“That might be nice.” Dev Worrell, you are forty-five years old and your voice is as shaky as a thirteen-year-old. It’s been years since I felt this way.
“My thoughts exactly. Now, your burro won’t let me up on the porch, and I don’t go into a woman’s home unless there’s company around … so just exactly how are we going to get to know each other better?”
She stepped to the edge of the porch and stroked Uncle Henry’s back. “Come to think of it, I think a trip to town will be nice, Renny.”
Once again the dimples punctuated his brown, leathery cheeks. “That’s fine. I was plannin’ on headin’ out about 3:30 or 4:00.”
She tried to fluff her damp hair out with her fingers. “Will we be home by dark?”
“If you want to. Are you afraid of the dark, Ms. Worrell?”
“No, Mr. Slater. I’m not afraid of the dark, but I am concerned about what happens after dark.”
He tugged his hat down and swaggered to the open door of his red pickup. “Do you like Mexican food?”
Uncle Henry trotted after him with a snort and a bray.
“Yes, I do, Renny. But I’m from Indiana where black pepper is considered spicy and jalapeno peppers are outlawed as lethal weapons.”
“I like your wit, Develyn Worrell. Have you ever noticed that most purdy women have a lousy sense of humor?”
“No, I haven’t. And thank you for the compliment. I should have returned to Wyoming long ago,” she chuckled.
He stared out across the pasture. “Yes, ma’am … I wish you would have.”
This is getting too serious too quick. “Renny, I’ll look forward to the drive.”
“That’s mighty fine, Devy-girl. I’ll see you later.” He stood on the running board and glanced at her over the cab of the truck. “You can bring your burro along, but he’ll have to ride in back.”
She stared at Uncle Henry.
“I was teasin’ you, Ms. Worrell.”
“I know that, Mr. Slater. I was just pondering what to do with him. He seems to be quite protective of me.”
“Think of him as your watch-burro,” Renny laughed, then sped out of the dusty drive.
* * *
Casey rode the buckskin down the draw ahead of Develyn. The wash was dry sand and scattered rocks. Clumps of grazed brown grass framed the dry, sandy wash. Cree-Ryder waited on the far side. Develyn scooted her jean-covered backside against the smooth leather saddle and coaxed My Maria forward with a boot heel to the flanks.
Casey twirled her braid like a short rope. “I can’t believe you got a big date with Renny already.”
“I told you it’s not a big date.” Develyn prodded the horse through the sand. “I’m just riding to town with him to the vet’s.”
“That’s a big date in Wyomin’,” Cree-Ryder hooted. “Shoot, in some counties it’s the same as being engaged.”
Develyn shook her head at the dark-skinned woman wearing a long-sleeve denim shirt. “Don’t you try to con me.”
“It must be my Irish blood,” Cree-Ryder laughed.
Develyn leaned forward as the paint horse pulled herself up the far slope of the sandy draw. Her stomach rested against the flat top of the wide saddle horn. She sat up straight and waited on top as the short-legged burro trotted to keep up.
Cree-Ryder spurred her horse forward. “Uncle Henry follows you like a dog.”
“He is rather loyal for an animal I just met yesterday.” Develyn kicked the flanks of her horse to follow.
“Are you ready to see what kind of legs My Maria has?”
“What do you mean?”
Cree-Ryder tugged the front of her battered hat down low. “Let’s turn them loose and let them gallop.”
Develyn felt her stomach knot. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”
“Sure you are. You’re a natural in the saddle.”
“What if I get tossed off?”
“It won’t be the first time.” Cree-Ryder leaned forward and stroked the neck of her dark-maned gelding. “Besides, there’s nothing out here but sage, dirt, and buffalo grass. Just kick her hard and give her her head. She’ll know what to do.”
“You stay ahead of me. You know, just to slow her down if I lose control.”
“I’ll be running alongside you. My Montana Jack is one swift horse. But I’ll hold him back. Screw your hat down tight. I’ll race you to the barranca.”
