Tell Me When It Hurts

by Christine Whitehead

  Finally, she decided on a Featherlite two-horse with a dressing room. It was available immediately, and it met her needs. She watched as the salesman hitched it to the Jeep. Hadley stared suspiciously at it, her tail motionless. For Archer, this was old home week. She loved nothing better than taking her show on the road.

  As she pulled out into traffic, the rain stopped. She felt light, young, and hopeful. New beginnings—a redo. Maybe it was possible to have one after all.

  The next morning, she loaded the Jeep. Her dark auburn hair was pulled back by a big tortoiseshell barrette, and she wore jeans, a navy crewneck sweater, and a light blue fleece. As she slammed the back car door, Archer turned to look at her cabin, maybe for the last time. She gazed at it steadily. Plain and unassuming, it had done its job well, keeping her safe as she mended.

  The tapestry of early fall color swished in the breeze, treetops sweeping blue sky. “Oh, don’t tempt me, you Berkshire Circe,” she whispered, tears forming in her gray-green eyes. “Don’t tempt me into staying. I need to go.”

  And with one last fond look back, she turned away and opened the car door.

  “Let’s go, girl,” she said, and the lab trotted around the side of the cabin and hopped into the backseat.

  They drove slowly on narrow country roads, snaking along creeks and around hills to Mad River Farm in Simsbury, Connecticut. Archer had called Jane Russo two days ago to tell her she was coming for Allegra. Jane had been flabbergasted. After six years of no contact except for payments, Archer was taking the horse.

  “Is there a problem, Archer?” Jane had asked.

  “No, not at all,” Archer said. “I’m moving out West, and . . . and I want Allegra with me.”

  “Oh, well, that’s fine. That’s just fine.” She recalled the hesitation in Jane’s voice. “Are you all right, Archer?”

  “Fine, just fine. And thank you—really, thank you for asking.”

  * * *

  Around midmorning, Archer pulled into the dirt driveway at Mad River Farm. It had been almost seven years. For the three years before that, it had been her and Annie’s home away from home. She had been here twice a day, six days a week—even more often when there were horse shows—sometimes bringing work to do in the car or the bleachers.

  Driving up the familiar dirt road, Archer watched the horses, turned out in their paddocks on both sides of the driveway. Several trotted up to the fence, whinnying loudly as she passed. The rhododendron bushes lining the entrance were bigger than she remembered them, and a new indoor arena stood behind the original one. Otherwise, the farm looked well kept, recently painted, and as good as ever.

  Archer parked, opened the car door, and slipped on her old brown leather paddock boots and her dark green nylon riding jacket.

  She stopped for a minute and remembered. Annie would always hop out of the car, skip to the barn door, turn, and give a single side-to-side wave, then disappear into the barn. Sometimes on a Friday evening, she might turn and dramatically blow a kiss to her mother. Au revoir, ma petite Maman, she would call out in her grade school French before opening the barn door and disappearing inside. Afterward she would chatter excitedly about the horses, how her riding had gone, what the other girls did, how their horses had done, and what was planned for the next day.

  She paused at the top of the line of stalls, hesitant. A door behind her opened, and Jane Russo came out of the office, smiling, hand extended.

  “Archer, how are you? It’s so good to see you looking so well.”

  “Thanks so much, Jane. I am well. How is Allegra doing?”

  Jane hesitated for a moment, looked down, hands in the pockets of her jacket, then looked up at Archer again.

  “She’s pretty good, actually.” She paused. “For the past six months, I’ve let a nice, sharp little thirteen-year-old girl ride her occasionally—just to give her a bit of exercise, you know.”

  When Archer expressed no upset, she went on. “Carrie rides very nicely and can’t afford her own horse. She’s learned all she can from our school horses and has real talent. She’s done some low jumps on Allegra, and I swear, Archer, that horse takes care of that child, moving right or left to keep her balanced, like she wants to make sure she doesn’t fall off. Never saw anything quite like it . . . uh, anyway, I know you didn’t want to sell or lease her, but I didn’t think you’d mind a girl using her lightly. I hope it was okay.”

  “That’s fine, Jane. I’m glad you were kinder than I was. Thanks.” Archer paused. “Is she in the same stall?”

