And Alexander was right — Wendy deserved a holiday treat. Her grandmother hadn’t left the couch in a week, she’d reported a few days before. “Her medicine makes her sick,” she kept explaining, and I kept nodding my head and saying I was sure she’d feel better really soon. Wendy said she wasn’t going to starve or anything; she knew how to make macaroni and cheese and grilled cheese sandwiches, and her aunt was checking on her everyday and bringing her home for supper if she wanted. But it seemed too dreary for words, even for a holiday that I didn’t really bother celebrating, to be contemplating whether one was going to have mac and cheese or a grilled cheese sandwich for Thanksgiving dinner. For the first time ever, I wished that I had planned a Thanksgiving dinner of our own, so that I could have invited her over.
But of course there was the fact that Alexander didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, and the separate but no less important fact that I cooked about as competently as Wendy. And I’d already told our chef, who cooked for us once a week and left us a freezer full of goodies to stop us from ordering pizza every night, not to bother with any holiday dishes.
So the Goethe and a trail ride it was. I asked Wendy the day before Thanksgiving if she’d like to come with me on Friday afternoon.
“With the horses in the trailer?” Wendy asked, eyes wide. She was mounted on Betsy with a seat like a princess; I marveled, once again, at how naturally perfect her posture was.
“Yup,” I confirmed with a nod. “We’ll drive them out there, put their saddles on, and go ride in the woods for a few hours. It’ll be a nice break for them.”
“Betsy is bored with just going around the racetrack,” Wendy said. She patted the mare’s neck. “She’d love to go out in the woods.”
“And so would you, I bet.”
“I sure would!” Wendy’s face lit up with that incandescent glow I loved.
“It’s a date, then.” I gave Parker a rub under his mane and the little Thoroughbred shook his head and neck, as if I had tickled him. “Want to try a jog again?”
Wendy’s face instantly grew more serious. She was trying to learn to ride Betsy’s rather airy trot without bouncing, and though I knew she was going home aching and bruised after every ride, there was no stopping her. “Let’s do it,” she said in tones of steel, and gathered up her reins.
“Three… two… one!” I chirruped to Parker and off we went, jogging down the racetrack and into the sunset, Wendy grimly trying to sit the trot with a face like a soldier going into battle. I was so proud of her my heart seemed to swell up in my chest, and it was hard to believe that a month ago I had been cursing at the telephone after Linda had demanded I allow the girl into my life.
***
“Why are all the pine trees in straight rows?”
“That’s funny, isn’t it?”
We were riding through the pine forest on a perfect fall day. Okay, it wasn’t a perfect fall day anywhere but in my imagination. It was about eighty-four degrees and sunny and the horses were sweating through their skimpy winter coats as if they were in a sauna wearing ermine from head to hoof. But I got cold if the temperature dropped below seventy-two degrees, so I was enjoying the warmth.
And Wendy was right, the pine trees were all in straight rows. Towering, skinny, lined up in perfect rows that marched over the sandy hills, the trees already looked like the telephone poles they would probably all end up as one day. Every once in a while we passed through a clearing where the trees had been harvested; seedlings were sprouting through the ground-brush and palmettos, and once or twice a deer had blinked at us from the patchy grass before darting away for deeper cover. Above us, the yellow autumn sun was shining through the bushy tops of the trees, and the pattern of light on the white sand trail were zebra stripes that flashed against my eyelids when I closed them against the glare.
Once in a while the path would angle out of the deep woods and alongside properties that backed up to the woods. We weren’t in a rich or desirable part of Florida; mostly sandy fields that didn’t support much, maybe a horse or a cow per acre if the pasture was fertilized. We were far from cities or towns, as well, so there weren’t any commuters building McMansions out here. There was a simple reason, I figured, why this section of Florida was called the Nature Coast: no one wanted to live out here, where the shorelines were swampy, the interior sections were dry and drab, and the closest grocery store was more than an hour away.
We were coming up on one of the lonely hamlets that lined the forest now: I could see a clearing on the left, and sunlight glinting on barbed wire. As we drew nearer the horses lifted their heads higher, pricking their ears. “There’s a horse or two up here,” I warned Wendy. “Sit deep and put your heels down in case anybody gets silly.”
