* * *
“You were wonderful, Bev!” Dad exclaims for the tenth time as we pile into the car.
“Nonsense,” Mom says. “That man would start an argument with a grapefruit.”
11
Teamwork
While Dad continues to rave about Mom’s bravery and his great blessing in finding a wife like her, I give Ethan an update in sign.
We drive through Crazy Larry’s and get ice cream to celebrate. Then we head for the cat farm to check on the pinto.
At the barn, Ethan, Mom, and I climb out of the car. “Careful not to step on cats,” Mom warns.
Dad stays put. “I’ll be along as soon as I finish my fudge sundae,” he promises.
The minute we step into the barn, a dozen cats scatter. Then I hear it—that nicker. I glance back at Ethan and realize he can’t hear it. And for one of the few times ever, I feel sorry for my brother. This is one sound I can’t begin to describe to him.
Ethan helps me pull down a bale of hay, even though I’m not sure the pinto touched what we left last night. I try to get her to eat out of my hand. She nibbles at it but doesn’t seem hungry.
When Dad comes in, I think we’re going to leave. But he takes one look at the pinto and says, “Is that horse sick? She’s so skinny.”
I check the pinto’s eyes and hooves. She doesn’t look sick. I wish she could tell us what’s wrong.
“Mary Louise had the vet out this morning, just to make sure the horse is okay before we send her off again,” Mom reports. “He gave her a clean bill of health. Only thing wrong with her is that she needs to put on weight.”
“We should try feeding her oats,” I suggest. I slip into the stall with her. “I bet she’d go for Omolene.”
“What’s that?” Dad asks.
“It’s like oats, but with bran and flax and oils. Smells like molasses. We learned about it in 4-H. I thought it smelled good enough to eat.”
“Why don’t I go get some?” Dad says.
“Really?” I’m surprised. I didn’t think he liked horses.
“It’s the least I can do for that poor horse,” he answers. “I’m pretty sure the farmer’s supply stays open until nine.”
Dad leaves, and the rest of us conduct a barn search for brushes. Ethan finds an old horse brush and hands it to me. I set to work. Dust flies off the mare with every stroke of the brush. I use my fingernails to loosen some of the mud clumps.
Meanwhile, Mom tackles the horse’s tangled mane and tail. She uses her own comb on some of the burs.
Ethan unties the lead rope I attached to the feed trough so the pinto wouldn’t move around while we brushed her.
“What are you doing?” I ask him, shoving the brush under my arm so I can sign.
Ethan doesn’t answer. Instead, he begins retying the rope.
“Ethan?” I demand.
He points at me and signs, Overhand knot. Bad. He ties the rope like I had it and shakes his head. He’s probably right, but it’s the only knot I know.
Square knot, Ethan signs. Then he makes a knot that really does look like a square.
He unties the square knot and whips the rope into a knot shaped like a cursive capital S. Half hitch, he signs. I’ll teach you that one later.
I watch as my little brother unties the half hitch and starts over. This time he makes two loops with the rope, twists them twice, then feeds the lead rope through a hook at the end of the trough. When he jerks the rope, it doesn’t slip. It’s tied tight. Cat’s-paw, he signs.
Nothing my brother does surprises me. I give him a thumbs-up and go back to brushing.
I reach the funny saddle-shaped spot on the pinto’s back. I brush the hairs backward to get at the dust, then smooth down the coat. “Mom? I’ve been thinking.”
“Mm-hmm?”
I move down the mare’s foreleg. “What if, instead of sending the horse away, you guys kept her here?”
“Here? You’d be putting a toad in a teakettle, kiddo.” Mom laughs a little. “Honey, this is a cat farm. Mary Louise doesn’t like horses. She’s terrified a horse might accidently step on one of the kittens.”
What’s going to happen to her? Ethan signs.
Mom stops combing the pinto’s mane. “We’ve been making calls. Nothing’s settled yet. I guess the last place only had the horse for three days before sending her to us. They don’t want her back.”
They won’t send her to animal control, will they? Ethan asks.
