Emma and the Cutting Horse

by Martha Deeringer

  “Did you fall down the bank?” Emma asked.

  The girl nodded. Tears leaked in a steady stream from her eyes and her nose was running. Emma dug a tissue out of her jeans and wiped it gently. The girl looked faintly familiar although she couldn’t place where she had seen her before. Her father’s voice came from above on the bank as he spoke into the walkie-talkie. Static erupted when he stopped talking, but soon she could hear someone responding.

  “I’m so cold,” Darla said. Her blue-gray eyes looked unfocused.

  “I know you are. Don’t worry. Dad and I are going to get you out of here and back to your parents.” But as she said it, she wondered how they would manage to get this injured kid up the riverbank and onto one of the horses. A red glow shone in the western sky between the trunks of the trees. The clouds must be breaking up, but soon it would be full dark. There was no way for an ambulance to reach them in the tangled brush and trees and no room for a helicopter to land.

  Long minutes passed before her father appeared again. He had found a place to come down the bank a bit upriver where it wasn’t quite as steep and carried an armful of dry weeds and small branches along with his canvas bag.

  “They’re going to send a small boat up the river to get her,” he told Emma. “It will take a while to get here but it will be easier on her than trying to ride out in the dark. In the meantime, we’re going to build a fire so they can spot us easily.” He piled the sticks and weeds nearby, crushed it down and lit a tuft of dry grass with a small propane lighter he took from his canvas bag. The dry grass and weeds flickered and caught and a warm, crackling glow lit up part of the riverbank.

  “Are you doing okay, Darla?” Emma’s dad asked, leaning over the girl and feeling her forehead with the back of his hand the way he did when Emma had a fever. She could not hear Darla’s whispered reply.

  “Talk to her, Emma,” he said. “I’m going up for more wood.” Emma desperately wished he’d stay, but she nodded.

  * * *

  It seemed like hours before they heard the sound of a small motor and saw a bright spotlight appear around a bend in the river. Two paramedics came ashore from a low green johnboat and brought a backboard, strapping Darla to it and wrapping her in blankets. They took her blood pressure and handed Emma’s father his coat before pushing the boat back into the river and heading upstream.

  “This was probably more than you bargained for Emma,” her father said, pulling his coat on gratefully and draping an arm across Emma’s shoulders. “Thank God you came along with your sharp eyes. I might have missed her entirely.”

  Now that Darla was on her way to safety, exhaustion washed over Emma and she realized her hands and feet were cold.

  “How are we going to get home,” she asked.

  “The same way we got here. Help me put out this fire so we can get started.”

  “Keep Ditto right behind Scout,” Emma’s father said as they started back through the dark woods. Scout’s white spotted rump was easy to see in the dark, and Ditto seemed perfectly happy to trail along behind him. Emma’s father had a small flashlight with a powerful beam in his canvas bag, but he only turned it on when Scout stopped at an obstacle. Emma looked around her but had no idea where they were; the towering live oaks all looked the same. She had to keep a constant lookout for low limbs that might scrape her off her horse. Once Scout crashed into dead limbs lying on the ground, falling to his knees, but Emma’s dad kept his seat and they backed away from the spot and went around it. In the next clearing, her father dismounted and shined the flashlight on the big horse’s front legs, running his hand down them.

  “Doesn’t seem to be any major harm done,” he said, handing Emma a bottle of water. “Drink,” he instructed. “We’ve been out here for hours and I don’t want you to get dehydrated.” Emma drank. She needed to pee, but there was no way she was going behind a tree in this dark woods.

  When the horses finally came out of the woods they were just a few yards from where they had entered. The people were gone, probably to the hospital to see about Darla, and the only person left was the game warden who was sitting in his truck with the engine idling. His horse was already loaded in the trailer.

  “Everybody all right?” he asked as they dismounted.

  “We’re fine,” Emma’s dad said. “Thanks for waiting ‘til we got back.”

  “Wanted to be sure you didn’t get lost in the woods,” he said. “It’s great that you found her.”

