Here to Stay

by Catherine Anderson

  “I’ve done well with cutting horses, but there’s more to life than making money. I wanted to do something more, something that would make a real difference. When I found out about guide horses, I knew I wanted to try my hand at training one. It hasn’t been easy to reach this point, but I was determined two years ago, and I still am today.”

  The reporter glanced down at a black notebook in her hand. “With guide dogs already in use, why is it necessary for horses to be trained to perform the same job?”

  “Not all blind people are candidates for a guide dog. Some are allergic to canine dander. Others are prohibited because of religious beliefs. Mini horses are a great alternative. A dog has an average life span of twelve years. A horse can live to be thirty and sometimes even forty, which means they can be of service much longer.”

  “Was it difficult to find Rosebud?” the reporter asked.

  “It was. There are several things to look for in a guide horse—size, temperament, intelligence, good conformation, and health. Rosebud was perfect on every count. For a time, she performed in a circus. Then she went on to become a champion many times over in halter performance and other Division A classes. She’s accustomed to large crowds and a lot of noise, yet she’s only three, with plenty of years ahead of her.”

  The camera lens widened to show the newswoman grinning broadly as she leaned forward to pet the animal. Harrigan blocked her reach. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but no contact is allowed. Rosebud is very affectionate and enjoys the attention of strangers a little too much. When we’re working, she needs to stay focused on her job.”

  “I see.” The reporter withdrew her hand. “She’s darling!”

  Mandy had to agree. With a stocky golden body and fluffy white mane and tail, the mini was one of the cutest creatures she had ever seen. Rosebud’s cowboy sidekick wasn’t half-bad, either. He had a deep, rich voice and an easy grin. Even on-screen, he exuded strength and had an air about him that commanded respect.

  Glad that Luke couldn’t hear, Mandy settled in to watch as the news team followed Harrigan to Gliddon’s Pharmacy. As man and horse approached the entrance, Harrigan said, “Hold the mike close.” Then, to the mini, he said, “Find the door, Rosebud.”

  The instant Rosebud pressed her nose against the portal, Mandy heard a clicking sound. Harrigan held up a gadget for the camera, then gave the mini a treat from a pouch on his belt. “Good job, Rosebud,” he said softly. “Find the doorknob.”

  Rosebud touched the lever, was clicked and rewarded, and then Harrigan opened the door. Mandy smiled as she watched the man and tiny horse enter the drugstore. Inside, a handful of shoppers did double takes. So did Mr. Gliddon. He came from behind the counter, adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, and gaped. Any comment he made was drowned out by a cluster of customers.

  “I thought it was a dog!” a woman cried.

  “I’ll be damned—a tiny horse,” a man said.

  As people pushed forward to pet Rosebud, Harrigan once again went through his spiel about no contact with strangers being allowed. When all the curious onlookers had backed a respectful distance away, he said, “Find the checkout counter, Rosebud.”

  The horse came to a stop, clearly bewildered. Harrigan unfastened a short wand from his belt. A yellow tennis ball was attached to its end. He held the ball in front of Rosebud’s nose and repeated, “Find the checkout counter.” When the horse bumped the ball with her nose, he clicked and gave her another treat. Then, repeating the command, he inched the ball forward, leading the mini behind it. When, under careful direction and verbal cuing, the horse finally touched her nose to the edge of the checkout counter, Harrigan once again clicked and rewarded her.

  “What’s that noise you’re making?” someone asked.

  “It’s made with this.” Harrigan again displayed the small device. “It’s used in clicker training, affording a handler the ability to give instant reinforcement for a desired behavior. I also give verbal praise, but it’s not as immediate. With the clicker, I’m able to reinforce Rosebud at the exact instant I need to. She knows that she found what I wanted her to find. If I had said, ‘Good girl,’ she could have been focused on something else by the time I got the words out, and that might have confused her. When I ask her to find the checkout counter, I don’t want her to lead me to a candy rack.”

  Rosebud heard the magic words, find the checkout counter, and nudged its edge again. A burst of laughter ensued. Harrigan clicked and gave the horse a treat. “A nice thing about the reward system is that Rosebud is an eager participant in her training.”

