A Horse to Love

by Nancy Springer

  “N-no. Okay, I’ll try it.” Marcy fled to the tack room. Aunt Lexie bent over with a grunt—her back still hurt her. Hissing between her teeth, she sprayed great bursts of tangle remover onto Spindrift’s tail.

  “Cripes,” she muttered.

  Erin took the tangle remover from her and did the mane.

  “It worked!” Marcy came out of the tack room with a surprised smile. “I can stay awhile.”

  “Good,” said Aunt Lexie sharply, stomping into the tack room. Marcy gave her a sideward glance, her eyes showing a flash of white. She looked, Erin thought, like a startled filly. Then she tossed back her palomino hair and came over to stand by Spindrift’s head.

  “Can I—may I—touch her?”

  “Sure,” said Erin. “Pat her on the neck. She’s funny about her nose.”

  “Here.” Aunt Lexie came out with an extra comb. “You do the mane.”

  During the next hour Marcy learned the basics of leading a horse as they walked Spindrift dry. Aunt Lexie watched for a while, then went off to sit on her porch, chewing her pipe thoughtfully. After Marcy had to leave, Erin put Spindrift into a paddock and watched, resigned, as the mare rolled in the grass, putting greenish stains on herself. The photo session would not take place for a couple of weeks, anyway. This had been only a first bathing. Erin helped Aunt Lexie coax the foals in for feeding and handling. Then she went home. When she got there, on an impulse, she went to the phone to call Marcy. She had a feeling her friend would be coming to the stable again the next day, but they could talk about the foals, anyway, and Aunt Lexie.… But she could not find the Gilmore number in the directory. The information operator told her it was unlisted.

  When she arrived at the stable the next morning, Marcy was already there, standing by the fence up along the road, watching and waiting.

  “You could go on down,” Erin told her. “I don’t think she’d bite you.”

  “Who, the horse or Mrs. Bromer?” Marcy laughed nervously. “It’s you I come to see, anyway.”

  “I know better,” Erin teased.

  “No, really—”

  Once at the barn, Erin asked Marcy for her phone number and scrawled it on the calendar in the tack room. Then she had her friend hold Spindrift by the halter and lead chain while she brought the clippers. Spindrift’s whiskers and bridle path needed to be trimmed, and because she was touchy about her whiskers she needed a lot of sweet talk and holding. Erin did her fetlocks first, until the mare became used to the sound of the clippers. Then the bridle path, the area of clipped mane behind the ears that set off her forelock. Marcy offered handfuls of hay to get Spindrift to keep her head down while Erin took care of that and the ears.

  “Now the whiskers,” said Erin. “With horses, you always save the worst for last.” Rule eleventy-two.

  Hooves clopped on the gravel outside, and Aunt Lexie came in, leading one of the broodmares.

  “Does she need to be vetted?” Erin asked. The broodmares were seldom stabled unless they were foaling. They stayed in their pasture, where a run-in shelter stood along the far fence with its windbreak of poplar trees. Only colts in training were usually stabled.

  “Nope.” Aunt Lexie cross-tied the mare at the other end of the aisleway.

  “Going out to stud?” Erin was guessing.

  “Nope. Didn’t send any of them out to stud this year. I told you, I’m getting out of this breeding business. You get done there, Marcy, you can help me groom her. It gets me in the back, trying to reach under the belly.”

  “Really?” Marcy dropped Spindrift’s lead to the floor and went over to pat the other mare, plainly delighted. Erin could see that clipping was forgotten for the day. She cross-tied Spindrift, wondering what in the world Aunt Lexie was up to. There was an impish gleam in the old woman’s eye.

  “What’s her name?” Marcy asked.

  “Why, Babe, like all the rest of them.” Aunt Lexie grinned, full of herself.

  “Hi, Babe!”

  “No, kiddo, I was just teasing.” The old woman’s grin softened into a smile. “Riddle Me Ree is her name, her registered name. You can call her Riddle, if you want. Or Ree. Here, take this and start at the top of her neck.” She handed Marcy the body brush. “Short, firm strokes. Never use the hard brush on the face or below the hocks or knees.”