Wendy nodded and did just that, lengthening her legs and settling her heels a little ahead of her knees, so that she had a firm base of support in case Betsy did anything unexpected, like whirl or shy sideways. Sometimes horses seemed more spooked by the sight of strange horses than strange animals.
We drew even with the edge of the sloping pasture and above it on the hill-top I saw the usual sprawl of rotting wooden buildings, tangled barbed wire, and rusting vehicles pulled up around a single-wide mobile home that had seen better days. The field itself was a rectangle of about two acres, lined on either side by the dangerous wire, with a big sandy patch near the front gate where a rusting water trough and a similarly dying gate had been placed. The grass in the rest of the pasture was thin and scruffy, but what was most interesting was the deep oval that had been worn around the fence line, as if someone just rode around and around and around in endless circles.
As if they thought it was some sort of racetrack.
A horse, standing near the upper-right corner of the pasture, turned from what was apparently a deep contemplation of the rotting barn, a cypress structure that was half-fallen and tangled with ivy, and regarded our horses with astonishment. The horse’s dark coat was dappled golden by the slanting sunlight, and I could just see a white spot between its eyes, a splotch of white star. The horse’s body was narrow and its legs long — not your typical ranch horse, but a Thoroughbred. Not unusual, though: the ranches and mini-farms all around Ocala were dotted with the cast-offs of the racing industry. Everyone within sixty miles of Marion County had a Thoroughbred, I often thought, and it was usually one they’d gotten for free.
The horse turned its head back towards the barn for a moment, ears pricked, as if it had heard a sound inside. I saw the large ears, the coarse profile, that funny big nose, and caught my breath. But I was being foolish. Plenty of horses had that Roman profile. Even Thoroughbreds.
The horse suddenly decided it wanted to see what we were up to, and bolted with surprising power, rocketing down the slope of the pasture and heading straight for us. I was astonished by its acceleration and the length of stride, and really hoped it had the eyesight and brains and turning power to match; if the horse hit the barbed wire fence that separated its field from our trail, we were going to see some serious carnage. I didn’t feel prepared for anything so horrible, and I knew Wendy didn’t. Speaking of Wendy — I reached over and put a hand on Betsy’s rein, just in case. Wendy, sitting very deep, gave me a nervous smile.
“You’ll be fine,” I reassured her, lifting my left hand to tighten the reins as Parker began to bounce a little bit, watching the approaching Thoroughbred with some concern. Those legs were hammering the ground like pistons, those eyes were wide and white-rimmed, that horse was… no way —
“That’s Christmas!”
Wendy was out of the saddle before I could say a thing, slithering down from Betsy, who sidled away nervously, nearly jerking her reins out of my hand. Wendy ran in front of Parker and over to the fence line, shoving through the palmettos that had grown up along the trail. “Whoa, Christmas! Whoa girl!”
And to my disbelief, that wide-eyed, wild horse actually slid to a halt directly in front of Wendy, her red-lined nostrils reaching out to touch the girl�
��s outstretched hand, her heaving sides trembling as she blew at the girl’s familiar scent. I steadied Parker with my left hand and Betsy with my right hand and tried to wrap my head around what was going on, but this was really too insane for me. I didn’t have a clue.
Wendy, though, seemed to take it all for granted. With one hand rubbing the now-quiet filly between the eyes, she turned and faced me with an accusing glare. “What is Christmas doing here? You said she was at the racetrack with a friend of yours! This place is a dump — no horse should live here!”
I didn’t know what to say. That the lives of horses are capricious and unpredictable? That every horse was always in danger of ending up in some sandy backyard with the company of broken farm implements and rusty wire fencing? That it was no one’s fault and most emphatically not mine?
None of that, because there was some guy coming out of the mobile home and I was pretty sure the long thing in his hands was a shotgun. “Wendy,” I said, and then, more urgently: “Wendy. Come back here.”