  Someone in the crowd asked, “What’s that ball on the stick for?”

  “This is Rosebud’s target,” Harrigan explained. “It can be anything, even one’s hand. The target is an important training tool. In the early stages, I got Rosebud to touch the ball with her nose. Even if she touched it accidentally, I’d click and give her a treat. She quickly learned that touching the ball got her a goody, and she began nudging it deliberately. When I’m training her to find something new, I can lead her toward it with her target. When she touched the counter, she got clicked and treated. Soon, she’ll find the checkout counter without any cues from me.”

  When Rosebud heard her handler say “find the checkout counter,” she nuzzled its edge again, prompting more laughter. Harrigan clicked and gave the mini a treat. “I was a little slow on the uptake that time,” he said with a chuckle.

  “I think she’s got it down already!” someone said.

  Zach Harrigan flashed a grin that made Mandy’s stomach feel as if it flipped and fluttered. Determinedly she returned her gaze to Rosebud. “She’s not bulletproof yet,” he said. “We’ll have to practice again and again before she’ll find the checkout counter without fail every single time. To an onlooker, it may appear that she’s already trained, but there are dozens of things she hasn’t learned yet. She barely has the basics down pat.”

  Harrigan glanced directly at the camera. Mandy got butterflies again. His brown eyes twinkled with warmth, yet had a sharp, perceptive edge that made her feel as if he were looking directly at her.

  Mandy noticed that the little horse had started to prance a bit, her tiny hooves making a tat-a-tat sound on the floor. At just that moment, Rosebud lifted her tail. Mandy watched in startled horror as the mini emptied her bowels on the pharmacy floor. The pile looked runny, as if the animal had loose stool, and as the camera zoomed in on it, Mandy could almost imagine the stench. Mr. Gliddon retreated precipitately.

  Someone cried, “Oh, my God!” The female reporter wrinkled her nose and stepped back. Zach Harrigan glanced down and said, “Oh, shit.” At least, Mandy felt fairly certain that was what he said. Over the air, the second word was bleeped out.

  Shoppers left the pharmacy rather quickly. Only the news team and proprietor remained. Mr. Gliddon produced a roll of paper towels and a plastic bag. Harrigan apologized profusely as he cleaned up the mess. “This is totally unprecedented. She’s completely housebroken and never does this. I heard her prancing. That’s how she signals when she has to go. But she waits until we find a place that’s appropriate.”

  “I saw a mini online that had a potty bag attached to her halter somehow,” the female reporter observed. “Could Rosebud wear something to prevent accidents?”

  “She doesn’t have accidents, and it’s called a relieving bag. It’s attached to a relieving harness, a belt just behind the working harness. A handler can take the horse to a Dumpster, attach the bag, tell the horse to go, and then the mess is simple for a blind person to clean up.”

  “Do you think she might be sick?” the reporter asked.

  “It’s possible.” Harrigan’s jaw muscle bunched. “She wouldn’t do this if something wasn’t wrong.” He knotted the plastic bag, and Mr. Gliddon disposed of it. Harrigan scratched behind the mini’s ears. “This is why I didn’t want her on camera yet. Now people may think all minis have accidents in public places, and that is absolutely, unequivocally not tru
e.”

  The newswoman’s expression went taut with concern. “I’ve researched these horses online, and I can back you up on that. They’re wonderful little animals.”

  After the pharmacy debacle, Harrigan and the mini left the establishment and approached a silver SUV. Harrigan opened the rear passenger door and Rosebud loaded into the vehicle without hesitation. After lowering the car windows to give the mini fresh air, the rancher remained on the sidewalk for a few minutes to answer questions. Mandy was disappointed when the news segment ended.

  A guide horse. Glancing at Luke, who was still lost in his music, Mandy set aside her chocolate drink and pushed to her feet. Hurrying to the kitchen, she grabbed the phone book. When she located the Hs, she was disappointed to find no Zach Harrigan listed. She had to get in touch with him. Other people had already contacted him, wanting to buy Rosebud. Until a few minutes ago, Mandy hadn’t known guide horses existed, but now she believed an animal like that might be the answer for her brother. She couldn’t let someone else beat her to the draw. She’d figure out how to pay for Rosebud later. Somehow.