  Riddle Me Ree stood quietly through Marcy’s awkward attempt at grooming. She was a sturdy, seal-brown Morgan horse, as brown as any horse could be, darkish mottled brown, with mane and tail exactly the same color as the rest of her, and not a white hair on her anywhere. The effect was handsome but mysterious. What on earth was Aunt Lexie up to? Erin stood doing nothing, wondering. No use asking the old bag, judging by the smirk on her face. She couldn’t really mean to sell all the horses, could she? Not standing there smiling the way she was.…

  “You going riding, Erin?” Aunt Lexie turned to her suddenly, startling her out of her trance.

  “Later.” Erin put the clippers away.

  “Good. Bring a saddle for Riddle, would you? But let her sniff it first. She hasn’t been saddled in a good ten years.”

  Erin went, her mind making exclamation points all the way to the tack room. Riddle blew at the saddle doubtfully, but she stood still as Erin swung it onto her back.

  “Stand at her head, Marcy, and hold the halter. No, this way.… Now, Erin, be careful and go slowly. Fasten that girth real loose, just enough to keep the saddle on. She was a little cinchy, if I remember right.”

  Riddle danced about uneasily. “Whoa, Babe,” Marcy told her, pronouncing it “ho,” the way Erin and Aunt Lexie did. “I mean whoa, Riddle. Ho, ho, ho, ho, Ree—”

  “You sound like Santa Claus,” said Erin.

  “She wasn’t too bad at all.” Aunt Lexie seemed relieved. “Now, Marcy, you just put a chain on her and undo those cross ties and lead her around until she gets used to the feel of it.”

  Erin could stand the wondering no longer. “Are you going to sell her?” she blurted.

  “Nope.” Aunt Lexie was grinning again. “Most of the others, yes, but maybe not her. Not just yet. She used to be a real mannerly riding horse.”

  Marcy stood with the cross ties not yet undone, as if she were frozen in place, with her lips parted just a little. The question she wanted to ask would not yet come.

  Aunt Lexie waved her pipe in a large gesture.

  “The way I see it, having one kid around has been so—well, interesting—” She rolled her eyes at Erin. “I might as well try it with a few more. Maybe take some boarders, let them help with the work. Maybe give some lessons. Riddle, here, might be my lesson horse.”

  Other boarders! New horses, people to ride with. Lessons! Maybe Marcy …

  “We’ll see. I have to try her out.” Aunt Lexie leaned at her ease against a stall. “Marcy, I’ll need you to help.”

  “Me?” Marcy sounded as if she could barely speak.

  “Oh, Erin, too, of course. But Erin’s too darn experienced these days. You don’t know how to ride, do you?” Aunt Lexie scowled suddenly, making Marcy take a step back.

  “N-no. Not at all.”

  “Good. You’ll do. I need you to learn to ride on her. So I can see how she does.”

  The suspense had been drawn out for too long. At this news, both girls burst into shrieks of excited joy, forgetting the most basic rule: No noise in the stable. Luckily, Spindrift and Riddle both had sense. They stood looking blank as the girls danced about in the aisleway between them. Quite carried away, Erin darted over to Aunt Lexie, gave her a bear hug and kissed her. Marcy followed and did likewise, more slowly.

  “Good heavens,” said Aunt Lexie, far more startled than the horses. “Confound it, Erin, you’ve made me drop my pipe.”

  Chapter Twelve

  It was nearly two weeks before Marcy mounted Riddle for her first lesson on horseback. Before that could happen, the mare had to get used to saddle, bridle, and rider again. Erin was given the job of working with her. Aunt Lexie coached. The
process could be taken only a step or two further each day, so that Riddle would not feel abused and rebel. At first Erin only leaned her weight on the mare’s back, or put one foot in the stirrup from the ground. When she finally mounted, she settled her weight in the saddle very lightly and only for a moment. Riddle was bunched to buck. But the mare quickly lost her fear and proved willing, moving almost gaily around the ring. Erin found that Riddle was more highly trained than Spindrift, far more yielding to leg. All the same, she was happy to be able to turn her attention back to her own horse.

  “I’m going to try riding her bareback,” she told Aunt Lexie, leaning on the rail with the old woman and watching Marcy ride Riddle around and around at the walk.