But Wendy had turned back to the horse, and the filly was practically trying to climb into her lap, rubbing her face against Wendy’s hand, her eyes closed with pleasure. They were soul-mates, there was no doubt about it. But I didn’t think the redneck marching through the scrubby pasture was going to give a damn. I could practically see the murderous gleam in his eyes from here. This was a possessive guy and he didn’t look like he wanted a pair of females getting googly-eyed over the filly in his field.
“Wendy, her owner is coming,” I hissed urgently, nudging Parker closer to the fence. “And he doesn’t look friendly.”
“What the hell’s goin’ on out here!” the man bellowed. He was about halfway across the pasture and close enough for me to see the stains on his t-shirt and the rage in his face — what I could see of his face above the bristling thick beard that spilled onto his chest, lumberjack style. This was a true Florida cracker, living out in the middle of nowhere because he didn’t want nobody in his business, and here we were, all up in his business like a pair of fools.
“Nothing,” I called. “We’re just trail riding. Pretty horse,” I added. “Come on Wendy, time to head back! It’s getting dark!”
“Your girl needs to leave my horse alone,” the man growled. He came up behind Christmas and slapped the filly hard on the rump. She squealed and took off, shaking her head, ears pinned flat to her head. She skidded to a halt in the corner of the pasture about twenty feet away and stood there with her hindquarters bunched, ready to kick out if she was threatened again.
“Christmas!” Wendy called, and then she turned an angry face at the man. “Why did you hit her? She’s a good girl.”
“Just who the hell are you?” he sneered. “Get your skinny ass back on that mule and get out of here. I don’t answer to you Yankees about the way I treat my horses. And that there’s a racehorse. She don’t need no little girls hanging off her. You just git.” He jounced his rifle from one elbow to the other.
“We’re gitting,” I assured him. “Wendy, come get back on this horse this instant.”
“We can’t leave Christmas here!” she turned angry eyes on me. “This isn’t the racetrack! There’s hardly even any grass for her!”
“Lady, control your daughter.”
“She’s not my — Wendy, seriously, you’re way out of line here. I’m sorry about Christmas, but this is her owner and he is obviously taking perfectly good care of her. Look how fit she is.” And it was true: although dirty and with long toes that needed a farrier’s urgent attention, the filly was bursting with muscle. Her chest was much more bulky than when I’d seen her a month ago, and her hindquarters were equally built. Someone had put some time into getting her fit. The worn oval in the pasture was making sense now. Maybe this guy was planning on running her at Tampa, who knew? If he’d figured her out, maybe he’d make a little money. “Come on. You don’t have anything to worry about.”
“That’s right, missis,” the redneck agreed. “I take damn fine care of this horse. This is a racehorse. Won me two hundred dollars just the other night.”
I looked up. “Two hundred dollars?”
“That’s right. Fastest horse of the night. Eddie Runyon had some Quarter Horse stud couldn’t catch her to save his damn life. She ran the tar out of him. Next time she’s going longer and we’ll really give them a show.”
I was utterly flummoxed. “Were you barrel racing?”
“Barrel racing? Hell no! This here’s a real racehorse. Don’t need no barrels.” He eyed me suspiciously, as if he’d said more than he’d meant to. “Y’all better just move along now.”
“Come on, Wendy,” I repeated, in more of a hurry to get out of there than ever before. If this old hillbilly hadn’t stopped himself, he might have told me a local secret, and I didn’t want him to give out any information he’d regret. “We have to get going or we’ll be out here after dark.”
Wendy finally gave in and came back over, taking the reins from me and leading Betsy over to a fallen pine log to mount. She cast a final look at Christmas, still huddling the corner with her ears carefully trained on her owner, her tail swishing. They did not have a happy partnership, that much was for certain. I wondered how I could lie to Wendy, convince her otherwise. I wished the old redneck would have just pretended to be nice to his damn horse. It would have made my life a lot easier.
But he just switched his shotgun to his other elbow again and watched us turn and ride away. As soon as we could, I nudged Parker into a jog, and Betsy followed. The effort of staying secure at the trot would keep Wendy occupied until we were well away from the crazy cracker and his gun, I figured. I didn’t need her asking questions that he’d overhear.