  “No, we moved her to the next aisle over. Just go around the corner at the end of the row, to the right. She’s in the second stall on the left. Go on down, why don’t you? It’s quiet here this time of day.”

  Archer walked down the aisle, speaking softly to the horses as they poked their noses out for a pat. “Hello, you fine fellow . . . How are you today? . . . And you? . . . Yes, and you, too, silly.”

  At the end of the aisle, she turned to the right and started up the next row. And as she rounded the corner, she saw a dark bay head with a sharp white heart in the middle of its forehead. Turning fluidly toward Archer, full-faced, Allegra looked steadily at her. Archer stopped dead in the aisle, staring at the animal that had been the object of Annie’s love and obsession. Beautiful Allegra, possessor of Annie’s soul. “Forgive me, dear one,” she breathed.

  Archer walked the length of a stall and drew the glove off her right hand. Allegra’s head hung out over the stall door, and she reached out to touch the soft, downy nose. Allegra looked at her, then nodded and nuzzled her cupped hand. After a second, the mare pulled back her nose, and Archer slid the stall door open and stepped into the space of fresh shavings and sweet mounded hay.

  Archer swallowed hard and began to cry softly, hugging tightly the only great love Annie would ever have. She took the worn leather halter, engraved with a small brass plate that read, “Allegra—Owner, Annie MacKenzie,” and slipped it over Allegra’s ears. She fastened the throat latch but did not move to leave. She fastened the throat latch but did not move to leave, instead caressing the smooth, dark neck and bringing her face close to breathe in the warm, sweet, earthy scent. Archer wept into the mare’s neck while the mare stood patiently, quietly alert.

  “I’m sorry, Allegra. I’m sorry it’s me and not her,” Archer said over and over.

  Allegra bobbed her head a few times as if to say, Well, here you are now. It’s time. You’ve finally come for me. I’ve been waiting for you.

  Alone amid the fragrant hay and September warmth, clean bedding, and cool scent of leather, Archer dreamed of riding with Annie in England, in Vermont, in Wyoming. She dreamed of Annie graduating from college, and a wedding, and grandchildren. She dreamed of celebrating Christmas with Adam and Annie and Annie’s children in the house in West Hartford. She dreamed of teaching her grandchildren, alongside Annie, to ride and ride well. Then she sobbed into the mare’s neck until she had no more tears. She shook her head hard and straightened up. It was a wonderful dream, but a dream nonetheless.

  Archer dried her tears on the backs of her gloves and put a lead rope on Allegra’s halter. Patting the mare’s neck, she murmured, “Let’s go, Allegra,” and slid open the stall door. She stepped out, and the horse followed her down the aisle and outside to the waiting trailer. Allegra went up the ramp of the trailer without hesitating, as if this were all exactly as she had expected. She stood patiently as Archer fastened the trailer hitches on either side of her nose, latched the padded safety bar behind her rump, lifted the ramp into its locked position, and closed the door behind her.

  “Now I’m ready, Allegra,” Archer said as she shut the trailer door. “Ready to see if we have any life left in us.

  CHAPTER 37

  Eight days after picking up Allegra, Archer arrived in Little Tempest, Wyoming. She liked it immediately. The main street was wide, and the buildings were log structures. A covered board sidewalk ran in front of the line of shops on each side, and a cr
ossroads bisected the street with a single traffic light.

  Archer stopped at the light. Stores selling cameras, jewelry, and outdoor equipment lined one side, and a leather store occupied most of the block across from them. A pretty bar/restaurant/cafe called the Hangout stood on the corner. Plants dangled from the café’s outdoor porch, where four tables were set for early dinner customers. The sun hung low in the west. In another hour, they would need blankets to dine outside, Archer thought.

  As she pulled into the parking area of a small gas station to check her map, she was struck by the chrome blue sky and the fresh, brisk breeze. Late September was cool here. She pulled a spruce-green fleece from the backseat of the Jeep and put it on, then pulled her reading glasses from her pocketbook, spread the map out on the hood of her car, and looked at it carefully. Yes, this was it, but where was Three Chimneys?

