  “Does that mean you’re ready for me?” Stace called from the barn.

  Foster looked up in surprise. “Ready for what?”

  Lizzie, though, straightened and blew a chirp on her whistle. She gave Sassy the carrot and slipped back through the fence, then stood there for a moment, took a deep breath, and beckoned a “come on” to Stace, who was still standing just inside the barn.

  Shelby sat up as Foster crossed to her. “Do you know what’s going on?”

  “At a guess, I’d say the girls cooked up something during foal watch.” He crouched down beside her, rested on his heels, and leaned back against the barn wall beside her. “I wonder what they’re—” He broke off as Stace led Peppermint out of the barn, fully tacked and ready to ride. “Well, I’ll be darned.”

  “Oh,” breathed Shelby. She caught his hand and squeezed tightly. “Oh, please.” When Lizzie looked over at her, she summoned a calm, expectant expression that said no biggie, you can totally handle this. At least she hoped that was what it conveyed, because inwardly she was sending Peppermint a mantra of please be good, please be good, please be good.

  Stace led the pony into the open space between the broodmare’s paddock and the beginning of the fenced arena, then stopped and held out the reins. And, not hesitating for a second, Lizzie marched up to Peppermint with the same sort of determination Lucky had shown moments earlier heading for his dam. She took the reins, flipped them over his head, put a pink-booted foot in the stirrup, and climbed into the kid-size saddle like she’d done it a thousand times.

  Peppermint stood like a champ, with one ear pointing at Stace and the other at Lizzie, as if he wasn’t quite sure where his orders were going to be coming from. But then Lizzie gathered her reins, looked straight ahead, and squeezed his furry little sides with her heels, and the pony flicked his ears and moved off smoothly at a careful walk.

  “She’s doing it.” Shelby gripped Foster’s hand so tightly that her fingers ached. “She’s riding!” Joy burst through her and she stood, tugging him up with her. She pressed her face against his arm, then made a soft sound as it fell into place. “That’s why she was so mad! It wasn’t about you and me at all. She was frustrated by being on the roundup and not being able to ride!”

  “And now she can.”

  “And now she can.” There was a smile on her lips and in her heart. “I guess sometimes things need to build up to the point where you’re ready to make a change.”

  He shifted but didn’t say anything.

  Stace kept pace with the pair as they walked slowly along. “Okay,” she instructed, “now you’re going to tell him to turn around. Lay your rein on his neck the way we talked about. Not too sharp. You don’t want him to twist something and get hurt. That’s right. Nice and easy.”

  Lizzie and Peppermint made a shaky U-turn and headed back. Lizzie’s face was brilliant and alive, her hands steady on the reins as Stace coached her through some stops and turns, and then sent her out to ride a figure eight on her own.

  Shelby’s pulse thudded in her ears and she was tempted to say, “Wait, that’s enough. Let’s quit now while we’re ahead.” But she stayed quiet, held her breath, and watched as Lizzie guided the sturdy little gray pony through a lopsided Picasso of a figure eight, and then back over to halt squarely next to her instructor.

  “Way to ride, kid!” Stace enthused. “Knuckle tap!”

  Vision blurring, Shelby dug out her phone. “Wait. Let me take a picture!”

  Lizzie rolled her eyes, but looked pleased.

  “Foster, come on,” Stace called, gesturing him in. “You’re totally part of this!”

  “I don’t—”

  “She’s right.” Shelby gave him a nudge. “Go on. None of this would be happening if it wasn’t for you.”

  He got in the shot without further protest, but even through the tiny viewfinder, she could see that something was off. Maybe she’d gotten better at reading body language after being around the horses, or maybe it was more that she had started seeing through the quiet to the man beneath, but where before he’d been open and relaxed with Lizzie, now he was closed off, uncomfortable. Like a man who suddenly wanted to be someplace else.

  Was it Stace? Seeing Lizzie astride? Regret that he hadn’t been the one to get her there? Doesn’t matter, she told herself. This is Lizzie’s m
oment. His reluctance brought a pang, though.

  Focusing on her daughter’s face, she sang out, “Everybody say ‘currycomb’!” She took the picture. “Got it! It looks great!”

  Foster stepped away almost immediately and headed for the broodmare paddock to collect the lead rope and other gear. Shelby frowned after him but didn’t say anything. More, she told herself to let it go. He hadn’t said or done anything wrong, hadn’t even hinted there was a problem. Maybe she was imagining the vibe.