“The what?”
“That narrow wash up there.”
“Where?”
“That green line on the horizon.”
“No racing.”
“Are you ready?”
Develyn shoved her hat down, scooted deep into the seat of the saddle, and locked her knees against the a-fork. She clutched the leather reins in her left hand and grabbed the saddle horn with her right. Then she kicked her heels into My Maria’s sides, and called out, “Giddy-up!”
The paint horse began to trot.
“Oh!” Develyn called out and grabbed her hat.
Cree-Ryder rode over to her. “That’s not a gallop, not even in Indiana.” She trotted Montana Jack alongside Develyn. Then she leaned over and slapped My Maria’s rump with her hat and screamed, “Hey-yaaa!”
The horse bolted forward as if bitten by a rattlesnake. Develyn grabbed for her hat, but it was gone by the time her hand reached her head. She felt herself bounce back up on the rear of the saddle.
I’m going to fall off!
Both feet out of the stirrups, she dove forward and grabbed the horn with both hands and pulled herself back into the saddle. The hard leather spanked her backside like a junior-high principal after a food fight in the cafeteria.
I’m going to die. I just know I’m dead.
The saddle pounded her. She jabbed her feet until she found the stirrups. Develyn stood up just enough to take some of the weight off her bottom. The shock of each stride vibrated through her knees. She leaned forward over the saddle horn as they raced east along the edge of a dry gully.
Where is Cree-Ryder? It’s a cinch I’m not turning around. I hope she finds what’s left of my body. OK, Lord … get my room ready … but the wind does feel nice in my face.
The scant vegetation blurred. Brown hills rose on the horizon.
She’s got to get tired sooner or later.
Over her shoulder, Develyn spied a cloud of dust.
I can’t remember horses being this fast when I was a kid. She can’t keep up this pace.
The pound of hooves drummed in unison to her heartbeat for several moments. There’s a little gulch up there … must be a runoff stream. Is that the barranca? I’ll stop here and say I thought that was our objective. My Maria will have to stop there. Won’t she? If we plunge down that embankment I’ll end up with a horse on top of me. This is crazy. Dev, go home. Go back to your boring, depressing summer and your two cats.
She yanked back on the reins and called out, “No!”
My Maria lowered her head, jerking Develyn forward and crushing the saddle horn into the pit of her stomach. The horse picked up speed. Develyn quit yanking back. Both hands and the reins were locked around the saddle horn.
She’s going into that gulch. And I can’t do one thing about it. Oh, Lord … deliver me from a painful death.
My Maria galloped even faster as they advanced on the narrow gulch but instead of dropping off into it, the paint horse raised up.
Jump it?
She can’t leap that far.
Develyn closed her eyes until the horse’s front hooves crashed into the embankment on the other side. My Maria’s rear hooves slipped down the side of the gully, but then caught on something. She lunged to the prairie floor.
Then, My Maria continued to gallop.
I’m alive, so far. This is madness.
Inching her way forward in the saddle, Develyn leaned across the horn and grabbed the leath
er bridle just above the spade bit. With a hand on each side she jerked straight back on the bit and hollered into My Maria’s sweaty ear. “No!”
My Maria tried to jerk the bridle from her hands.
“I said, ‘No!’” Develyn screamed.
My Maria violently shook her head back and forth.
What am I doing wrong? What would Renny do?
Develyn sat straight up, pulled back firmly on the reins, and commanded: “Whoa!”
The mare almost sat on her back legs as she slid to a halt.
Yes!
Develyn lost her grip and was thrown over the horse’s head. No! Not again!
She scrambled to keep her feet down and hit the dirt running faster than she had ever run in her life. She couldn’t stop, but did manage to hurdle a three-foot-high sage. She slowed to a stop at the base of a steep incline.
Develyn, bent at the waist, hands on her knees, threw up. She wiped her mouth on the tail of her T-shirt as Cree-Ryder trotted toward her, leading My Maria.
Develyn waved her hand and tried to say something, but no words came out.
