“I’d start putting them out a couple of hours a day,” Danny said, palming an apple to Dusty. “Mama’s going to go nuts in here if she doesn’t get some exercise.” He leaned over the top rail of the stall. “She hasn’t missed many meals, has she? Some of that’s postpartum, but she’s starting to look like a bowl of Jell-O.”
“She’ll work it off when Dancer’s weaned,” Maggie said. “She’s a good mother, isn’t she?” It wasn’t actually a question; she knew Danny knew the answer.
“The best. Look at Dancer’s coat—not a manure stain or a bit of straw clinging to him.” Danny focused on the colt for a moment. “He’s going to be tall. I wouldn’t doubt that he goes over sixteen hands as a two-year-old. He’ll be rangy too. His bones are long.”
Dancer, catching the scent of the apple his mother was industriously chewing, moved to her head and reached upward to her mouth. Then the colt amazed both Maggie and Danny: he shifted his body, rose quickly and gracefully upward, and placed his forefeet on Dusty’s neck, his muzzle probing at her mouth, seeking the apple.
“Whew,” Danny breathed. “This boy is agile! I’ve never seen one this young use his body and balance like that. Never.”
Dusty quickly had enough of her son prodding his muzzle at her mouth and shook her head and neck. Dancer settled back on all fours—and took a quick nip at her side. Dusty spun toward him, spewing bits of partially chewed apple, and bared her teeth at the colt. Dancer backed rapidly into a corner of the stall, shrinking somehow, his stance and his eyes frightened. Dusty glared at him for a long moment and then turned away, snorting sharply to show her anger.
“Attagirl, Dusty!” Danny laughed. “Don’t let that rabbit chew holes in your hide.”
A gust of wind rattled a window, and Dancer, still in the corner, focused his attention on the sound, his ear tips pointing toward it. The sounds of the barn—the occasional creak of wood, the light buffeting of the wind against the outside, Dusty’s now slower and rhythmic grinding of the apple—were comfortable ones, sounds both Danny and Maggie had enjoyed for years, without really paying a great deal of attention to them. Perhaps it was the breaking of that peace that made them more embarrassed than they should have been when they both began to speak at once.
“No—go on, Danny,” Maggie said.
“I was just saying that we haven’t seen you in church for a lot of weeks. You’re missed, Maggie. Ellie asked about you.”
“I’ve been busy. People wanting to check out horses to buy want to do it on weekends, and that includes Sundays.”
“Sure,” Danny said. “That’s true.” After a moment, he said, “How about if I stop by tomorrow and kind of watch things and you go to church? If anyone shows up to look at a horse, I’ll say you’ll be back in a bit, and they’ll wait if they’re interested enough.”
Maggie shook her head. “No—no thanks, Danny.” That the words came abruptly wasn’t lost on either of them.
Maggie saw that her fingers were clenched so tightly on the top board of the stall that her knuckles were a pale white. She squeezed her eyes shut as a blockade against the tears that were already flowing. Danny reached his arms out to her, and she stepped quickly into his hug, pressing her face against his chest, rocking both their bodies with her wrenching sobs.
The sound of a car outside separated them. Maggie used her hands to wipe tears from her face, and her eyes found a wet spot the size of a saucer on Danny’s shirt. “I’m sorry,” she said, trying for a smile she didn’t feel. “I cried all over your shirt.”
Danny grinned. “That’s not nearly as bad as what a German shepherd pup did on the first shirt I put on this morning.”
An auto horn, deep and resonant, sounded from outside. Maggie rushed to the faucet used to fill water buckets and ran the icy cold water on her hands, and then rubbed her face. “Somebody to see a horse, I guess,” she said. “I need to...”
“Yeah,” Danny said quickly. “I gotta shove off.”
“We’ll talk soon, OK?”
“Sure, Maggie. Let’s do that.”
Maggie hustled past him to the front of the barn and stepped out into the sunlight. A metallic blue Rolls-Royce sedan idled smoothly on the concrete apron, the sun sending shards of light from the highly polished automobile that were almost painful to Maggie’s eyes. The driver’s door swung open as Danny left the barn and walked toward his GMC, openly eyeing the expensive British luxury vehicle. He grinned when he saw the two people in the car.
