Blue Moon

by Marilyn Halvorson

  I shook my head. In the time I’d known this horse, most of the names that had crossed my mind weren’t fit to say out loud.

  “Well, blue roans are pretty rare. Maybe you should just call her Blue.”

  I gave him a pained look. “That sounds like some old hound dog in a country song.”

  “There something wrong with country music?”

  I just rolled my eyes. “She’s got a neat white mark like a crescent moon on her forehead. Maybe I should call her Crescent.”

  “Crescent isn’t a horse. It’s a wrench.”

  “Okay, then how about just Moon?”

  Cole burst right out laughing at that. “The last thing Moon makes me think of is a mark on a horse’s face.”

  “Well, what you think doesn’t matter a whole lot. She’s my horse.”

  Cole gave me his most irritating grin. “Except for seven bucks worth of her.”

  “I’ll trim her hoofs and give you the trimmings. How’s that?”

  He laughed and then ran his hand along the swollen place on her leg. “You know, this swelling would go down faster if you’d pack it in ice for a while.”

  “Sure, Cole. Learn that in veterinary school?”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I gotta go.”

  As soon as he was out of sight, I went in and got the ice.

  Chapter Eight

  The ice really did seem to help, so I repeated it every night for a week. Finally, the roan wasn’t limping at all and the swelling was almost gone. Her ribs didn’t stick out so much as her sides rounded out under the shiny gray-blue hide. Meanwhile, I was riding her, finding out more about her. She was starting to trust me and I was beginning to see the real horse behind the scarecrow I’d bought at the auction. There was nothing more I could teach her about reining or taking the right leads. She just naturally did it right. Somebody, somewhere, had put a lot of training into her. I couldn’t help wondering who, where—and how come I got lucky enough to pick her up so cheap. But I wasn’t so sure I really wanted to know.

  Anyway, she was ready to start learning about barrel racing. I collected three old, dented-up barrels from the shed and set them up in a triangle. Then I started practicing the cloverleaf pattern around them. I could see that this was something the mare hadn’t done before, but she caught on fast. After a couple of days of taking her through the pattern at a trot, I started letting her go a little. She was fast as greased lightning between the turns. She went around the barrels close as a dust rag going around a table leg. So close, in fact, that it wasn’t long before I had developed permanent dents in my shinbones.

  After a few good whacks I started wearing an old sweatshirt wrapped around each knee. Cole almost killed himself laughing the first time he saw my new outfit, but I didn’t care. They weren’t his shins.

  Another couple of weeks passed, one day sliding into another. Help Dad all day. Work with my mare in the evening. It seemed like it was going to go on that way all summer.

  It was only about seven-fifteen one morning when I heard the unmistakable sound of Cole’s truck rumbling into the yard. I wondered what had moved him to show up so early, but since I was washing my hair in the shower at that moment, I couldn’t ask him. I did manage to get dried and dressed in something under two minutes, though.

  I arrived in the yard to find my whole family lined up like some sort of a welcoming committee. Dad and Cole were off to the side, talking. When Dad saw me he called me over. “Bobbie Jo, Cole’s dad would like to see your new horse,” he said.

  I stared at him. So? I thought. Why does this require some kind of grand performance? Why doesn’t he just haul himself out of that truck and walk twenty steps to the corral and have a look?

  I guess Dad could read my thoughts. Before I could blurt out something rude or stupid he said, “Go and bring her over here, Bobbie Jo.” He gave me his “and don’t argue” look.

  I shrugged and went to catch the horse. When I got back, the passenger door of the truck was open and Dad and Cole were both standing beside it. It looked like they were lifting something out. They were. It was a man. The man finally got both feet on the ground—sort of—but mainly stood balancing himself on a pair of crutches. On the crutches and on two twisted legs that seemed ready to buckle beneath him. I managed to drag my stare away from the legs long enough to look at the man’s face. It matched the legs just fine. Gaunt and hard and set in lines of permanent pain. It was the face of a man who had been to hell and hadn’t made it all the way back yet.