The idea makes my stomach and heart flip over and trade places.
“No. Of course not,” Mom answers.
But Mom doesn’t run the cat farm.
We brush and comb in silence until Dad gets back with the feed. Right away the pinto noses the Omolene.
“Well, look at you!” Dad exclaims when she actually nibbles the grain. He looks as proud as if he has baked it himself.
We walk to the car in moonlight. It’s quiet except for a howl that could be a coyote. We have a few out in the country around here.
I glance back at the pinto. Her face is lit by the single light bulb we’ve kept on in the barn for her. She’s watching us leave, her head leaning out over the stall door. But she doesn’t nicker. I can’t help wondering if she knows she won’t be staying here long. Maybe she figures we’re not ever coming back.
I’m bone tired when I climb into bed. But it takes me a long time to fall asleep. I ask God to find a good home for the pinto.
Before long, my thoughts turn to the Hamilton Royal Horse Show. All year I wait for it. Now it’s only a week away. And each year I pray that next time I’ll have a horse of my own to ride in the show.
But here we are again, and still no horse.
Dear God, I pray as I drift off to sleep, there’s a lot about praying that I don’t understand. I know You can do anything. So how come You haven’t done this? Please, by this time next year, will You let me have my own horse to ride in the show? And thanks for not getting tired of me asking. I’ve given up crying and begging my parents. So You’re all I’ve got. I know You’re all I need. It’s just that it’s getting harder to keep praying for a horse that never comes.
Right before I fall asleep, I gaze out the window and imagine my prizewinning black stallion galloping in the moonlight.
Only this time, he’s galloping away from me.
12
Horse Show
The week of the horse show it seems like our whole town is getting ready for it. Colt and I help Mr. Harper scrub the boards and bars of the jumps they’ll set around the fairground arena. Other kids in 4-H string up little white flags all the way around the horse show ring.
Every day after school Ethan and I do our homework. I write up two-thirds of my horse report—the failure of crying and begging. Then we bike to the cat farm to check on the pinto.
On Thursday, on our way to the barn, we’re passed by half a dozen small white trucks with fair foods written on the sides: lemonade, onion rings, elephant ears, Italian sandwiches, hot dogs. Only two more days until the horse show.
Mom’s car is parked next to the barn when we get there. My first thought is that something has happened to the pinto. I jump off my bike before it comes to a stop. “Mom!”
Ethan drops his bike next to mine. He signs something, but I can’t take the time to stop and see what he’s saying.
“Mom, what’s the—?” I ram into her just inside the barn.
“Whoa!” She puts her hand on my head. “What is it, Ellie?”
I stick my head around her until I can see the corner stall. The pinto is there, munching on grain. “I thought something was wrong. Why are you here, Mom?”
Mom steps aside. “I work here on Thursdays, remember?”
“Right. Thursday is cat farm day. Guess I forgot. I thought something bad had happened to the pinto.” Still, I walk back to the corner stall to see for myself.
Ethan catches up to me. That’s what I was trying to tell you.
I give the pinto a generous
meal of Omolene. I like watching her go after it. But I can still count her ribs.
I pull out the hoof pick I bought at the supply store. I paid for it with my own money. “Guess I might as well clean out her hooves.”
The pinto’s ears flick to the sides. That means she’s relaxed, and she stays that way even when I get in the stall with her. Her hooves are in great shape. Dad paid a farrier, the guy who takes care of horses’ hooves, to come out and do a hoof trim. He clipped the hooves so they’re even all the way around, but he told Dad she didn’t need shoes or anything else unless she’d be on gravel. All I have to do now is clean the gunk from the underside of the hooves. I use the pick to get at the V-shaped groove on the sole.
Ethan teaches me how to tie a slipknot with a quick release. In an emergency, I could yank the end and untie the knot.
When are you going to name her? he signs.
I put down the back hoof and take a minute before answering. It’s not like I haven’t thought about names. It’s pretty awkward calling her “the pinto.”
Finally I shake my head. “No name. I don’t want us to get too attached.”