  There was no listing in the Yellow Pages for quarter horses. Next she looked under “Horses.” She found several boarders, breeders, and trainers, most of their names displayed as subheadings under different ranches or stables. Her finger stopped on the Crooked H. Under the ranch’s name in small, bold italics were the words, Champion Quarter Horses, Training and Behavioral Correction. Zachary Harrigan, Proprietor.

  Mandy jotted down the number and address, then glanced toward the living room. She couldn’t handle another argument with Luke today. She’d wait until she got him down for the night before she called to see about getting a sitter to stay with him while she went out for a while this evening. A hesitant smile touched her mouth. Her brother didn’t know it yet, but maybe he’d finally gotten his wish. With a little luck, she might never have to discuss the guide dog issue with him again.

  Chapter Two

  Zach had just opened a rear door of his SUV for Rosebud to unload when he heard the spitting of gravel and a blast from the distinctive horn of his brother Clint’s pickup. He groaned. Zach had been home less than three minutes, and the Harrigan clan was already descending. Baby brother messes up again. Now he’s playing with toy horses on TV. Let’s get over there and uphold the family honor. Terrific. After the disaster in the pharmacy, Zach was worried about Rosebud being sick, and was in no frame of mind to deal with his family.

  Clint’s tooled boots had barely touched the ground when another pickup, green this time, careened up the gravel access road at a speed better suited to a freeway. When riled, Parker drove like a maniac. Ignoring the racket, Rosebud stood awaiting her next cue. As Zach’s brothers approached, the mini pricked her ears and looked across Zach’s north pasture, where a rumbling sound could be heard. That would be Quincy coming over on his battered red ATV. For Zach, one of the drawbacks of owning one-sixth of what had once been a twelve-hundred-acre parcel of Harrigan land was living so close to all of his family. He didn’t mind impulse visits—enjoyed them, in fact—but this evening he was tired and concerned about Rosebud, and he just wanted a cold beer.

  Loosely holding the mini’s halter grip, Zach knew without question that his brothers had seen the broadcast. And they must have considered it a major screwup for them to tear over here at dinnertime. It was after six. Clint and Parker both had wives who’d be miffed if they were late to the table and the meal grew cold.

  Quincy swung off the ATV, his brown eyes sparking as he shot a scathing look at Rosebud. He didn’t mince words. “Do you realize you’ve just made a laughingstock of the whole Harrigan family? A mini horse? What the hell are you thinking?”

  Clint slammed the door of his truck. “Amen. If you’re bent on training that damned thing, don’t embarrass us by doing it in town, where everybody and his cousin can see you make an ass of yourself. Just how many times has it crapped in public?”

  This was going to be worse than Zach had expected. And they did have a legitimate gripe. They were a tight family, and he hadn’t said a word about training Rosebud. If he mucked it up, the less said, the better. Needing to succeed and impress his brothers were hang-ups of his, a result of being the youngest and the black sheep of the family. It had probably been a shock to find out the way they had. “She isn’t a damned thing, Clint. She’s a horse.”

  Parker strode across the grass-pocked dirt, the heels of his boots kicking up puffs of dust. His red shirt was streaked, a black smudge lined his jaw, and when he tugged off his Stetson to slap it against his leg, Zach saw that his pitch-black hair was as dusty as his boots and flecked with hay.

  “That,” Parker spat, jabbing a rigid finger toward Rosebud, “is not a horse. It’s a dwarf. I can’t believe you took it into a drugstore and let it shit on the floor. Our reputations as trainers are on the line, and our livelihoods as well! Do you get that?”

  A lot more was at stake than their reputations as horse trainers, namely the public’s perception of minis as service animals, but Zach decided that saying as much would be tantamount to tossing a lighted match into a gas can. His shoulders ached from the long day he’d put in, mucking out stalls before daybreak, spending the morning and early afternoon working with his big horses, and then turning his attention to Rosebud. He was in no mood for this. Facing his brothers when they were pissed off was like looking at three mirrors and seeing his own glowering reflection in all of them. The old man’s sperm produced Harrigan carbon copies. Even their sister, Sam, looked like Frank, the family patriarch.