  I caught myself staring, so I focused my eyes on a fascinating clump of grass beside my foot.

  Cole cleared his throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Brooks, Bobbie Jo, Sara, this is my dad, Jim McCall.” The words came out low and kind of scratchy, as if they hurt his throat. Mom and Dad managed to babble something polite. Sara just stared, for once at a loss for words. I think I said hi.

  The man just nodded, like talking was something he’d left behind a long time ago. He didn’t seem interested in us anyway. His eyes, bright blue like Cole’s, were the only part of him, that seemed alive. They were fixed on my blue roan mare. Leaning heavily on the crutches, he took a staggering step toward her. Dad started to reach out a hand to help him, but Cole shook his head. Dad pulled back his hand and McCall fought his way over to the mare on his own. I tightened my grip on the halter rope. This horse had come a long way, but she still could be jumpy. It would be just like her to spook seven ways to sundown at the sight of this man with four legs—two of which were big sticks.

  Then Jim McCall spoke to her. I didn’t even really catch the words. Just the usual stuff you say to a horse. But the words didn’t matter. He had the gentlest voice I’d ever heard. Peaceful. Kind of like a lazy river flowing around a bend under a warm summer sun. Right away I knew it hit the horse the same way. Her ears flickered with interest, and I could feel the tension flow right out of her.

  Next thing I knew, McCall was leaning against her shoulder. He ran his hand along her hard-muscled neck, and she was loving every minute of it. I didn’t know where this guy had come from or how he’d got so messed up, but one thing was for sure. With horses he was a natural. Slowly, he worked his way around my horse, sizing her up from every angle. He kept right on talking to her and ignoring the rest of us like he and the horse were on a desert island somewhere. He paused a long time studying the shoulder with the wagon wheel brand. He gently ran his hand back and forth over it, without a word to anyone.

  Then he even convinced her to open her mouth and had a careful look at her teeth. At last he gave my horse one final pat on the neck and made his way back to the truck. Cole helped him in and I thought he was going to leave the way he came, without a word to any of us. But he focused those piercing eyes on me through the truck’s open window. “Look after that horse, Bobbie Jo,” he said, real soft like he’d talked to the mare. “One like that only comes along once in a blue moon.” He nodded to Cole and they drove away.

  As the truck rumbled off down the lane, Sara blurted out what must have nearly killed her to keep to herself that long. “That’s Cole’s father? I thought it was his grandfather.”

  Nobody bothered to answer her. We all walked to the house, thinking and wondering. I wasn’t sure what was going through everybody else’s mind, but mine kept repeating the only words Jim McCall had spoken to me. There was something real important in those words. And suddenly I knew what it was. He had just named my horse. Blue Moon.

  Chapter Nine

  The summer kept rolling by. Haying started. The work was long and hard and hot. Cole showed up the same time every morning, but he never brought his dad again. Cole never even mentioned him. Some unwritten law kept us from mentioning him either.

  Evenings were still riding time. I was turning Blue Moon into a barrel horse. I’d carefully measured out the distance between my barrels so they were pretty well the same as for most outdoor arenas. Blue Moon kept running the pattern in under eighteen seconds. Another few days and I was going to
look for a rodeo to enter.

  That was the plan. But Blue Moon had other plans. It was a hot, muggy evening. We’d been hauling hay as fast as we could all day because Dad expected rain. Now I was ready for today’s first run around the barrels. Blue Moon was dancing, keyed up, tossing her head with excitement. I nodded to Cole, who was holding the stopwatch. When I loosened the reins, Blue Moon shot forward like a rocket. Around the first barrel, digging for traction in the loose dirt, then running hard for the second. Around it so tight I could almost hear my shinbone crying out for mercy. Then the long run to the third barrel. Around it and the flat-out race across the finish line. I rode her around in a big circle to slow her down and then to a sliding stop almost toe-to-toe with Cole’s scuffed old boots.

  “Well?” I asked breathlessly. I always forget to breathe when I’m barrel racing and end up more winded than the horse.