  Archer was scanning the map again for some clue to where Connor’s ranch might be, when she realized she was not alone. She looked up to see three men staring at her with friendly curiosity.

  “Hi, there, ma’am. Need any help?” asked the eldest. He was tall, sturdy, about sixty, wearing jeans and a black cowboy hat. He tipped his hat to her. “I couldn’t help noticing the Massachusetts plates on your car.”

  She smiled, squinting at the sun in her eyes, and lifted her left hand to shade them. “Well, yes, thanks. I’m looking for Connor McCall’s place, Three Chimneys. Do you happen to know how to get there?”

  The older man nodded and smiled. He moved closer to look at Archer’s map, when one of the younger men, who wore stovepipe boots, said, “Hey, isn’t that the girl from the picture?”

  The third man, with a black ponytail to his shoulders, looked over at Archer with new interest. “By God, I think it is!”

  They all turned toward her as if choreographed, and the one who had spoken first actually reached into his inner jacket pocket to put on glasses. They examined Archer like an unusual biological specimen. She flushed.

  “Yup, that’s her,” said the first man, taking his glasses off and replacing them in his pocket.

  “Hey, look! She has a horse back here,” said Ponytail. Allegra stared out through her barred window.

  “Um, gentlemen, can you help me with this?” asked Archer, interrupting their examination of her and her horse.

  Ponytail poked a finger into the trailer’s open window, petting Allegra’s smooth nose. The horse accommodated him, thrusting her nose out through the opening in the bars. “Oh, yeah, this is a nice mare. She just needs a little legging up. Muscles a little slack, but she’ll work up real good,” he declared with authority, still petting Allegra and peering into the trailer to look at her feet.

  Archer glanced at the two younger men. The one in stovepipe boots was now petting Hadley, who by now had her head out the driver’s side window, while the other was still gauging the roping and ranching potential of Allegra, equine star of the 1993 Bridgehampton Classic, and Reserve Champion in Amateur Hunters on the East Coast in 1994.

  The older man turned back to Archer. “Well, ma’am, yes, I sure can direct you there. It’s not too far. You go back out the road you came in on.” He paused and tipped his head back. “Let’s see, I want to take you as direct as I can. Take the wrong road, and over the mountain you go. Okay, go back the way you came, for, oh, I’d say about seven, no, eight miles. Then turn at John’s ranch here, where I’m puttin’ an X, and go right.”

  “No, Joe, I’d take her around Tupper Lake. It’s longer but it’s marked better. The way you’re taking her, one mistake and she’ll go over the mountain,” piped up Boots.

  “You’re crazy, Jimmy. That’s five miles out of the way. She’s smart. Anyway, after that right, just keep going until you see Three Chimneys’ gate. It’ll probably be open, but if it’s not, just drive around it and back onto the driveway. Connor won’t mind. He’s . . . well, you’ll see how he is. He may be out on the range at this hour, or putting up hay. Probably hay. It’s pretty late in the day to still be out in the hills.”

  “Well, thanks a lot,” said Archer. “You’ve been very kind,”

  “No problem, ma’am,” said Joe, tipping his hat. “Nice horse you got there. Hope to see you again.”

  Archer smiled and got back in the Jeep. And after taking another look at the little map, she pulled out, going back the way she had come. The three men stood smiling and waving. As soon as she was gone, she was sure they went into the Hangout to report that Connor McCall’s New England woman was in town.

  * * *

  Archer drove along the empty road. It took her almost an hour to get to the arched wooden gate reading three chimneys ranch. Underneath, in smaller letters, was carved “Ramboulliet Sheep World’s Finest Fleece.” Archer had, in fact, taken a wrong turn and gone “over the mountain.”

  The gate was open. She drove a few hundred feet, then stopped. Sky and hills spread in every direction; it wasn’t quite like Joan Fontaine on the driveway to Manderlay, but just as breathtaking—and as nerve-racking.

  The driveway stretched up a slight incline, and the hills rolled away yellow-green to the horizon. Archer could not see a house, barn, or any other structure. Now she was scared. What if Connor told her to leave? What if he hated her? Worse, what if he had someone else, someone less neurotic and less troubled than she—someone who made him happy? Hadley looked at Archer, tongue lolling, and shook her head. “I’m not ready, Hadley.”