Right, he signs, the smirk on his face speaking louder than his fingers.
When Mom finishes petting cats, she helps Ethan and me with the pinto’s mane and tail.
Ethan signs to Mom, Any news on a home for—he glances at me and punches the air for the rest of his question—THE PINTO?
“I’ve got a lead on a nice shelter in Indiana,” Mom reports. “And one in Virginia. I’d better find a spot soon, though. Mary Louise is as nervous as a turkey at Thanksgiving. She wants this horse off her cat farm.”
* * *
Friday before the horse show I end up sitting across from Ashley and Larissa in the cafeteria. I listen to their plans about which outfits they’ll wear at the show. A bunch of the 4-H kids are entering the junior horsemanship class. It’s the class with the biggest trophy. But everybody knows the winner will be Larissa or Ashley. Probably Larissa. She has won the last two years in a row.
Just when I’m sure Larissa and Ashley don’t realize I’m at the table with them, Ashley turns to me. “Are you coming to the horse show, Ellie?”
“I never miss it.” And that’s the truth. Every year Colt and I watch it together. I hope he’s planning to go again because I’m counting on catching a ride with him. My parents have to go to some Cub Scout thing with Ethan.
Larissa leaves without saying good-bye. Then again, I guess she never said hello.
Colt plops down beside me. “So, Ashley, can you beat Larissa this year?”
Ashley shrugs. “I haven’t thought that much about it, I guess. I’ve been too nervous about riding Warrior in the jumper class. It’s my first time jumping in a show.”
“That is so cool!” I exclaim. It’s hard not to be jealous of Ashley. Every single day I imagine riding my black stallion over jumps. But I’ve never actually jumped a horse.
“I think Dad is more excited about the horse show than I am,” Ashley says. “Honestly, I think I’d enjoying watching more than showing.”
Colt turns to me. “Are you going?”
I frown at him. “What do you think?”
He nods and walks off.
I catch up with him outside our classroom. “Colt! Are you going to the horse show or not? Can I ride with you?”
“’Course.” Colt makes a face. “Girls,” he mutters, shuffling into class.
“Boys,” I mumble, edging past him to get there first.
* * *
Saturday afternoon I wait outside for Colt’s family to pick me up. I’m dressed in my cowboy boots, jeans, and a plaid Western shirt. If I can’t be in the horse show, at least I can look the part.
Mom and Dad and Ethan file by me on their way to the car. I give Ethan a thumbs-up on his Cub Scout uniform. He gives me a thumbs-up on my cowboy gear.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right until we get home?” Dad asks.
I point to the Stevenses’ car backing out of their drive. “Here they come now.” I wave good-bye to my family and jog across the street.
Colt motions me into the backseat with him. Mrs. Stevens is driving. No Mr. Stevens and no Sierra. “Thanks again for the lift,” I tell her.
Colt’s mom looks like she’s going to a board meeting instead of a horse show. Her hair is twisted into a fancy knot, and she’s wearing a blue suit with a straight skirt.
“You look nice, Mrs. Stevens.”
“Thank you, Ellie,” she says. “And you look . . . very horsey.”
I’m not sure if that’s a compliment, but I thank her just in case. “Isn’t Mr. Stevens coming?” I’d ask about Sierra, but Colt’s sister says horses are for little kids.
Colt’s mom laughs—at least I think it’s a laugh. Actually, it sounds a little more like a snort.
“Dad didn’t make it home this weekend,” Colt explains. “Anyway, he doesn’t really like horse shows.”
His mother mutters something under her breath, but I don’t catch it. I think I’m glad I didn’t hear.
Colt glances at me, then stares out the window. The sun is still out, but a bank of gray clouds is moving in.
“I sure hope it doesn’t rain,” I say. Four years ago the horse show got rained out.
I can’t stand the silence in this car. I never know what to say around Colt’s parents. Colt told me once that my parents are easier to talk to than his. Even for him.
“Um . . . it’s nice that you like horse shows, Mrs. Stevens,” I try. “I wish my parents did.”