  “Here’s how it goes,” Zach said. “You do your thing; I do mine. I may be the kid brother, but I’ve been shaving for years and I even go to the can by myself. If I want to train a guide horse, I don’t need your permission or your approval, so get off my case.”

  “We bear the same last name,” Quincy barked. “We’ve worked our asses off to build sterling reputations. When one of us makes an ass of himself, it reflects on all of us. People were laughing at you. That sorry excuse for an equine crapped on the floor. Some trainer you are, and people are going to be thinking the same about us.”

  “Hell, the next thing we know,” Parker inserted, “he’ll be taking the damned thing into the house! It’s just not dignified.”

  “I’ve already taken her into the house.” Zach felt a surge of malicious glee at his brother’s horrified expression. “Guide horses need outdoor time just like big horses, but they also need time indoors with their human companions. They learn to fetch toys for exercise. They eat pellets from a dish and Timothy hay from a bin. In the city, some are even trained to go in a litter box. Rosebud is completely housebroken. She hasn’t had an accident in over a month. I don’t know what happened with her today.”

  Zach’s brothers gaped at him, and then they started to laugh, not just chuckles, but the wrenching kind of mirth that made strong men go weak at the knees. Clint braced a hand on the fender of Zach’s SUV. Parker hooked an arm over his middle, his shoulders shaking so hard his face went red. Quincy threw back his head and roared.

  “Housebroken, hell,” Parker said with a gasp when he could speak again. “Ask old man Gliddon at the pharmacy if she’s housebroken. Does she sleep in bed with you, too?”

  “Fetching toys ...” Quincy swiped at his streaming eyes and aimed a brotherly poke at Zach’s arm. “You should train her to fetch you a cold beer, little brother.”

  When their mirth subsided, Clint settled his hands at his hips. As the oldest, he’d always been the one Zach looked up to the most. Anger smoldered in his dark eyes as he met Zach’s gaze. “Can you even start to explain why you decided to do this?”

  Zach guessed they hadn’t caught the first part of the news footage. But when he started to speak, Clint cut him short. “You’ve always been the hellion of the family,” he ground out, “a daredevil without a serious thought in your head. We’ve waited patiently for you to finally grow up, and we’ve pretty much turned a blind eye to t
he womanizing and barhopping and bad decisions, even when you ended up in the hoosegow. But, damn it, Zach, this time you’ve gone too far. This tops stupid and goes beyond crazy.”

  Zach wondered if his brothers weren’t right. Maybe he’d lost his mind. But then he glanced down at Rosebud and remembered why he had embarked on this mission. Rage welled within him, burning low in his belly and crawling up his throat. And part of his rage, he knew, was mixed with guilt, because what they said about him was true.

  “Point taken,” he retorted. “I’ve been a flake a lot of times. But did it ever occur to any of you that maybe, just maybe, my decision to do this was a turning point for me?”

  Obviously, it hadn’t. That comment sent Parker and Quincy off into further spasms of mirth. Only Clint, narrowing his eyes, surveyed Zach’s taut features as if he were giving serious consideration to what he’d heard. He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Turning point? What the hell? Are you saying you’re going to quit training cutting horses and go for these dwarves full-time?”

  Zach shook his head. “Do you want to hear what I’ve got to say, or do you want to stand around and laugh like hyenas and poke fun at something you don’t understand?”

  His brothers fell quiet, their expressions a mixture of solemnity and bewilderment.

  It was Zach’s turn to point the finger, and he did so with a sharp thrust at the air. “You’re all so damned sanctimonious. You’re looking down your noses at me so much of the time, you can’t see what’s happening right before your eyes. Two years ago, I finally grew up, but none of you noticed. When I was working with the dog trainer every night, where did you think I was, off screwing women or taking up space on a bar stool? Did you ever once bother to ask what I was doing every night? Hell, no. You saw my truck coming in late and figured it was just Zach, up to no good again.

  “Well, if that’s what you thought, you were dead wrong. I haven’t had time for women. I’ve been too busy earning my bread and butter while trying to do something meaningful with my life. Maybe you’re satisfied with breeding and training prize horses, raking in the dough, and living high on the hog, but I want to ... to contribute.”