Owen's Daughter

by Jo-Ann Mapson

  Far in the distance, there came a rider, barely hanging on his horse, which was at full gallop. The horse must have been poky on the way out and now it was barn sour on the way back. Once an older horse knew it was heading back to the stable, it often decided to gallop home. The most stubborn animal, one that balks at trotting, could suddenly get fleet feet in its rush to get home.

  Skye jumped down from the fence, curious. There was plenty of time to watch him, check out his seat, assess his faults—one of which was not keeping his elbows in. Chicken arms—bwak, bwak, Valerie the riding instructor would say when she taught riding lessons. Bwak, bwak, indeed. He transitioned to a trot, then a walk for the last hundred feet. He knew what he was doing, even if his riding style wasn’t the best. He must have taken lessons. The chestnut horse looked vaguely familiar.

  The rider neared, and then Hope leapt out of the truck and took off running toward him. “Dammit all,” she cursed, and sprinted after Hope. “Get back here, you little weasel!” she said as she huffed along, trying to catch him. How could her dad have a problem dog? Hope should be used to horses; he’d have been around them day after day. Skye had an advantage, given that she had the requisite number of legs, and finally she overtook the gimpy dog. She caught him by the collar and yanked. The rider came toward her, and she was too out of breath to say, “Not horse-friendly!” He appeared to be around her age, a little older, and she stared at him, feeling her armpits dampen from exertion. If he didn’t wear a hat, his sandy hair would bleach white in the high desert sun.

  “That cannot be the same dog,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” she asked. The dog was remarkably strong, pulling her toward the horse.

  “Hopeful?”

  Skye was still catching her breath. “How would you know that?”

  “We’re old acquaintances,” he said as he dismounted. He led the horse over to a Q-line Equestrian hot walker, shiny red, with four arms you could clip horses’ lead ropes to in order to cool them down. It looked like an umbrella that had lost its fabric. He removed the horse’s saddle and bridle, fitted him with a blue halter, and connected him to the equipment. Man, that horse reminded her of RedBow, her dad’s old horse. The guy clicked the ON switch and the hot walker began to turn, forcing the horse to walk and cool himself down. He came toward her, carrying his tack. “Long story. I guess there are other tripod heelers, but this one I know. Your dog? Did you get him from the shelter?”

  “Belongs to my dad.”

  The young man’s face changed from friendly and open to something else. His tone went from friendly to accusatory. “Really,” he said flatly. “Where is he?” He dropped the saddle and tack and rolled up the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt. “Tell me where he is.”

  She didn’t like the tone of his voice. “Why? Do you work for a collection agency?”

  He looked away. “I just want to talk with him.”

  “I doubt that. Look, I don’t know you from Adam, and clearly you don’t know me, but one thing that’s true is my dad’s a stand-up, honest person, so if you have a beef with him—”

  “Where is he?”

  “Jeez! He’s in the barn getting interviewed for a job. And don’t you dare go in there and ruin it.”

  He picked up the saddle, placed it over the railing, and started to walk briskly toward the barn.

  Skye grabbed his arm and hung on. “Back off, Roy Rogers. Tell me what the problem is, starting with your name. I’m Skye.”

  He shook her arm off, looked up at the sky, and wailed, “How can life be this unfair?” He crossed his arms over his chest, then pointed at the hot walker, where Hope had taken up residence, watching the chestnut horse go in circles. “See that horse? Did you know he once belonged to your dad? Did you know he abandoned it?”

  “That’s Red? My dad would never—” It slowly dawned on her that this guy was Margaret’s son. Margaret, who painted the picture of the house that seemed busting with stories.

  “Hate to burst your bubble, honey, but he did.”

  Skye hated being called “honey” or “sweetheart.”

  Before she could say so, the guy went on. “That loser. If it weren’t for me, this horse would’ve been sent to the glue factory years ago. I paid his board, his medical care, and I schooled him for years. When I went to college, my mom paid for him to be fed, ridden, shod, veterinary visits, you name it.” He pointed to his chest. “You know what that makes me?”