Casey swung her leg over her horse’s head and sat sideways in the saddle. “Hey, that was quite a dismount. I saw Hawkeye Henson do that one time at a rodeo in Douglas when I was a kid.”
“Ah … ah …” Develyn felt her heartbeat pound in her head. “Ah … I … that was….”
“And I didn’t know you knew how to jump.”
“I could have…”
“You have one fast horse.”
“… been…”
“Ol’ Montana Jack got outrun.”
“… killed…”
“You did good, girl.”
“Don’t … did good … girl … me!” Develyn cried. “I was … I about…”
“It was fun, wasn’t it?”
“Fun?” Develyn gasped. “Fun?”
“The wind blowing in your hair, thundering hooves, racing heart, on the edge of disaster and a thousand pounds of muscle under you … it’s fun, isn’t it?”
“I could have been seriously injured.”
“Come on, admit it. It was fun.”
“OK … OK … it was sort of fun … except…”
“Except for what?”
Develyn stared down at the prairie dirt. “Vomiting.”
“You barfed? All over the horse?”
“No, after I made that graceful dismount, I lost my lunch.”
“We didn’t eat lunch.”
Develyn shuffled over to My Maria. “You know what I mean.”
“Mount up, cowgirl, we’ll take the horses back at a walk.”
“I can’t even stand up straight, let alone ride.”
“You can do it.”
“I think maybe we went a little too far today.” Develyn rubbed her backside.
“Nonsense, a little horse liniment will fix things.”
Develyn took the reins from Cree-Ryder. “For My Maria?”
“No, for your sweet tushie.”
“Are you teasing me again?”
“No, it works. Trust me.”
“Trust me? Why would I ever trust you?”
“Did you have fun?”
“OK … do I have to mount up?”
“Yes.”
“Can I stand in the stirrups?”
“Until your knees get tired.”
“I need to find my hat.”
Cree-Ryder swung her leg back over her horse. “I think Uncle Henry has it.” She pointed her thumb back toward the plodding burro with the straw hat in his mouth.
Develyn led My Maria back toward the small donkey. “This is getting weird,” she mumbled.
“You mean having a watch-burro who’s a retriever? I think it’s kind of cute.”
“But it’s not right. I mean, I hardly know him.”
“What is it with you Indiana schoolteachers? You don’t like anyone or anything unless you grew up with them back in Crawfordsville?”
Develyn stared up at Cree-Ryder’s brown eyes. “I need to be cautious.”
“Have you been cautious all your life?”
“Yes, I have. I have a reputation for being cautious.”
“How has it worked out?” Cree-Ryder challenged.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you like the way your life turned out being that cautious?”
Develyn felt the muscles in her neck tighten. “That’s not the point. It’s Christian prudence to live a careful life.”
“Did Jesus live a cautious life?” Cree-Ryder challenged.
“For about thirty years he did.”
“And then?”
“He was consumed to fulfill his purpose for being here.”
“There you have it.”
“Have what?”
“Be consumed with fulfilling God’s purpose for your existence.”
Develyn gazed at her new friend.
“Hey, I graduated from Bible school at age twenty, and I have known Jesus as Lord and Savior since I was twelve. See, I shocked you. You think just because I’m rough around the edges, I can’t have any spiritual depth?”
“No, I’m not shocked … well, just a little surprised. My spiritual life feels as pounded as my body right now. Do I really have to get back in the saddle?”
“Yep.”
Develyn grabbed the saddle horn on the 14.5-hand paint mare, then jammed her left boot in the stirrup. When she eased down in the saddle, My Maria glanced back at her. “Don’t give me that look, young lady,” Develyn murmured. “You’ve never had your backside beat up for three straight hours.”
“It hasn’t been that long,” Cree-Ryder reported.
“Nonsense, I can’t even remember when I could sit without hurting.” Develyn rode alongside the donkey. She reached and tugged on her hat. “Uncle Henry!”
The burro released the straw hat.