  He looked up from the watch. “Well what?” he asked with an irritating grin. Before I could let him have it with the end of my reins, his memory returned. “Seventeen-two,” he said.

  I gave a whoop that startled Blue Moon so bad she almost jumped out from under me. “Seventeen-two! That’s four-tenths faster than she’s ever gone. One more time. We’re gonna break seventeen this time.”

  Cole just shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe you should quit while you’re still ahead.” But I was already loping away to line up for another run. It was even faster. I could feel it. Not a fraction of a second lost anywhere. No slips. No wasted steps. We were coming up on the final barrel, the one closest to the barn. Now, one lightning turn around it and…

  The mare didn’t turn. I was giving her the signal with the reins, with my knees, with my whole body, but she wasn’t turning. Instead, she had the bit in her teeth and was pounding straight for the barn, faster than she’d ever run before. I gave up trying to turn her. I just wanted to stop her. But there was no way. I might as well have been trying to stop a locomotive. She was heading straight for the open barn door, and I knew she wasn’t planning to stop. There was only one problem. The doorway was high enough for a horse. But not for a horse with a rider on its back. If I didn’t do something fast, I was about to lose my head.

  I jerked my feet out of the stirrups and took a quick glance at the green blur beneath Blue Moon’s pounding hoofs. I took a deep breath and bailed off. Hitting the ground knocked that breath right back out of me.

  I was just considering trying to move when strong arms suddenly went around me. “Bobbie Jo, are you all right? Don’t try to move.” I immediately sat up—and found myself looking into Cole’s eyes. It was the first time I’d seen them at such close range. They were real worried-looking. They were also the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen on anybody.

  I groaned. I must have hit my head. Nothing short of brain damage would get me thinking like that.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Of course I’m okay,” I said grumpily. I staggered to my feet, swayed a little and felt Cole reach out to steady me. His arms around me felt so good that for a minute I just stood there letting him hold me.

  Then I broke away. “What got into that crazy horse anyway?”

  “She went sour.”

  “What?”

  “How many times you figure you’ve run those barrels with her in the last couple of weeks?”

  I thought a minute. “Sixty maybe?”

  Cole nodded. “At least. She’s had enough of it. She’s bored and she’s mad and I think she just made her point. She needs a change.”

  I started to open my mouth to argue and then shut it again. I couldn’t think of any arguments. Everything Cole had said made sense. Just because she’d been learning so fast was no excuse for me to push her so hard. I gave Cole a dirty look for being right and went into the barn to get her.

  Blue Moon was standing in her stall, ladylike as could be, munching on some hay. “Sorry, girl,” I whispered into a black-tipped ear. “I get the message. But next time, could you explain a little more gently?”

  I led her outside and climbed stiffly back into the saddle. “I’m gonna ride her down to the river. Give her a change of scenery.” I nodded toward the corral where Patchy Pete was standing. “You can borrow Patchy if you want to come along.”

  Cole laughed. “I’ll pass. I hate it when my feet drag on the ground when I’m riding. See you later, Blue Jeans.”

  I sat watching as he jumped into his truck and rumbled down the lane. I breathed a sigh of relief. At last, some riding time without Cole hanging around. And then I caught myself missing him. Maybe I really had hit my head.

  I let the mare take her time as I rode along the wide grassy ditch at the edge of the road. The ride to the river should take about an hour. Just time enough to get there and back before dark.

  I was deep in a daydream, and I think Blue Moon was too. Suddenly, the sound of hoofbeats woke us both up. Blue Moon shot a look over her shoulder and whinnied. I looked over my shoulder, too. A rider was coming up behind us at a lope. He was on a powerfully built black horse and he was gaining fast. I stared for a few long seconds until I saw that the rider was Cole McCall.

  Where had that horse come from? Suddenly, I realized just how little I really knew about the McCalls. Living back there in the trees at the end of that long lane, they could have a dozen horses for all I knew.

  Cole pulled the big horse down to a walk and came up beside us. “Hi, Blue Jeans,” he said with a grin. “Imagine runnin’ into you out here.”