  “Hop down,” Stace directed. “Oops, don’t let go of the reins! We don’t want Peppermint to get away and run wild all over the place, do we?”

  And, glory of glories, Lizzie grinned at the thought and stepped in close to the pony, clutching the reins beneath his chin.

  “You guys!” Shelby crossed to them, leaned in, and kissed her on the cheek. “What an awesome surprise! Did you plan this last night?”

  Stace nodded. “We practiced in the tack room, with a saddle balanced on one of the saddle racks, and she said she was ready. So we went for it.” She grinned at Lizzie. “And nailed it, thankyouverymuch. What do you say, kid? Want to go again tomorrow?”

  Lizzie nodded emphatically.

  “How about sixish, after the guest stuff winds down for the day?”

  “It’s a date,” Shelby promised, squeezing Lizzie’s shoulder. Going into auto-parent, she said, “Lizzie, what do you say to Stace?”

  “Th-thank you.”

  The whisper stopped Shelby’s heart.

  Oh, my. It was all she could think, all she could come up with. Oh. My.

  Stace went wide-eyed. “You’re . . . um . . . you’re very welcome, Lizzie. I’m very proud of you.”

  “Me, too.” Shelby went down on her knees in the dirt and wrapped her arms around her sweaty, pony-smelling daughter. “Oh, I’m so proud of you, baby.”

  Always before, when she let herself imagine this moment, she had feared she would burst into tears and scare Lizzie back into silence. She had also imagined they would be alone, just the two of them in their condo, the safest of safe places. How strange to find safety around a bunch of thousand-pound animals, under the wide-open sky. And how wonderful to share it with friends.

  “You’re so brave,” Shelby, still hanging on to her kid. “So brave.”

  Peppermint snorted as if agreeing, spraying them both with a cool, yucky mist.

  Lizzie pulled away and swiped at her face, then wiped it on the pony’s neck with a look of disgust that brought laughter bubbling up to choke Shelby. It tried to turn into a sob, but she didn’t let it. Instead, she shared a huge grin with Stace, then turned to look at Foster.

  He was gone.

  15

  “To Lizzie!” Gran lifted a glass.

  “To Lizzie!” The small group assembled around the family dining table in the main house lifted their drinks, clinked haphazardly, and downed sparkling grape juice while the guest of honor, sitting at the head of the table and wearing a party-hat cone made out of a brochure, ducked her head and blushed. But despite being the center of attention, Lizzie wasn’t anxious or blanked out.

  Nope, she was looking pretty darn pleased with herself, as well she should.

  Shelby sat right next to her, with Stace beside her on one side of the table, while Krista sat on the other, with two empty spots beside her. One belonged to Gran, who swept in from the kitchen bearing a pretty pink plate with a chocolate cake on it that got a chorus of “oohs” and “aahs.” The perfectly round cake was spackled with a smooth layer of chocolate frosting and piped around the edges with white dots. The vertical was decorated with a flow of curves and lines that looked like the necks and backs of a galloping herd, and the top had triumphant script that read We Love You, Lizzie!

  Most other cooks would’ve called it a masterpiece and taken pictures for their Web site. Gran just smiled. “Oh, it’s just a little something for our girl.”

  Shelby couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe. If this had been her family and she’d had something like this to celebrate, there would’ve been either a gift certificate and an unsigned Hallmark card or a party full of her father’s drinking buddies and her mother wringing her hands, trying to anticipate every possible problem and head it off before it happened.

  This, though . . . this was all about Lizzie, all about relative strangers being so happy for her that Shelby’s eyes weren’t the only ones leaking.

  “Have cake.” Krista put a plate in front of her. “You look like you could use it.”

  “Amen, sister.” Shelby held out her fork to Lizzie. “Way to ride, kiddo.” They high-forked, and both dug into their pieces of moist, rich cake. It was chocolate with an undertone of some sort of berry that Shelby didn’t even try to identify, just let herself enjoy. “Mmmm. Wow. Gran, this is amazing.”

  Krista winked. “A step up from Twizzlers and Nutter Butters?”

  “I don’t have the faintest clue what you’re talking about,” she claimed. Inwardly, though, there was a pang because of that empty chair.