“Hi, Dr. Morrison, Tessa. Sorry, I’ve got to run.”
Both women in the car waved to the vet. “Ms. Locke?” the older woman asked, easing out of the car. There was an understated elegance to her that was impossible to miss. Her face was richly tanned, and Maggie could tell that the tan came from the sun, not from a series of carcinogenic light tubes. The woman’s charcoal slacks were simple and perfectly cut, and her white silk blouse and light jacket didn’t come from Target, where Maggie shopped. There were no rings on her fingers; she wore small gold studs in her ears but no other jewelry. It was her face, though, that transfixed Maggie. She wasn’t beautiful by contemporary standards—she had an actual woman’s form rather than the stick-figure physique of fashion models—but the high, softly defined cheekbones and the liquid depth of her cornflower-blue eyes were striking. The word patrician flitted into Maggie’s mind.
“I’m Sarah Morrison,” the woman said as she walked toward Maggie and extended her hand. Her voice was a bit deeper than Maggie expected, with a texture of the South to it. Maggie wiped her right palm on her jeans and took the offered hand.
“Maggie Locke, Ms. Morrison. Pleased to meet you.”
“Sarah suits me better. May I call you Maggie?”
“Of course.”
Sarah was older than Maggie had initially estimated—perhaps well into her fifties. Her age detracted not in the least from her presence and the aura of gentility that she projected.
“We spoke very briefly early last week. About the horse for my daughter.” The passenger door of the Rolls opened, and a smaller, much younger version of Sarah Morrison got out of the car and looked over at the two women. She was about fourteen and was dressed in well-worn jeans, a Western shirt, scuffed but clean boots, and an unbuttoned, lined Levi jacket. Her eyes, Maggie realized even with the distance between them, were precise reproductions of her mother’s—except that the girl’s were sparkling with excitement and anticipation.
“My daughter, Tessa,” Sarah said.
The girl moved forward, a tentative smile showing a few thousand dollars’ worth of silver braces on her teeth. She was thin-limbed and coltish as she walked to Maggie with her left hand extended. It was then Maggie noticed that the child’s right sleeve was empty and hanging vacantly at her side. Maggie put out her left hand to the girl, pleased that the motion had been smooth, without fumbling or confusion.
“I lost it a long time ago,” Tessa said, answering the unasked question. “No big deal. I hold the reins in my left hand—as I’m supposed to—when I’m trail riding. When I run barrels I use a game rein—a single piece. As I said, it’s no big deal.”
“Glad to meet you, Tessa,” Maggie said. How many kids today know the difference between like and as—and use the words correctly?
“When we spoke, you mentioned a horse named Tinker,” Sarah said. “A five-year-old mare?”
Maggie looked at Tessa. “I’m awfully sorry, but Tinker’s been sold.”
Tessa swallowed hard, and her eyes lost their sparkle. “I see,” she said. “I wish we could have come sooner. Dr. Pulver said good things about Tinker. I already knew that you and Tinker won open barrel racing at Tri-County last summer.”
“I’m sorry, honey,” Sarah said, stepping to her daughter and touching her face gently. She looked at Maggie. “I’m a cardiac surgeon, and my schedule has been horrendous—one emergency after another. I should’ve had our groundskeeper bring Tessa over to look at the mare, but I wanted to see Tinker too.”
/> Maggie had learned to live with the slight swelling she’d felt in her throat since she’d stood in the same barnyard and heard Rich’s plane strike the earth. The lump she felt now was different—maybe because she could do something about this one.
“How good are you, Tessa? Really—no hype. Tell me when you started and tell me what you’ve done on horseback.”
Much of the life came back to the girl’s eyes. “I’ll be fourteen in a couple of months.”
“Six,” Sarah noted. “Six months.”
“And I’ve had weekly lessons since I was about eight. My dad wanted me to ride a pancake, but I told him I wouldn’t ride a saddle without a horn. I’ve been to horse camps each summer.”
“How were the camps?” Maggie asked.
“Not good—but I got to ride a whole lot. I didn’t go to learn about rock stars, makeup, and boys. I wanted to learn to ride Western horses and to run barrels.”