  She backed out of the driveway, and headed back into town, such as it was. Back at the gas station, she asked about local lodging.

  “No motels within twenty miles, ma’am,” said the young man at the counter. “We don’t get many visitors, but Mrs. Winslow takes in people all the time. Just six miles south, direction you just came from. Can’t miss it. ‘Circle J Ranch’ on the gate. Just tell Dolly Winslow I sent you.”

  “Shouldn’t I call first?” asked Archer.

  “Naw, that’d just confuse things. She’ll take care of your horse, too.”

  Archer got into the Jeep heading south and found the Circle J easily. Once on the front porch, she knocked on the open screen door. “Hello? Anyone home?” she called.

  “Just a minute. I’ll be right there,” a woman’s pleasant voice called back.

  As Archer surveyed the farm—or “ranch,” as they called it out here—a plump, elderly, smiling woman, her long gray hair tied up in a bun, bustled up to the door. She had to be at least seventy-five, though she moved briskly.

  “Well, hello there. Can I help you?” she said, opening the screen door. “Come on in, dear. It’s getting cool out there. My, what a lovely fall we’ve been having. Come on in. I almost have my piecrust done, so forgive the flour on my hands.”

  She looked at Archer expectantly.

  “I was sent by . . .” And Archer realized she had not gotten the name of the young man at the gas station. “Well, I wondered if you had a room I could rent for a few days. I have a dog and horse, too. I’m sorry; I didn’t realize I would need to stop somewhere out here, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Well, of course I do, dear. I’m Dolly Winslow, and I have a room at the top of the stairs you can use. I assume your dog can stay with you, and your horse can go into the little paddock out front. Just turn him out there and let him romp, why don’t you? I’ve been a widow for almost eight years now, and I like the company. No bellhops here or room service, but I think you’ll be comfortable.” Dolly turned to go back in the kitchen.

  “Oh, thank you so much,” said Archer. “I’ll just turn Allegra—my horse—out, and then I’ll be in with my bags.”

  “Fine, dear. Just show yourself up. Dinner’s at six if you don’t want to go to the Hangout. I’m afraid that’s the only place open at night for twenty miles. If you want a real dinner, sorry to say, you have to go the forty-five minutes into Jackson.”

  “Oh, dinner here will be lovely. Thank you again.”

  “You’re entirely welcome, dear,” said Dolly, w
ith a wave of her floured hands.

  CHAPTER 38

  Dinner was a wonderful concoction of chicken in a crust with celery, potatoes, and onions. Dolly kept up a stream of talk, especially when she learned that Archer knew Connor McCall, her neighbor just over the hill.

  “Oh, Connor. What a nice young man he is! Just needs to meet the right woman. I thought he was sweet on Charlotte, you know, from the Hangout. Beautiful girl, lovely figure. In my day, she’d have been snapped up years ago. But the young people these days—“Can’t commit,” they tell me. In my day, you saw someone you liked, you got married, you had kids, and that was that. No thinking it over for years.

  “Oh, my, yes. Connor came here seven years ago. Almost lost his shirt, he did. Ha! But then he got the hang of things and is doing right well. Everyone is real happy for him. The ranchers like him. He employs a good number of the boys and treats ’em well, so I hear.

  “He’d be a catch, I’d say. Good-looking, clean, makes a good living—oh, dear, listen to me, going on and on. Now, how do you come to know Connor, dear?”

  Archer looked up from her cherry pie, still mulling over this woman named Charlotte.

  “Oh, he inherited some land next to mine in Massachusetts. Our paths quite literally crossed out there. He’s from Boston originally, you know.”

  “Oh, yes. I did hear he was from the East. My eldest son, William, lives back there in Providence, Rhode Island. Loves it there. And my little one, Taylor, is out in Hawaii. Can you imagine? Can’t keep them home, much as you’d like to,” Dolly said, chuckling. “Now, do you have any children yourself, dear?”

  Archer hesitated, on the brink of saying ’no’, then put down her own cup of coffee and said, “Yes, I do, Dolly. Thank you for asking. I have a daughter who died several years ago but she was the most wonderful child any mother could have asked for.”