  Skye couldn’t help laughing at his indignation. “From here it looks like a bloviating a-hole. Am I close?”

  Peter threw his arms up in the air. “You’re just like him.”

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  He stared at her, and she noticed the blue earpiece above his left ear. What the hell was that all about? Was he part Cylon? Meanwhile, Hope waited patiently by the hot walker, studying Red’s progress. “My dad’s horse looks cooled down,” Skye told him.

  “My horse,” he said, pointing at himself again. The gestures he intended to be dramatic came across as childish. “Mine.” He stomped back to the hot walker, unhooked the horse, and began leading him toward the barn. Skye picked up the saddle and followed him. Hope loped alongside them as best he could.

  “They’re still making a racket with the power tools,” she said. “Maybe you want to turn him out in the indoor arena until that’s all done.”

  He huffed. “RedBow is bomb-proof. I’ve worked with him on that.”

  “Well, la-ti-frickin’-da for you. I’m sure he’s that way because my father trained him first, because whatever you think of my dad, and I don’t care to know, he is a real horse whisperer. And a great farrier.”

  The guy sighed and kept walking. His steps could have used Mrs. Wadsworth’s finishing school. He moved purposefully, heading toward a showdown. At the stall, he checked the horse’s feet one last time, while Skye put the saddle up on the rack. Hope lay down by the stall and, like a pretzel, rested his head on his back leg. “Never caught your name,” Skye said. “Or is that classified information?”

  “Peter. Not that it’s any of your business, but I plan to have a little chat with your father, once he leaves the office. And whether he gets the job or not, I plan to tell Joe Vigil, who I met yesterday morning, exactly how that son of a bitch left his horse behind and never sent so much as a penny to take care of him.”

  “When he tells you why, will you stop being such a rageaholic?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, Pete. Rageaholic. You act like a little kid who dropped his ice-cream cone and can’t believe the universe won’t give him a new one for free.”

  “Fine,” he said, “call me whatever name you want. It’s proof you’re uneducated and that you have no manners.”

  “Me?” Skye said. “Looked in the mirror lately? What a miserable human being you are. Didn’t your mama teach you how to be nice?”

  He pointed at her. “Don’t you of all people say one word about my mother. Your so-called father,” he said, showing his bottom teeth, “left my mother high and dry ten years ago. Talk about manners. I can see you learned from the best.”

  “You know what?” Skye said. “You can fuck the fuck off, you whiny little prick.”

  Behind them, someone cleared his throat, and Skye turned around to see her dad with the crippled guy. “There a problem here?” the crippled guy said.

  “No,” both Peter and Skye said at the same time.

  He held up his cane. “That’s a relief. I was afraid I’d have to use some cane-fu on you two. I like everyone happy around my stable. Not a discouraging word, as they say.” He smiled at Owen, and Owen smiled back.

  “Skye, meet Joseph Vigil. My new employer.” Owen looked at Peter. “Son, you have grown into a strapping young man. I believe I owe you some money for my horse.”

  “Not your horse anymore,” Peter sputtered. “Eminent domain.”

  Her father patted Peter’s shoulder, and Skye was surprised that Peter didn’t immolate.
“Let me say hello to Red and then we can talk. See the two plastic lawn chairs over yonder? I’ll meet you there. Over the years I’ve come to believe that any disagreement can be better settled when sitting down.”

  “Come on, Peter,” Joe said, steering Peter toward the office. “I could use your opinion on a couple of things.”

  Skye followed her father into the barn. Red started whinnying the moment her dad set foot over the threshold. Hope was lying down by the stall gate, cleaning his boy parts again. As Skye watched her dad move toward the horse, the horse leaned across the gate, whinnying, stretching his neck as far as it could go. Red pressed his head into her dad’s outstretched arms like a lover. “I know, I know,” he said, opening the gate and entering the stall. He turned, and Red took the bandanna in his back pocket out with his teeth. “He still remembers,” her dad said, bringing an apple out of his pocket and feeding it to the horse as a reward.