Maggie’s smile came quickly and naturally, and it felt slightly strange on her face, as if those muscles hadn’t been used much in the past months. “What are the main bone structures in a horse’s legs, Tessa?” she asked.
There was no pause for thought before the girl answered. “Cannon, fetlock, and pastern.”
“OK.” Maggie laughed. “How about this: what do Arabian horses have that other breeds don’t?”
“Two things—an extra vertebra and a third eyelid, a membrane that protects their eyes in sandstorms.”
“Very good, Tessa—you’ve done your reading. That’s important.”
The young girl’s smile was the first burst of radiant sunshine following a long day of drizzle and clouds. “Thanks, Mrs. Locke.”
“Call me Maggie.” She thought for a moment. “I have a five-year-old quarter horse gelding named Turnip who knows the barrel pattern but tends to be a little silly at times—and he’s headstrong too. There’s not a mean bone in Turnip’s body, but he’ll take advantage of a rider if he’s allowed to do so.”
She met Tessa’s eyes. “One thing—if you’ve been riding school horses and camp stock, you’ve probably never ridden a horse with the speed this guy has. He’s a fireball, and he needs good, confident hands on the reins.”
“A good, confident hand on the reins,” Tessa corrected.
Maggie’s move was totally spontaneous, as was the heat she felt in her eyes, as she put her arms out to the girl and Tessa moved to her hug. The contact with another body, the sensation of the child’s arm around her, the faint, sweet scent of bubble gum and shampoo and the deeper animal smell of horse on Tessa’s Levi jacket were almost too much for Maggie to bear. She stepped back from the girl. “I’m sorry...”
“We know about your husband, Maggie,” Sarah said quietly. “Ellie Traynor has been friends with my folks back in Boston forever. I always called her Aunt Ellie, and I still do. Tessa and I moved here from Boston a few weeks ago. Aunt Ellie told us about you.”
“She also told us that you have the best quarter horses in the world,” Tessa added.
“Actually, she said the best in Montana,” Sarah said.
Maggie stepped back and wiped the tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “Turnip is in the third stall on the left,” she said. “There’s a good Western saddle on a sawhorse just inside the barn—you can use that. How about if you tack up Turnip and bring him out here? His bridle and bit are hanging on his stall door.” She turned to Sarah suddenly. “Oh—Sarah. I’m sorry. I mean, if it’s OK with you that Tessa takes a look at the horse. I could go in and get him, if you like.”
Tessa looked imploringly at her mother, then at Maggie. “I brought my own saddle. It’s a Martha Josie model—made for running barrels. Is it OK if I use that?”
“Go on,” Maggie said. Tessa wasted no time hustling into the barn. “What a wonderful girl. She’s precious, Sarah.”
“I won’t argue with you on that point. She was ten when she lost her arm in Kenya, on a safari with her father. We’re divorced. He’s a surgeon too. Tessa was bitten by some sort of bizarre insect, and gangrene set in and the doctors there had no choice. The thing is, she never said a thing to her dad about her arm. She wore long-sleeved shirts, and he never noticed it until it was too late to save it. She didn’t want to ruin the safari for him.” Her voice broke slightly in her final sentence. “That’s the type of kid she’s always been.”
“You must be very proud.”
“I am, but I’m also concerned that my daughter may be suffering because so much of my time is spent elbow-deep in someone’s chest.” Sarah took a deep breath. “That’s a big part of why I agreed to buy a horse for her. There are so many traps for teens with too much time and not enough to do. She loves horses, Maggie. I think having her own to be responsible for would be good for her.”
Maggie nodded. “When I look at Tessa I see myself at her age, horse crazy and very happy, with dirt under my fingernails and calluses on my hands from shoveling manure and tossing bales of hay. It’s a great way to grow up.”
The sharp ring of steel horseshoes on cement drew the attention of both women from their conversation. Tessa led the saddled and bridled Turnip from the barn, walking on his right side, reins in her left hand.
Turnip gawked at the unfamiliar Rolls-Royce, snorted, and stopped when Tessa did, his muzzle a foot or so behind her head. He stood 15.2 hands, a hand being four inches and the standard equine height measurement, gauged from the withers to the ground. His coat was a light butterscotch color—buckskin—and his tail and mane were darker, approaching black. His chest, broad and hard, flowed to strong, tightly muscled legs and decent-sized hooves. His ears, perked like those of a curious fox, flicked from Tessa to Maggie, and then back to Tessa. His back was straight, and his withers not prominent but well formed. His rear end was wide and smooth, and he shagged an imaginary fly with his tail, as if showing off its length and thickness.
