Chapter Thirteen
With permission from Ma Etty, Rivka ducked out of breakfast early the next morning to check on Chickpea and the baby. When Rivka got to the barn, the new arrival was curled up in a little ball in the straw, almost like a dog. Overnight his coat had dried into yellow fuzz. His tail was only about six inches long and covered with downy white fluff that looked soft as cotton.
The colt still didn’t have a name.
Ma Etty had said they could all make suggestions.
Sam was already on a roll of completely terrible names, including Potato Chip, Slimer, and Dump Truck.
That last one didn’t even make sense.
Rivka had to come up with something perfect. The colt needed a name that captured how marvelous he was. Maybe Dreamer or Thunder.
When Fletch got out to the barn to give the horses their morning grain, he called Rivka into the tack room. He showed her the whiteboard where each horse’s breakfast requirements were listed, and put her to work measuring grain and adding supplements as needed. She liked the work, and she liked the attentive way Fletch went about his own tasks. She watched him take a moment with each horse, stroking its neck or scratching behind its ears.
She liked Fletch. He knew what to focus on.
When she heard the others outside the barn door, she hurried to grab Rowdy’s halter and rope. She was eager to get riding. Madison was in the pasture, rounding up Snow White. When she saw Rivka, she held up one hand and asked her to wait by the gate.
She led the black-and-white horse toward Rivka, and several other horses followed, including Rowdy. “Morning,” she said. “Got his stuff?”
Rivka held up the halter and rope.
Madison nodded and opened the gate to let her in. “Do you remember how that goes on?”
“I think so.” Rivka slid the halter over Rowdy’s nose and settled the strap behind his ears. She buckled it near his cheek and clipped the lead rope onto the lower ring of the halter. The others came out to retrieve their horses for lesson time, and they led the horses to the arena.
“We’ll groom them out here,” Madison said, tying Snow White to the fence, “so that Chickpea and the baby can have some peace and quiet.”
Rivka got Rowdy’s grooming tote and began to curry the dirt out of his coat. “Have you been rolling around in the mud?” she asked him. He huffed at her and swished his tail. “You deny it,” she said, “but what about this?” Rivka used her fingernail to scrape off a chunk of dried mud stuck to Rowdy’s neck. “Guilty as charged!” she announced, switching brushes.
When Rowdy was dirt-free, Madison supervised as Rivka saddled and bridled him, offering suggestions when Rivka wasn’t sure what to do. Then Madison held Rowdy’s head, and Rivka mounted.
“Heels down a bit more,” the trainer suggested. Rivka adjusted. When Madison was satisfied with her alignment, she asked her to make several warm-up circles in the arena.
At first things went without a hitch.
Rivka asked Rowdy to go using the inclination of her body, the click of her tongue, and a squeeze of her heels. He set off at a bouncy walk, and instantly she was focusing on all the things she needed to remember—steady tension in her arms, chin lifted, a tightness to her abdominal muscles.
On the first circle, she barely noticed Sam when she passed him, but on the second circle, he and his horse settled in next to her. “You ate bacon at breakfast the other day.”
“So?”
“So,” he repeated. “I thought you were Jewish. Isn’t that illegal or something?”
Annoyance billowed through her. She hated the bacon question. Rowdy sensed her irritation and balked, taking a few steps in the direction of some particularly tasty-looking grass. She hurried to put her attention in the right place, course-correcting before he got within snack distance.
“Not everyone keeps kosher,” she said.
“And aren’t you supposed to wear a hat thing?” Sam pressed. “Or is that only for guys?”
Rivka wanted to scream. Sometimes she felt like everyone in the world learned about Jews from Fiddler on the Roof. Next thing, Sam would be asking about matchmakers.
“I’m trying to ride here,” she snapped. “And it’s called a kippah or a yarmulke and I don’t wear one outside of synagogue, okay?”
He held up his hands, and his horse halted.
Rivka gave Rowdy a jab in the ribs with her heels so she could get away. She was mad, and she kicked harder than she meant to. The pony jumped into a startled trot, and Rivka had to clutch at the pommel to stay in the saddle.