  Skye, still hungry, felt the absence of those ten years cut her like a knife. The horse knew her dad better than she did. She turned and walked out the barn door because she couldn’t take one minute more of this reunion without feeling her heart break. And what would Gracie think of her, having been there one minute and gone the next? She’d rather take ratas poison than know the answer.

  Peter was seated in the first chair, closer to the office doorway than the other one. He didn’t even look up at her as she walked by.

  “Skye,” Mr. Vigil said. “Come on in here a minute. I’d like to tell you about our program. Who knows? You might decide to volunteer.”

  A great idea, she wanted to say, giving away my time for nothing. Whatever. Maybe I should have stayed in rehab, she thought as she sat in the folding chair next to his battered old desk. Already it was covered with dust, and it wasn’t even summer. Mr. Vigil poured her a cup of coffee from a machine that looked past due for the bone pile. He reached under the desk to a dorm-sized fridge, took out a cardboard container of half and half, and pushed it across the desk to her. She dumped too much into her coffee, in the hope that it would silence her growling stomach, and then had to try to drink it without spilling.

  He gestured toward the phone, blinking madly in its cradle. “See that? I have an answer machine filled all the way up with messages from everyone wanting this job. But I could tell the minute I heard your dad’s voice that he was my barn manager. Him showing up early, that impressed me. His experience with livestock, horses, and his time in the pen, that sealed the deal. Most folks would hide that. Not your dad. He told me up front that he understood if it was a deal breaker, but that he was an honest man and wanted everything out in the open. Decided I’d hire him right then and there.”

  “You’re an ex-cop, aren’t you,” Skye said.

  He smiled. “How could you tell?”

  “I’d say haircut, for starters.” She pointed to the note pad by the telephone. The pad had the Albuquerque Police Department insignia on it. “That clinched it.”

  He laughed again, his eyes crinkling shut.

  “I have a question,” she said.

  “Ask away.”

  “I was wondering about employment opportunities.”

  He nodded.

  “Maybe you need some help around here?”

  Joe leaned back in his chair. He frowned. “Our budget is already tapped out, and we haven’t even opened yet.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Skye said. She knew she shouldn’t have pressed right after this man had hired her dad. “Never hurts to ask. I have to fulfill some community service hours anyway. Maybe I could do that here?”

  Joe smiled. “I’m interested. What kind of work have you done with horses? Or are you experienced with kids?”

  For a moment, Skye’s throat seemed to close up. Once you became a mother, you were pretty much experienced at everything. “You might say kids are the heart of who I am.”

  The phone rang and Joe ignored it. “This facility will be serving handicapped children. Some of those handicaps are going to be on the inside. How are you with troubled children, or adults for that matter?”

  Skye thought about that. “Takes one to know one.”

  “Good answer,” Joe said.

  “So far in my life I’ve only had a couple of paying jobs. I was a server at Guadalupe BBQ. Before that I was mainly a barn rat, mucking stalls and selling sodas at horse shows in exchange for lessons, feed, and boarding. Plus, I make great instant coffee.”

  Joe laughed. “I like a person with a sense of humor.”

  “Just like my dad, I can pick up a bale of hay and tell you how many ounces it’s short.”

  “Ah,” Joe said, steepling his hands together. “You admire your father.”

  Skye set down the cup. “We’ve both made our share of mistakes, but all that’s in the past. Maybe he told you, I’m trying to get my little girl back.”

  “Oh?” Joe nodded, as if he were saying, Tell me everything. And she darn near did, but she felt compelled to go outside and check on her dad and Peter.