  “Emma found her,” her father said. “The girl’s got x-ray vision. Must be all those carrots she eats.”

  “Dad,” Emma protested.

  “Good job, Emma,” the game warden said and gave her a thumbs up. “It’s so much nicer when searches turn out like this.”

  Emma dozed in the truck on the way home but awoke as her father turned into the drive to find the porch lights on and her mom standing in the driveway. She still wore her cartoon character scrubs. Her dad stopped at the house.

  “Go on in and let your mom clean that cut on your face,” her father said. “I’ll unload and feed the horses and be right there.”

  Emma’s mom put her arm around her as they walked to the house.

  “I called the sheriff’s office and they told me what happened,” she said. “You must be exhausted, it’s almost midnight. I made some potato soup in case you’re hungry. Had to do something with my hands besides wring them while I waited for the two of you to get back...”

  She stopped talking when she saw the blood on Emma’s face. “What happened?” she asked.

  “A branch whipped back and scratched me,” Emma said. After a trip to the bathroom, her mom sat her down at the kitchen table and cleaned the scratch gently with wet paper towels. Fresh, red blood smeared them as she wiped at it.

  “This is more of a cut than a scratch, Emma,” she said. “It needs stitches. As soon as you eat a little something, I’ll take you to the emergency room.” She placed a steaming bowl of soup in front of Emma and sprinkled cheese on it.

  “Aw, Mom. I’m too tired,” she protested. “And there’s school tomorrow. Just put a band aid on it.”

  When Emma’s father came in, her mom wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his lips.

  “I was pretty worried about you two,” she said, “and I have to admit that I was surprised you took Emma along for this. She’s still a kid...”

  “It’s lucky I did,” Emma’s father said. “The kid’s the one who found the missing girl.”

  “You should get some sleep, Justin,” Emma’s mom said as she hurried Emma into her coat for the trip to the hospital. “You’ve got to go to work early, and I’ll bet they’re going to expect you to fill out a small mountain of paperwork tomorrow.”

  “Yep. But I’m going to the hospital,” Emma’s father insisted. “I’m going to hold the kid’s hand while they stitch her up.”

  Chapter Five

  The sun was much too bright when Emma opened her eyes the next morning, and she realized that her mom had let her skip school and sleep in. She touched her cheek where the five tiny stitches the doctor had put in were covered by a light gauze bandage. It was still pretty tender.

  A note was prominently displayed on the kitchen table.

  Emma,

  I called the school and told them you weren’t feeling well this morning. There’s leftover soup in the fridge if you get hungry. Call me at work if you need anything. I’ll find Darla’s folks at the hospital sometime today and see how she’s doing.

  Love, Mom.

  Emma spent a lazy day falling asleep in front of the TV. In the late afternoon she curried the burrs out of Ditto’s mane and tail and told him what a good boy he was. The bloody scratches on the horses’ legs looked fairly minor in the bright light of day, but she ran the hose over them to clean them off. Neither horse liked the feel of the cold water much, although the weather had warmed since yesterday.

  Everyone sat around the supper table that night with drooping eyelids
, resting their heads in their hands. Even Emma’s dad, who usually seemed tireless, went to bed shortly after supper. Over the sound of the television in her parents’ bedroom, Emma heard them talking.

  “The doctors think that the bruises on her face are older than her other injuries...she’s not talking much...still hasn’t stopped crying.”

  That night Emma’s dreams were disturbed by visions of the red sock.

  * * *

  By the first warm day of early spring, Emma had Miss Dellfene coming when she called. Standing quietly, the mare learned to like the feel of the brush running down her back and across her croup and to enjoy the attention Emma paid to her, but it was still a battle to put a halter on her. Each day Emma added something new to the routine, tossing the saddle blanket across the mare’s back or combing the burrs out of her tail.

  “Are you ready to try the saddle again?” Emma’s dad asked as he walked past the pen tossing flakes of coastal Bermuda hay to each of the horses.