“Easy there,” Madison called. “You need to rein him in.”
Rivka fumbled at the reins and asked Rowdy to stop. She did that too hard as well, and the pony tugged back, jerking the reins from her hand. Madison was beside her now, taking ahold of the reins under Rowdy’s chin. “What’s going on here?”
“Tell Sam to leave me alone,” Rivka shot back.
Madison looked steadily into her face. “Sam is working with Fletch now. You need to get your focus back.”
“He’s the problem, not me.”
Madison tipped her cowboy hat. “Time for a break.”
“I don’t need a break.”
“I say you do.”
“I’m fine,” Rivka snapped.
The trainer squinted at her. “Then you need to pull it together. Breathe.”
Rivka breathed. She was still irritated, but at least Madison let go of Rowdy’s bridle.
“I want you to walk Rowdy around the arena twice,” she said.
Rivka nodded. This time Rowdy responded. On the second loop around the arena, Cat rode up next to her. “We could name the foal Peanut. Or Sandman.”
“I doubt the Bridles will go for that.”
“You might be right,” Cat mused, apparently not noticing Rivka’s sour mood. “They’re not comic book people. They probably don’t even realize that they named my horse after Bucky Barnes.”
A moment later she said, “Are you doing one of those bar mitzvah thingies?” Rivka pressed her heels into Rowdy’s sides to make him speed up, but he refused, remaining nose-to-nose with Cat’s horse. “It’s kind of like a really huge birthday party plus church, right?”
“No,” Rivka said, through clenched teeth.
Cat shot her a side-eye. “Well, what is it then?”
“It’s called a bat mitzvah for girls, and no, I’m not having one.” Her voice went up a notch.
“Why not?”
“Why do you care?”
Cat stared at her like she’d grown three heads. It made Rivka want to throw something.
“It’s called conversation,” she muttered. “Chill out.”
But Rivka couldn’t chill out. Every time someone asked her about something Jewish, it dredged up what had happened at the synagogue. It was the last thing in the world Rivka wanted to think about.
“You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” she spluttered. “Hebrew is boring, and the tutor is a freaky old witch, and my brother is the perfect one, not me!” She kicked Rowdy hard to try to get him to move away from Cat. It had the exact opposite effect. The pony stopped in his tracks.
Madison raced over and grabbed ahold of Rowdy. “Get off the horse,” she snapped.
Rivka dismounted and jerked away from Madison.
“Stay out of my business,” she yelled, glaring at Madison and Cat and the rest of them. “Leave me alone!” Then Rivka stomped out of the arena.
Chapter Fourteen
Ma Etty came into the bunkhouse without knocking. Her gray curls were pinned up over her ears on either side, and she was wearing a T-shirt that said May the Horse Be With You.
“You missed lunch,” she said, leaning against the door frame.
Rivka shrugged and went back to the card house she was building on the table.
“Hungry?”
Rivka shrugged again.
“You need to come with me.”
Now Rivka met the old woma
n’s eyes. Ma Etty’s face was placid—kind, even. Nothing like her mother’s was when Rivka was in trouble.
“Where are we going?”
“I need your help with a job in town.”
“What about chores and free time?”
Ma Etty shook her head. “I need you to stick with me.”
“I don’t want to go to town.”
It was Ma Etty’s turn to shrug. “This afternoon will give you some time to consider what happened in the arena.” She held the door open and gestured for Rivka to get moving.
There was a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper on the passenger seat of the truck. Rivka ate it as they rumbled along the dirt road. She kept expecting a lecture, but Ma Etty fiddled with the radio dial and tuned in to a station with lots of accordion music that sounded almost like polkas, but the songs were in Spanish. The old woman didn’t explain where they were going, and Rivka didn’t ask.
Half an hour later, they pulled to a stop in front of a church.
Rivka snuck a glance at the old woman. What was she up to?