  She swallowed hard, determined to end this conversation on a positive note. “And I will find her, no matter how long it takes.” She pressed her hands on her jeans. “If there’s a way for me to complete my community service here, I will work twice as hard as anybody else. If your riding instructor calls in sick, I can teach everything from trick riding to barrel racing. I can sense when a horse is going to colic, or founder, or needs to be turned out to run off the bucks. When a horse goes rogue, I know how to get people out of the way. I don’t smoke. I don’t waste time. I do a good job at whatever I’m supposed to do.” Except for mothering, she thought. I seriously messed up at that.

  “From this side of the desk, it sounds good. You’re a determined young woman. I bet you’ll find a paying job in no time at all, but in the meantime we’d be happy for you to do your community service here. How are you set for friends?”

  She shrugged. “I’m kind of a loner.”

  “Then you have to come by my home and meet my two older daughters.”

  “Sure,” Skye said, with absolutely no intention of doing that. She had finished the creamy coffee and her stomach was settling down.

  “Would you be up for leading a group on trail rides?”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t have it firmed up just yet, but it’s in the plans. Let me get back to you when I’ve figured it out. How’s that sound?”

  It sounded like the first bit of luck to happen to her in so long that she was overcome for a minute. Just as she began to answer, there was a crashing sound outside, and both she and Joe Vigil jumped up to see what was happening.

  Chapter 8

  Before she crossed the threshold of the office, Skye knew she’d pegged that Peter right—a rageaholic who didn’t mind punching senior citizens—because her father was on the ground, blood at the corner of his mouth. He looked puzzled, as if he had been standing there one minute and was on the ground the next. In the palm of his hand he held a molar.

  “Stop it!” Skye said, trying to get between them. But Joe took her arm, holding her back. Considering the cane and his limp, she was surprised at his strength.

  “Don’t,” he said softly. “Sometimes, with men, the only way to work things out is with fists. Clearly these two have some history.”

  Owen stood back up. Peter threw punches every which way, while her dad blocked most of them. Then Peter got lucky and landed a blow on Owen’s cheek, and Skye was horrified to see her father stagger back a few steps while he absorbed it. For the first time, he looked old to her. He regained his footing, and she felt herself cringe for the blow that was coming, but he picked Peter up by the shoulders and unceremoniously dumped him into the lawn chair with a thud. The breath rushed out of Peter, and he sat there, gasping, trying to get it back.

  “Now,” her dad said, “sit your behind down and we’ll talk like civilized people.”

  Peter started to get up from the chair and Owen used one meaty hand to push him back down. “Breat
he,” he said. “That’s right, nice and slow.”

  Then Owen sat down, too. He pressed the bandanna he carried into the corner of his mouth. Already a bruise was forming on his jaw, and what looked like it would be an epic shiner. The three-legged heeler came barreling around the corner, standing between Peter and Owen. “Late to the party, Hope,” Owen said, “but I appreciate you showing up all the same.”

  Joe Vigil was laughing. He elbowed Skye. “If only we had some popcorn,” he said. “This is better than a Hollywood movie.”

  Skye looked at him, surprised. That was not the response she expected, given the man’s seemingly gentle nature. “Are you serious? He’s like forty years younger than my dad. This isn’t a fair fight.”

  “All the fireworks are over,” Joe whispered. “Now they’ll talk things out. Watch and see.”

  “That dog!” Peter said.

  Owen studied his displaced molar. “Roots and everything,” he said. “I guess I don’t need to see a dentist after all.”

  Joe Vigil said, “We all done with the fists? Yes? Time to get some ice on your eye or it’s going to swell shut.”

  “I’m fine,” Owen said.

  “I’m going to the convenience store and getting some ice anyway,” Joe said, leaning on his cane, heading to his car. “Anybody want chips? Nuts? McDonald’s? I’m buying.”

  “We already have a couple of nuts,” Skye said. “I’d love a Coke. Maybe some red licorice.”

  “You got it.”

  “Thanks for taking such good care of Red,” her dad said in his gravelly voice. “Horse looks great.”