  “I think she’s ready,” Emma said. “Can I be the one to put it on her?”

  “If you think you can handle her that would probably be a good idea. She responds to you much better than she does to me. But I need to be here when you do it”

  The next afternoon Emma started as soon as her father finished feeding the cows. She spent an hour brushing and talking to the mare, and when she finally tossed the saddle up and cinched it on, Miss Dellfene looked concerned but not panicked. Emma had worked for weeks to teach the mare to circle on a lunge line, and when the cinch was tight she stepped back and clucked to the mare to start her moving. She moved off across the pen in a stilted walk, an arch in her back, but no explosion occurred. Emma walked and trotted her in both directions, the empty stirrups flopping against her sides. She kept at it until dark lines of sweat appeared on the mare’s neck.

  “I think she’s as ready to ride as she’ll ever be,” Emma said, slipping on the bridle and putting her left foot lightly in the stirrup.

  “Want me to hold her?” Emma’s dad said as she swung aboard.

  There was no time to answer. Before her right foot cleared the saddle she was already in midair, as Miss Dellfene launched her body into space and landed on stiff front legs. Emma came back to earth amid a tangle of sorrel legs and flinty black hooves, landing hard on her left shoulder. Her head smacked the dusty ground and bright lights blinked in her eyes when she opened them. Her father bent over her, concern written across his face, as the mare continued to buck wildly across the pen.

  “Emma. Emma. Are you okay?”

  Emma sat up slowly and looked around. The world seemed slightly tilted, but everything still worked as she struggled to her feet, her father steadying her arm. The mare stopped in a corner of the pen and blew through her nose at them.

  “I’m all right. But I need to get back on,” Emma said. “This time, I’m going to let you hold her. That little performance really caught me off-guard.”

  With her father holding the halter rope, Emma swung back into the saddle quickly before her courage deserted her. She felt like she was sitting on a bomb, and could feel the mare trembling beneath her. Her father led the mare forward for several steps, but she moved stiffly, as though an explosion was imminent.

  “That’s enough, Emma,” her father said. “I’d get on her myself, but I don’t want you holding her, and I really don’t think she’s ready to be ridden yet. You’ve worked hard with her, but we need to go back to square one for now. Climb down, before she puts you into orbit.”

  * * *

  The next weekend Emma’s dad loaded Miss Dellfene back into the trailer and hauled her to a trainer.

  “We don’t have time or enough health insurance for broken bones,” he said, “and this trainer knows how to deal with young horses that haven’t been handled much. He’ll know before long if she’s worth keeping or if we just need to sell her and cut our losses. She’s rough around the edges, but there’s something I really like about the way she moves.”

  “I thought I was making some progress with her, but I guess not,” Emma observed.

  Two weeks went by before Emma’s father called the trainer to see how things were going.

  “He said she’s the hardest-headed horse he’s ever dealt with,” Emma’s father reported at supper that night. “He hasn’t even gotten on her yet, says she’s not ready. He keeps her in a stall with a low ceiling and every single time he goes in to put a halter on her, she throws her head up in the air and cracks it on the ceiling. I asked him if he thought she was stupid, and he said no, he just thinks she’s hardheaded and hates being forced to do something she doesn’t want to do. We paid for a month of training, so I guess we should let him have his month with her and see if he can change her attitude.”

  Emma’s parents owned a small cattle ranch, but they both had to work, her dad at the sheriff’s office and her mom in the pediatrics unit at the hospital, to make ends meet. They raised a few quarter horses, trained them for ranch work, and then sold them to add a bit of extra income. Emma knew they didn’t have extra money for outside trainers and that they had hoped Miss Dellfene would make a profit for them. Now, it didn’t look likely. Emma stopped asking her father about the mare because she knew he was worried about losing money on her. He was too honest to misrepresent her to a prospective buyer. Even with her impeccable bloodlines, it would be hard to find a buyer for her if she couldn’t be caught or ridden safely.