  “Fine,” Aunt Lexie said. “Good for your seat. Just try it in the ring first. And wear moccasins or something.”

  “Huh?”

  “Or sneakers. Soft shoes.”

  “Oh.” Erin glanced down at her well-worn boots. She would have to wear her running shoes tomorrow.

  “Shorten up on your reins a little, Marcy!” Aunt Lexie called. “That’s it! You’re looking real good!”

  “Hey,” said Erin, amazed, “you were never that nice to me!” Then she thought. “Or—is Marcy doing better than I did?”

  “No, kiddo, you always did fine.” Aunt Lexie surprised her by reaching over and giving her shoulders a quick, one-armed hug. “Marcy’s doing fine, too. But I think I’m learning as much as either of you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind, kid.” Aunt Lexie was sucking on her pipe. “Get your feet back just a little, Marcy! Drop your heels. That’s good!”

  Erin ambled off to groom Spindrift and tack her up. Her father had at last found some free time in which to take his photographs, and Spindrift had been bathed yet again, put in a clean, clean stall and draped in a stable sheet in hopes that she would stay white for a few minutes, rather than putting brown spots on herself. When she saw Erin, she swung around in a bored way to put her rump toward the girl.

  “Hello, Grumpo.” The stall, Erin saw, was no longer very clean. “Made me some nice manure, I see. Get any on yourself?”

  She opened the stall door and coaxed Spindrift over to her with a slice of apple, standing patiently while the mare turned around slowly, with distrust. It was all part of Spindrift’s way. Finally Spindrift could resist the treat no longer, and one labored step at a time she came to get it, stretching her neck for it from as far away as she could manage. Erin smiled and shook her head, pulling the apple slice back a little.

  “No, fuzzyface, you have to come right up to me. That’s it. One more step—Oh, you did put a spot on yourself. Of course.”

  Twenty minutes later Erin had Spindrift ready and led her out. The mare danced about, sensing excitement. Erin’s father was there, setting up one of his largest cameras on a tripod. Spindrift snorted and blew at it doubtfully, and Aunt Lexie came over to inspect the mare.

  “Full of it,” she said dryly.

  “Always,” said Mr. Calahan.

  Vague smudges showed on Spindrift’s white rump in the sunlight. “Cornstarch,” Aunt Lexie said to Erin.

  “Huh?”

  “Brush some cornstarch through those. It’s in the tack room.” What wasn’t? “Here, I’ll hold her while you go get it.”

  Mr. Calahan stood studying the photo angles. Erin struggled with cornstarch, and by some miracle got none on herself. Ready at last, she mounted Spindrift and cantered her around the paddock a few times to settle her. Mr. Calahan had chosen a spot at the head of the lane, with the woods and pasture as a background. He waved his daughter into position. Aunt Lexie had gone back to Marcy and her lesson, and could be heard hollering.

  “Head up, Marcy! Look toward where you’re going. That’s better.”

  Erin smoothed Spindrift’s mane nervously with her left hand. “Her mane’s on the wrong side for English,” she told her father. “It’s still on the western side. I never bothered training it the other way.”

  “Mmph,” said her father, down behind his camera, focusing.

  From where she sat, Erin could study Marcy, horse and all. Marcy did indeed look good on Riddle. Her mother, who seemed to be a fussy sort, had outfitted her completely in spotless buff-colored breeches, shiny-black English riding boots, a black velveteen hunt cap and a ratcatcher shirt with monogram. Erin took off her bicycling helmet for the photographer, hiding it on her far side. She looked down sadly at her jeans—her newest pair, but jeans all the same. She had polished her boots, but they still showed the scuffs and crinkles of months of wear. Brown, frontier-style boys’ boots, bought at Kinney’s.

  “I sure don’t look like much of an English rider,” she said to her father.

  “Mmmm,” he said, fussing with his lens. Then he looked up at Erin.

  “I don’t think there was ever any thought of turning you into a show-style rider,” he said. “Who could afford it?”

  Silence, as Mr. Calahan made a final check of his equipment settings.

  “You know why we got you that horse?” he asked Erin suddenly.

  “Because I wanted it!”