“Right,” she says, giving me the same snort-laugh as before.
Colt explains in sign language, keeping his hands where his mom can’t see in the rearview mirror. Mom hates horses. She’s only going because her boss has a daughter in the show.
I nod. I’m pretty sure my dad doesn’t know that Ms. Warden has a daughter in the horse show.
How come Mrs. Stevens knows about the boss’s daughter and my dad doesn’t? What else does she know that Dad doesn’t? What else is she doing to make sure she gets that promotion and my dad does not?
13
Showtime
Mrs. Stevens turns us loose on the horse show grounds and tells us to come to the car after the show is over. That’s the great thing about living in a small town like Hamilton. Our parents know that other kids’ parents will keep an eye on us.
Colt and I leave Mrs. Stevens putting on more makeup in her rearview mirror.
“Let’s claim our seats!” Colt shouts as he takes off running.
“Wait up!” I holler. “Let’s check out the horses first.”
He stops and comes back. “Good idea.”
At least he’s not dumping me for his buddies. Then again, Colt’s buddies wouldn’t be caught dead at a horse show.
We thread our way through the maze of horse trailers parked on the fairgrounds. Most of the license plates are Missouri and Kansas. But we spot Iowa, Illinois, and Kentucky too.
“There’s Ashley! And her new hunter!” Colt leads the way to the Harpers’ four-horse trailer.
The bay gelding is tied to one side of the trailer. He cranes his royal neck around, taking it all in. It’s noisy around here, with horses neighing, people shouting, and music blaring from the speakers. But he doesn’t seem nervous.
Ashley’s hunter, Hancock’s Warrior, is about the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen up close. If he were black and a stallion, he might even be my dream horse.
Ashley steps out of the truck cab, where she changes her outfits for different classes. She looks like she’s stepping off the cover of Horse & Rider. “Hi, Colt! Hey, Ellie. I’m so glad you guys came. I’m getting really nervous.”
Colt and I tell her how fantastic her hunter is. We ask her about the classes she has entered. She answers all our questions, but I get the feeling we’re more excited about the show than she is.
“Hey, you two!” Mr. Harper walks up, carrying two plastic cups. He hands one to Ashle
y, and she takes a sip. “Ellie, we were just talking about you,” he says.
“About me?”
“I was thinking that maybe next year you’d like to ride one of our horses in the horsemanship class.”
“Are you kidding?” I can’t believe he’s saying this. It wouldn’t be the same as showing my own horse, but it would be pretty sweet. Every horse Mr. Harper owns is a show horse. Each one comes from a long line of winners. “That would be unbelievable!”
I glance at Ashley, and she’s grinning. “Dad says you’re his star pupil.”
His star pupil? Even if they’re just saying that to make me feel good, it works.
Then I notice Colt. “What about Colt, Mr. Harper?”
“I was just getting to that.” He turns to Colt. “You’ve been doing great with Galahad. Do you think you’d like to work him on the barrels? See if you could get him ready by next year?” Galahad is their young quarter horse gelding. He’s an easy ride, and Colt likes riding Western.
Colt’s eyes shout, Wow! But he shrugs. “Sure. That would be all right.”
“Good! You two keep practicing. By next year Ashley’s going to have some stiff competition.”
“Dad,” Ashley scolds.
“I’d better get to work.” Her dad disappears inside the trailer. When he comes out, he’s leading Ashley’s three-gaited mare, Cindy Lou. This is the horse she’ll ride when she competes against Larissa and Custer’s Darling Delight.
“We’d better go,” I say because I know they need to get ready. “We’ll be cheering for you.”
“Thanks, you guys,” Ashley calls after us.
As we leave to find seats, I try not to be jealous. I tell God I’m sorry for wishing I could be Ashley right now and have the horses she has. Even though God already knows how I feel, it helps me to tell him. Then I add, And thanks for Mr. Harper wanting me to ride his horse. But would You please let me have my own horse to ride in the show next year?
Horse Dreams Page 5