“Wow,” Sarah said.
“Yeah,” Maggie agreed. “Isn’t he the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen? He knows it too—look at him preening like a prom queen.”
Tessa led the gelding closer to the women. The girl’s eyes told far more than her words could convey. She’d fallen deeply in love with the handsome and arrogant animal, and she completely believed that he was the finest, noblest, most perfect horse in the world. “Where’d he get the name Turnip?” she asked, then quickly added, looking into the horse’s eyes, “Not that I don’t like the name, of course.”
“Nothing too romantic about it, I’m afraid,” Maggie said. “A neighbor dropped off a little basket of turnips from her garden when he was a foal. I gave him a small one, and he loved it. We even did a comparison test—let him have his choice between a piece of turnip and a piece of apple. He always went for the turnip first. The name just stuck.” She turned to Tessa’s mother. “Sarah?” Maggie asked. “Can Tessa try him out in the arena? Poke around on him a little, get a feel for him?”
Sarah laughed. “It’s either that or have my daughter disown me, I guess.”
Maggie walked toward the gate to the arena, Tessa and Turnip slightly behind her. “He hasn’t been out in a couple of days, and he’ll be a little antsy. He’ll probably do some crow-hopping. Can you ride to that?”
Tessa grinned. “Like a burr on a saddle blanket.”
Maggie swung the gate open, and Tessa led Turnip inside and stepped easily into the saddle, reins held loosely. She centered her weight on the horse and clucked him into a walk. Turnip took a few strides, snuffed, shook his head, and tried to skitter into a faster gait. Tessa’s left hand moved almost imperceptibly on the reins, barely touching the low port bit in the horse’s mouth. He snuffed again and danced sideways, arguing with his rider, testing her. Tessa gathered him in and again started him forward at a walk. Turnip, frustrated, launched his body off the ground, arching his back, and landed heavily on all four hooves.
“That’s crow-hopping,” Maggie said to Sarah. Sarah didn’t answer. She stood transfixed, hand to he
r mouth, as if her daughter were walking on a tightrope above a vast chasm. “Relax,” Maggie added. “Tessa knows what she’s doing.”
Turnip jumped again, this time more closely approximating a bronc-type buck. Tessa reined his head to the left and forced him to walk in a tight circle, his nose pointed at his tail. After a pair of revolutions Tessa straightened him again and applied some leg pressure, putting him into a jog. His action was initially stiff but quickly smoothed to the lazy-looking fluidity of a pace he could maintain for miles without tiring.
Tessa used the entire arena, following the fence, and her turns at the corners were wide sweeps. The young girl rode confidently, naturally, without the quick, jerky movements of legs and body that indicated someone new to the sport. “She’s very good, Sarah.”
Tessa’s mother had relaxed considerably. Her hand was no longer at her mouth, and a proud smile brightened her face. “They look... what?... natural together, don’t they? Like they’re partners somehow.”
Maggie waved, caught Tessa’s eye, and held up three fingers—the judge’s sign in a Western show for riders in the ring to lope their horses. Tessa nodded and clucked at Turnip. He responded in a half heartbeat, flowing into an extended gait, several notches down from a gallop. Tessa guided her mount through broad, almost geometrically precise figure eights, using most of the arena. Turnip changed leads at the center each time. When he faltered Tessa used a slight shift in her body weight to guide him into taking the proper lead. The girl’s face was a study in innocent, totally articulated joy.
“Can you keep him here until I can get a stable built? I’ll pay whatever the boarding fee is, of course,” Sarah said. “And I was wondering... are you working with students? I know that you did before Rich’s accident. If it’s too soon, I completely understand.”
Maggie waved Tessa in and began to open the gate. “If you hadn’t mentioned it,” she said with a smile that actually felt real to her, “I’d have insisted that it be part of the deal.”
Tessa dismounted inside the arena, her eyes riveted to her mother’s face.
Changes of Heart Page 5