  “Nope. Smile.” Click. “If parents got kids whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, just because they wanted it—”

  “Okay, okay,” Erin interrupted, rolling her eyes and taking Spindrift in a circle—the mare was starting to fidget, and so was she.

  “There, that’s good, right there. No, we got that horse because we hoped it would be good for you.”

  “Huh?”

  “It looked like the only thing that might bring you out of your shell. Can’t you smile?” Two more clicks.

  The smile was puzzled. Erin had not known she had been in a shell.

  “It took nerve for you to talk to Aunt Lexie that first time, and it took some doing for you to work things out with us, and we liked seeing that, your mother and I.” Mr. Calahan took a break from the photography for a while, looking at her as he talked. “So we thought, go with it. And we’re glad we did.”

  “You weren’t at first,” Erin said.

  “It was rough at first, wasn’t it?” Don Calahan glanced up at her, smiling. “I guess none of us realized what a big step it was. But it just took you a little while to adjust, and then you started taking on a lot more responsibility, here and at home. When you stopped expecting everything to be laid in your lap on a platter, and went out and lined up babysitting jobs—You know, you grew six inches, right in front of my eyes.”

  In a distant way Erin understood what he meant. The babysitting did cut into her riding time, especially now that summer was here. She had known that it would. She had also known it was the right thing to do.

  “And I haven’t noticed you holing up in your room much lately. That alone is worth more than what we paid for Spindrift.”

  “Me?” Erin protested. “Hole up in my room?”

  Mr. Calahan ducked behind his camera, not quite hiding his amusement. “How about if you get off her for a while, and I’ll take some shots of you standing at her head.”

  Silence for the space of three more photos. Erin was glad Spindrift’s long mane fell on her near side, after all. It was so pretty.

  “But that’s not all,” Don Calahan went on as if there had been no pause. “I’m not sure why, but it seems to me that you’ve been a lot more confident since you’ve had that horse. You’ve been speaking up and standing up for yourself. Maybe it’s because having the horse gives you some leverage with the other kids.”

  “Nuh-uh,” said Erin, stroking Spindrift. If anything, it had made them dump on her, she thought. Not that it mattered.

  “Because you’ve had to work with Aunt Lexie?”

  “Not really.…”

  “Well, let me get some close-ups.” Mr. Calahan turned his attention to changing his lens.

  Her father understood a lot, Erin thought in awe. But if Mr. Calahan had ever ridden a horse he loved, he would know what it was that had changed her. That feeling of
being on Spindrift’s back, her partner, almost a part of the horse, power between her knees, under her control—how could she be afraid of anything anymore when she had such a powerful ally, a friend, almost? No dream horse could have done for her what Spindrift had. And Spindrift was so beautiful, so real, Spindrift, the grump. And riding her filled Erin with such a feeling of … peace.

  No need to tell Erin to smile. She was smiling, a marvelous smile. Don Calahan took three of the most cherished close-ups of his career.

  “Well, Sq—Well, Erin,” he said softly, “anyway, you’ve done a lot of growing up in a very short time.”

  “You know,” Erin said in a sort of wonder, “lately, I’m not even afraid of Aunt Lexie anymore.”

  “Aunt Lexie is another matter.” Don Calahan laughed and thumped his daughter on the shoulder. Whistling under his breath, he picked up his camera, tripod and all, and went off to take some shots of the foals in the pasture.

  Marcy, done with her lesson, was leading Riddle back to the barn. Aunt Lexie waved at Erin and beckoned her to come over. The old hag was eyeing her house, Erin saw. She was leaning in the stable doorway and chewing on her pipe.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Aunt Lexie said. “You know, with the good weather here, there’s no reason I couldn’t have you folks over for something outside. And Marcy and her mother, too. Some sort of barbecue or picnic. Hot dogs, hamburgers—”

  “We have a big grill we could bring,” said Erin promptly. “Ask my dad.”

  “I will. We can eat and sit around on lawn chairs and watch the horses. If I can just get the porch cleaned up some, and the kitchen.…”

  “Marcy and I can help,” Erin said. “Hey, Marcy!”

  “I heard,” Marcy called from the aisleway. “Sure, I’ll help.”

  “I bet Mike would help, too,” said Erin, surprised at her own idea, yet certain that he would. “I’ll ask him.”