She followed Ma Etty around the back of the church. A set of sunken concrete steps led to the door of the lower level. Inside were half-full racks of clothes on hangers, and bins labeled with things like 0–6 months and toddler and boys’ pants size 6–8.
“Everything is organized by size,” said Ma Etty. Gesturing to a pile of cardboard boxes and black garbage bags brimming with clothes, she explained, “We need to sort these donations. If there is anything that doesn’t seem clean, we’ll wash it.” Ma Etty directed her attention to the washer and dryer on the far wall. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get to it.”
Rivka opened the first bag. Musty-smelling old-man sweaters. Size large. Ma Etty handed her some hangers and showed her where on the racks they belonged. After that, Rivka sat down in the corner with a box full of baby clothes and folded onesies into small piles. It was enough to make her hate babies too.
She was going to have to apologize to Cat.
She knew that.
Community service was a big part of the whole bar and bat mitzvah thing. Making the world a better place and all that. Ma Etty was way too much like Rivka’s rabbi back home, and her punishment couldn’t have been more obvious. Ma Etty didn’t have to spell it out. Rivka spent the afternoon sorting T-shirts and hanging up girls’ dresses. She folded clean laundry that came out of the dryer. It was boring and sometimes gross, like the smelly bag of boys’ gym shorts she had to deal with.
But it was brainless.
That was good.
She zoned out. Fold, crease, stack. And no one talked to her. A woman in a paramedic’s uniform arrived to help.
“Howdy, Marisol,” said Ma Etty. “You look like you’re coming from work.”
“On my way, actually,” the woman said in a beautiful Mexican accent. “I have an hour before my shift starts.”
Their talk turned to the young man, Elias, and as much as Rivka didn’t want to listen, she couldn’t help but hear.
“I was working when the call came in,” said Marisol, shaking her head sadly. “Poor Elias. He was in bad shape.”
“Is he going to be okay?” Ma Etty asked.
Marisol nodded. “Physically, yes, but I don’t know about the rest. His whole family is talking about going back to Jalisco. The younger children are scared.”
Ma Etty clucked in dismay. “That’s terrible. Do you really think they’ll leave?”
Marisol’s frown deepened. “I don’t know.”
“I hope not. This is their home. And besides,” Ma Etty said, “few of the cattle ranches in this valley could function without their Mexican and Peruvian ranch hands. These guys know their horses.”
“But what about that rally?” Marisol asked.
Ma Etty put her arm around the woman’s shoulders. “We’ll stick together like we always do.”
As they talked, Rivka shrank into herself. She didn’t want to hear about this. She wanted to burrow into the pile of clothes and disappear. It was starting to seem like it wasn’t safe anywhere.
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When they got back to the ranch, Madison rushed to Ma Etty’s side. “We’ve got a problem.”
The sight of her flushed, worried face set Rivka’s pulse racing.
“Do you want to fill me in now or in private?” Ma Etty asked calmly, tilting her head to indicate Rivka.
“She’s gonna know one way or another.”
Ma Etty nodded her agreement.
“Cat’s wandered off again,” Madison explained, the words rushing out of her. “We haven’t seen her since lunchtime. Mr. Bridle and Paul are riding the fence lines in the ATVs. I’ve got the kids here looking. Fletch thinks it’s time to call in Sheriff Handy.”
Rivka followed Madison and Ma Etty up the porch steps and inside the ranch house, but her limbs were leaden. Her mouth tasted sour. Cat was gone. Her apology was too late.
“Did she take a horse?” Ma Etty asked.
Madison shook her head. “I checked the barn. Her saddle and bridle are there. Bucky is in the pasture.”
“Cars are all accounted for?”
Rivka remembered the way Cat had said blah, blah, blah . . . carjacking.
But Madison pulled a handful of key rings from her pocket. “Nothing’s gone, and I’m holding all the extra keys.”
“Good thinking.” Ma Etty pursed her lips and looked at Rivka. “Any ideas?”
She swallowed hard. Asking where Cat might be felt almost accusatory. Where is she? Shouldn’t you know? This is your fault. She laced her fingers and unlaced them and shoved them in her pockets. “I really have no idea. Maybe someplace obvious.”