  * * *

  On a Saturday afternoon after the month of training had passed, Emma and her parents traveled to the trainer’s place to check on Miss Dellfene’s progress. When they arrived, they saw the mare standing in the shade with a saddle on her back, tied to the side of an empty trailer. An unpainted gray barn leaned a bit off center next to a large outdoor arena with weathered wooden fences. Gary, the trainer, strolled over with a friendly smile. His straw hat was slowly taking on the color of dust and appeared to have been trampled beneath the feet of many horses.

  “I keep your mare tied up almost all the time when I’m not riding her,” he told them. “I bring her all her feed and water and hold it for her while she eats and drinks. That way she associates my approach with something she likes. I’ve been riding her twice a day for short periods, and she’s doing better. Watch, and I’ll show you what I mean.”

  He slipped a bridle over Miss Dellfene’s halter, tightened the cinch and led her into the arena. She flinched when he stepped on, but didn’t try to buck or walk away until he signaled for her to move out. He walked her slowly around the arena, changing directions often and stopped her by pulling on the reins very lightly and saying “Whoa!” Then he clucked to her and squeezed her into a trot. In the far corner of the arena she began pulling on the bit and shaking her head. She got her head down low and began some half-hearted crow hopping. Gary pulled her around in a tight circle. Then he straightened her out and squeezed her into a trot again. After another round or two, he brought her to a halt beside Emma’s dad.

  “I’m not loping her yet. I don’t want her to get out of control. Before you go, I want to show you one more thing. He rode her toward the center of the arena and then reined her sharply to the left, leaning in the saddle and squeezing her with his right leg. The mare sat back on her haunches and pivoted around with a graceful sweep of her front legs. Gary patted her on the neck and walked her back to the fence.

  “Wow! That was amazing for a half-broke horse!” Emma’s dad told him.

  “Half-broke is right,” Gary chuckled. “She has incredible natural balance, even without much training, but there’s still some buck in her. I’d really like to work with her for two more weeks. By then I think I should be able to tell you more about what she can do.”

  Emma’s dad gazed at the mare thoughtfully for a minute.

  “Okay,” he said. “Two more weeks.”

  * * *

  At school Emma did her best to avoid Candi Haynes and her followers. When she had to pass them in the hall she heard der
isive laughter and an occasional whinny. If teachers were patrolling the hallway, the girls limited their harassment to pointing at Emma and snickering under their breaths. Her embarrassment grew with each encounter, and she constantly checked the hallway ahead, ducking into the bathroom or an open classroom when she spotted Candi between classes.

  “You’d think I had said something nasty about her mama from the way she’s tormenting me,” Emma told Hannah. “She’s starting to make me feel like I’ve got an extra eye in the middle of my forehead or something. It makes me mad that she won’t leave me alone.”

  “I know what you mean,” Hannah said. “She sure doesn’t know when to quit.”

  “What do you think I should do?” Emma asked.

  “I don’t know. Once she starts to get under somebody’s skin, it seems like nothing can stop her.”

  In the cafeteria, Candi made a point of passing by the table where Emma was sitting.

  “Howdy there, Hillbilly,” she sang out loudly as she ambled past.

  Emma stared angrily after her. She had a sudden urge to rip the hair bow out of Candi’s perfect, blond hair and smear food on her designer clothes. She needed to come up with a plan to put an end to all this very public harassment.

  * * *

  Mrs. Killen, Emma’s algebra teacher, was leaning against Emma’s locker after school a few days later.

  “What’s going on with this, Emma?” she asked, moving away to show another sketch of a horse’s butt taped to Emma’s locker door. A big pile of brown manure rested between the horse’s hind legs with EMMA scrawled across it.

  Emma reached behind Mrs. Killen and ripped the drawing off her locker door.

  “It’s...it’s just some kids teasing me,” Emma stammered.

  “This doesn’t seem like a friendly kind of teasing,” Mrs. Killen said. “As a matter of fact, I’ve thought for several weeks now that something was bothering you. Do you want to tell me about it?”