I didn’t need him coming after us to keep his information to himself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“We can still turn back,” Kerri suggested, her voice tight. “I don’t know if this is your best idea.”
“Oh, it’s definitely in my top ten bad ideas. It’s right up there with running away to Ocala to ride racehorses. But we’re not turning back.”
The dirt road we had been driving down for the past five minutes had given way to what was little more than two sandy tracks with thick weeds bursting up between them, brushing the undercarriage of the truck with rather alarming hissing and thunks. We were way out in the wilds of Levy County, not too far from the Goethe. It was a rural area bordering on wilderness, and its tumbledown wire fences and scrubland hills were a world away from the even fences and manicured pastures we’d left behind in Ocala. This was a scrappier, more wild version of Florida, and its residents had been living on the peninsula much longer than my family, or anyone that I knew.
We were deep in cracker country.
“What if this driveway just peters out?” Kerri asked helpfully. “There hasn’t been any room to turn around for at least a mile.”
“It’s not going to peter out. Judd said this was the way, and Judd should know.”
Of course, I had to hope and pray Judd had given me perfectly clear, perfectly precise instructions, and there was definitely a possibility that he’d misremembered which rusty white mailbox I should turn left on once I’d been driving on County Road 493 for eight miles “or so.” Judd was a decent farrier and a nice man, but he’d had his run-ins with drugs and alcohol, like a few other guys I’d known who made their living underneath horses, and I’d known him to forget which horses were kept where and wait patiently for me at the broodmare barn, while I tapped my feet with impatience down at the training barn, with a shed-row full of horses in training that needed new kicks. His memory had definitely taken a hit from some of his recreational hobbies. And he’d probably been kicked in the head more than once.
But he’d seemed pretty certain when I’d asked him where the nearest bush track was. “You want the one up at Salt Springs or the one out in Gilchrist or the one down near Otter Creek?”
“Oh, Judd,” I’d said disapprovingly — even though I’d asked b
ecause I knew he’d have the answer. “Do you really go to those places?”
“Their horses get shoes, too, you know,” he’d said cheerfully, and transferred a few nails from the open carton on his tool-box to his cheek. Nails bristling from his mouth, he bent back over the hoof of the two-year-old he’d been shoeing. “Aren’t you glad they’re getting such tender loving care from me?”
“Of course I am,” I’d said apologetically. “And the one near Otter Creek, I guess. This horse was down along the Goethe.”
“Tons of horses getting trained in the Goethe,” Judd announced through his mouthful of horseshoe nails.
“Just tell me where the track is.”
“Okay. But listen, don’t be too obvious, okay? Not a lot of girls at these things, and none of them have all their teeth and pretty hair like you.”
“Got it,” I’d said, and taken out my phone to make notes as he described the route.
Now I was starting to worry about more than being the only girl with all my teeth — well, besides Kerri. I was starting to worry this was a road to nowhere. On my left, there was a barbed-wire fence encircling a field with a few dozen long-horn cattle. On the right, a drainage ditch dropped away from the road with alarming proximity to the track my wheels were following. I was starting to sweat.
“If you see a place to turn around, please take it,” Kerri said.
“Okay.” I was getting just scared enough to give in.
Then the pasture on the left ended in a forest of pine trees — more of the overgrown telephone poles like the ones in the preserve. After about fifty feet of pine trees, the landscape opened up again, and there it was: the bush track.
In a great grassy clearing, just about large enough to hold a decent sized jumping arena, the scene was set for a night of country fun. About twenty or thirty trucks and trailers of varying descriptions were lined up, making the scene look like a horse show or a rodeo. There was a mobile smoker and a fat man in an apron leaning over it. A few coolers alongside were propped open so that their contents could be seen: gleaming cans of Coors Light and Bud, ready to add their influence to the night’s festivities. Through the gaps between the trailers, I could see horses walking, their riders sitting with short stirrups in light exercise saddles. Beyond it all, a pasture stretched out to a clump of trees on the horizon: a cypress dome, I thought, belying how far west we’d traveled, towards the distant coast of the Gulf of Mexico. We were really, truly, in the middle of nowhere.
Claiming Christmas (Alex and Alexander Book 3) Page 6