  I ignored him and studied the horse. A stallion, nearly sixteen hands tall. He had the deep-muscled shoulders and hindquarters of a purebred quarter horse. He was jet-black except for a white star on his forehead. “Where did you get that horse?” I demanded.

  “Stole him off a dead gunfighter,” Cole drawled.

  I glared at him. “Cole…”

  “Raised him from a colt,” he said, and this time I could see he meant it.

  I stared at him unbelievingly. “All this time you’ve been watching me work with Blue Moon you never once said anything about having a horse of your own. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Cole shrugged, reached down and rubbed the stallion’s neck. “Itchy, huh, Nightstar?” Then he looked up. “Did you ever ask?” he said, his eyes on mine.

  Before I had time to answer, Nightstar reached his nose over toward Blue Moon and gave a soft little whinny. It sounded like it meant something like, “How about we ditch these two and go eat clover together in the moonlight?”

  Blue Moon gave an insulted squeal, flattened her ears and bared her teeth. I grinned and gave her a pat on the neck. She was definitely my kind of horse.

  Chapter Ten

  Cole and I started riding together nearly every evening. The longer rides were just what Blue Moon needed. When I tried her on the barrels again, she was back to behaving like a pro. Now what she needed was a chance to prove herself. I guess Cole was thinking the same thing. One Monday morning he handed me a piece of paper. It was a poster for the Elkridge Rodeo. He pointed to an event near the bottom of the page. Novice Barrel Racing. “No pros in there,” he said. “Ol’ Moonface would have a pretty good chance.”

  I jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow. “Stop calling her that!” Then I couldn’t resist adding, “You really think she could win?”

  “Sure,” he said with a wicked grin, “if she doesn’t decide to skip the third barrel and run for home instead.”

  I gave him another jab. “Not much danger,” I said confidently. Especially since home was a two-hour drive from Elkridge. I started to work on Dad. I had two weeks to talk him into the three things I needed. His truck. His trailer. And his permission to go. By the end of the week I had all three.

  That was about the same time that Cole started acting funny. I mean even stranger than usual. I’d be yapping away at him about Blue Moon, and he’d get this worried look on his face and say something like, “Uh, Bobbie Jo, there’s something I’d better…” Bobbie Jo yet, n
ot Blue Jeans. But when I’d stop talking and wait to hear what he had to say, he’d never get around to spitting it out. It was really getting on my nerves.

  The day before the rodeo, I was bouncing off the ground with excitement. Cole was grumpy as an old bear with a hangover.

  I took Blue Moon for just one quick run around the barrels that evening. She did them in seventeen-one. “Cole!” I screeched when he told me. “That’s fantastic! She’s gonna win!”

  “Yeah,” he said, staring at the ground. “Maybe.”

  I couldn’t take it. “Well thanks a lot for the support. All week you’ve been trying to bring me down and I’ve had enough of it. Just go home.”

  I thought at least he’d fight back. He didn’t. He just nodded. “Okay. Good luck tomorrow.”

  It felt like I slept about ten minutes that night. In the morning I woke up tired and scared. I didn’t want to go to the rodeo alone. Everything I’d done with Blue Moon, I’d done by myself. I kept telling myself that. It was the truth. But every step of the way, Cole had been there. Not doing all that much. Just being there. And suddenly I realized I still needed him to be there.

  I spent the morning going through the motions of getting ready to go to the rodeo. It was Saturday, so Cole didn’t come to work. He didn’t come to hang around either, like he did most Saturdays.

  It was almost one o’clock. I should get going. I wanted to watch some of the other events and give Blue Moon lots of time to get used to the place. I put the mare in the trailer. Cole and I had been practicing loading her for weeks. Now she walked right in. I didn’t have any excuse to hang around any longer.

  Mom and Dad came out to wish me luck. They had wanted to come and watch me race, but one of our best cows was due to calve that day so they didn’t dare leave. As I climbed into the truck, Mom asked the question I’d been dreading. “Isn’t Cole going with you, Bobbie Jo? After all the time he’s spent helping you with the horse, I thought you’d want him to be there for your first rodeo.”