“Obvious?” Ma Etty prompted.
“I don’t know,” Rivka stammered. “Is she asleep in the hammock? Did you check the chicken coop?”
“Of course we did,” Madison snapped, and Rivka shrank back.
Ma Etty took the handful of keys from Madison. “Can you double-check the bunkhouses, the hammock, and the chicken coop?”
Madison’s lips squeezed into a tight line. “I’ve done that.”
“I’m sure you have,” said Ma Etty, patting her arm. “One more time for me, though. I’m going to call the neighbors, and I’ll give Sheriff Handy a heads-up.”
When Madison was gone, Rivka asked, “What do you want me to do?”
Ma Etty looked at her watch. “It’s almost 6:30. The horses need to be fed. Can you do that?”
“I helped Fletch in the morning once. What each horse needs is on the whiteboard, right?”
“Exactly,” said Ma Etty, looking grateful. “All you have to do is put the food in the grain bins in each stall. I will bring the horses in as soon as I’m done making calls.”
As she walked across the bridge to the barn, Rivka wondered whether or not Cat might have tried to walk into town. It was awful—not knowing where she was and not being able to apologize. If only she hadn’t lost her temper . . .
The barn was quiet except for a few birds in the rafters. Rivka went into the tack room and turned on the light. She measured out Rowdy’s dinner first and added his mineral supplement. She poured it into the grain bucket in his stall, made sure his water was full, and tossed a flake of hay on the ground.
Next she measured out dinner for Sawbones and Snow White.
Rivka worked her way down the list in the tack room, making sure that each horse had what it needed. Like folding the clothes in the church basement, the work calmed her frayed nerves, and all the numbers—cups of grain, scoops of probiotics, flakes of hay—didn’t leave room for her to worry about Cat or Elias or what would happen when she had to go back home.
Last of all, Rivka prepared Chickpea’s meal.
Carla had written up a detailed list of supplements for the new mama.
While Rivka scooped and measured, she tried to think of a good name. It was kind of dumb that they were still calling him the baby. Maybe they should just name him Baby and be d
one with it. Or Phil, she thought. He kind of looks like a Phil.
When she got to the stall, he was nursing.
Chickpea nuzzled her baby’s flank while he fed.
“I’ve got your dinner too,” Rivka told her, opening the stall door to slip inside and fill the grain bin.
She found more than she expected.
Way more.
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Rivka nearly tripped over a pair of boots, attached to the girl nestled in the corner.
“Cat!” Rivka gasped, almost dropping Chickpea’s dinner.
Cat blinked twice, like she was a cat herself who had just woken up, and pulled her earbuds out of her ears. “What?”
Rivka clutched the grain bucket to her chest, staring in disbelief. “Where have you been?”
Cat tilted her head to one side. “I’ve been here all afternoon.”
“I’m so, so sorry,” said Rivka dropping to her knees. “I was awful.”
Cat looked away. “Yeah, you were.”
Chickpea butted her nose between them, trying to get to the grain.
“I think we’d better let them eat,” said Cat, standing up and brushing straw off her pants.
Rivka poured the grain into the bin, and the girls slipped out of the stall. While Rivka got hay and alfalfa for Chickpea, Cat watched the foal nurse.
“Peanut is the perfect name,” Cat mused.
“You mean for the foal?”
Cat nodded.
“It’s cute. I like it.”
“Cool.”
“Can I ask you something?”
Cat nodded again.
“Why did you say you hated babies?”
Cat didn’t answer for so long that Rivka started to feel anxious all over again. She didn’t want people asking her stuff about herself, and here she was doing it to Cat. She was about to apologize again when Cat spoke. “I don’t really hate babies. But my mom keeps having them one after another, and with each one she has less time for me. All I get anymore is Cat, change the baby. Cat, put the baby to bed. Cat, read the baby a story. She’s got nothing left for me.”
The Long Trail Home (Quartz Creek Ranch) Page 7