“That’s a good boy.” She tried to smooth the teeth marks on the brim, then slipped it on her head. “Let’s go home.”
Uncle Henry took off at a trot ahead of them.
“Where’s he going?” Develyn asked.
“Home, I suppose.”
“But he doesn’t know what I said … does he?”
“One way to tell: if he’s back at the cabin waiting for you, then he knows what you said.”
* * *
The sweet nectar of the orange Popsicle dribbled down her throat as Develyn stood on the front porch of the old house converted into a store building. Casey Cree-Ryder stretched out on the bench beside her with nothing but the stick of a Dove Bar lodged like a tongue depressor between her full lips.
Mrs. Tagley, with white starched full apron over her long, faded blue housedress, stood behind the screen door and peered out. “Devy, why don’t you sit down?”
“Mrs. Tagley, I won’t be sitting down for a long time.”
“Did you use some Dr. Bull’s?” the elderly lady probed.
“Dr. Bull’s?”
Mrs. Tagley peered over the top of her silver-framed glasses. “Dr. Bull’s Female Remedy.”
Develyn glanced over at Cree-Ryder, who shrugged. “Casey said I should use horse liniment.”
“That’s for rubbing on the outside. You drink Dr. Bull’s,” Mrs. Tagley explained. “It really works. I’ve taken a dose ever day since prohibition. I’ll go get you a bottle.” Mrs. Tagley disappeared into the recesses of the front-room store.
“Have you ever heard of Female Remedy?” Develyn murmured as she continued to lick the Popsicle.
“I’ve never even heard of Dr. Bull!”
At four-feet-ten, Mrs. Tagley had a pixie-like look when she stepped to the porch and handed Develyn a six-ounce, round amber bottle with the label “Dr. Bull’s Female Remedy: used externally and internally for generations.” The woman in the picture who held a bottle above h
er head looked like she had just stepped off a Victorian calendar.
“So, I just drink it?” Develyn asked.
“Oh, just a spoonful at a time, honey. You young girls won’t need very much.” Mrs. Tagley scooted back into the store.
Develyn handed the bottle to Casey. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been called a ‘young girl’.”
Casey studied the bottle. “Shoot, I was never called a young girl. Called a young boy a few times. I used to wear my hair short, shorter than yours.”
“When was that?”
“When I was about ten. Hey, look at this. This stuff is made by the Mystic Trading Company of Seattle.”
“Is that good?” Develyn watched a slumping black and white dog circle, then lie down in the shade of a cottonwood.
“They make a product called Miracle Oil.”
Develyn nibbled the last bite off her Popsicle. “What do you do with Miracle Oil? Rub it on like suntan lotion?”
Cree-Ryder waved her ice cream stick like a pointer. “I suppose you could, but it’s a fuel additive for chain saw motors.” She handed the bottle back to Develyn.
“What am I going to do with this?”
“Rub some on your tushie, and take a snort,” Casey laughed. “One of the two ought to help. You ready to promenade back to your place?”
“As long as we go slow.”
Uncle Henry waited for them next to the sleeping dog in the shade of a cottonwood tree.
“If you don’t want to walk, you could ride your burro.”
“That’s not even close to being humorous. I hurt all over.”
Casey strutted beside her. “That bad, huh?”
“I went skiing one time in Colorado. Spencer, my husband, decided we should go to Colorado for Christmas when Delaney was about ten.”
The two women and trailing burro trudged west along the dirt road.
“Did you go to Aspen? Vail? Steamboat?”
“Squaw Ridge.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Yes, well … Spencer was not known for being a big spender. Some flight attendant had convinced him it was a great place to go, but that’s a different story. After five minutes of instruction, he had me and Delaney in a chairlift headed to the top of what he claimed was the easiest ski run in Colorado.”
“Tough skiing, huh?”
Stephen Bly's Horse Dreams Trilogy: Memories of a Dirt Road, the Mustang Breaker, Wish I'd Known You Tears Ago Page 11