  Foster hadn’t come to the after-hours party. When Krista asked him, he’d said he was headed over to a neighboring ranch to help with a problem horse, but to pass on his congrats. Kind of like a tepid Hallmark. He didn’t mean it like that, Shelby told herself. He had a life outside of her and Lizzie, people who depended on him. But the more she told herself not to be annoyed with him when he hadn’t done anything wrong—and, more, he’d done plenty of other things right—the more it felt like she was making excuses, even to herself.

  “You okay?” Krista asked in an undertone. “Want to meet up later for unauthorized ice cream?”

  “After this?” She lifted her forkful of homemade sin. “I’m good on the sweets, at least for a day or so.” Which wasn’t really what Krista was asking, so she added, “I’m fine, really. Besides, I figure Lizzie and I are about due for a quiet night in the cabin.”

  But Lizzie tapped her plate once, then shook her head, looking suddenly worried.

  “Uh-oh. Am I missing something?”

  “Um,” Stace said, suddenly shamefaced, “if it’s okay with you, I invited her to sleep out with me again tonight.”

  Okay, so much for some quality time. “Right. Silly me. I won’t have my kid back until after Princess has done her thing, will I?” But she said it with a laugh, and ruffled Lizzie’s hair. “You sure you’re not ready for a night in a real bed?”

  She got a vigorous head shake and a cakey grin, and that was really what mattered, wasn’t it? Lizzie hadn’t spoken again since those two small words, but more would come. They would come.

  After the impromptu party wound down, though, Shelby found herself hesitating again at the cabin door, acutely aware of the dog hairs on her bed and the lingering smell of Pert Plus. This morning, waking up with Foster’s dog on her feet and the memory of his lovemaking, she would’ve bet her best client that she’d be spending tonight with him, too, or at least part of it. Now, though, she’d be surprised to see him, and not just because he’d said he had things to do.

  He was running and she wasn’t sure why, which left her thoughts racing, her stomach tight with worry. Maybe she should take Krista up on her offer of some roof time, after all.

  “Don’t be a wuss. You’ve spent plenty of nights alone.” Except she hadn’t really. Lizzie had almost always been nearby. “So get used to it.” Pretty soon she’d be sleeping over at friends’ houses, going to parties, dating . . . Shelby shuddered. “Okay, now you’re freaking yourself out.”

  Not to mention talking to herself without an animal anywhere in sight. Even Mr. Pony was in the barn for the night. Worse, she wasn’t sure who she was more annoyed with—Foster for not helping celebrate Lizzie’s big breakthrough or herself for not being able to let it go. He didn’t owe her. If anything, after all he’d done for them, she owed it to him to cut him some slack. And that wasn’t her making excuses, it was her being a grown-up.

  Right?

  “Urgh!” Wishing s
he had snagged a beer on her way out of the party, she closed herself in the cabin, toed off her boots, and pulled her smaller suitcase out of the closet to rummage for a trio of books she’d kept tucked away. She took a detour back outside to give her quilt a vigorous shake, and with the dog hair factor decreased by at least half, she plopped down on the bed with the books: Living with Selective Mutism, A Parents’ Guide to SM and Silent Spring: Emerging from the Cocoon.

  She held them for a moment, irritation fading as she thought back to the last time she’d looked at them, right after Lizzie’s fear-driven meltdown. Then, she’d agonized over her decisions, her plans, and eventually put the books away. Now, though, she had amazing new hope, given to her by two little words, a “thank you” whispered in a voice she had struggled to remember.

  That was progress with a capital “P.”

  Cracking the Parents’ Guide, she flipped through the well-worn early sections, stopping on the chapter entitled Speaking Games, Mirroring, and Desensitization.

  Before, she hadn’t had any foothold for the traditional therapies, which assumed the SM child would at least talk to family members at home. Now, though . . . that “thank you” had opened up a whole new world. She read for an hour, burning through three chapters and the last of the daylight, and storing up ideas on how to set Lizzie up for success in the days and weeks ahead. Maybe. Hopefully. She underlined and took notes, feeling like she was back in school, only the homework was so much more important now. Her blue pen died, and she headed back to the closet to dig out her purse—it felt weird to have it surface, dusty and somehow unfamiliar when it was usually such a day-to-day part of her life—and found a felt tip.

  As she headed back across the room, a boot step crunched outside.

  She froze, not in fear but in dismay, her palms dampening as those boots came up the stairs to her door, followed by a knock. After a short pause, Foster said, “Shelby, it’s me. Open up, please.”