The Scar Rule

by Heidi Vanderbilt

  “Show me now,” Billie said. “If I see something I like, we can decide what to do about it.”

  “What kind of riding you want to do? You looking for flat shod? Plantation shod? Trail? Big Lick?”

  “Big Lick,” she said. “I mean, I think that’s it. I want to go to horse shows and do well in the big classes.”

  “Performance horse, then. Big Lick. I’ve got a horse for you.” He led her to a stall with a black horse standing in it, his halter tied to the wall. He had been recently groomed; she could still see brush marks on his hide. He wore stacked shoes, and his forelegs were wrapped in fleece bandages. “This here’s a two-year-old stud colt,” the man said. “He should be the champion this year. He’ll be top two-year-old in the country. I’ve got to sell him, though. Darn shame. I’ll get him out for you, and you can try him right now. Royal!” he hollered.

  “Is that his name?” Billie asked.

  “Royal,” he yelled again. “My boy,” he said to her. “ROYAL!”

  The man who appeared from the murk was a younger version of his father, maybe in his forties. Fat festooned his belly and puddled just above his knees. “Whatcha want?”

  “Lady wants to ride Jazz. Help me git him ready.”

  Billie felt panicky. “Isn’t he too young? Just two?”

  “He’s not even two yet, coming two’s more like it. But he knows his job. Don’t he, Royal? Royal this is Miz Billie Snow. She’s horse shopping. Miz Billie, this here is my son.”

  Royal nodded toward her. She tried to smile back at him. He looked as soft as a glob of tapioca, but he moved almost gracefully, as if his weight were nothing to him. He slid his eyes over her, leaving prickles between her shoulders, but after he’d glanced, he turned away to his work and didn’t look back.

  Royal swung open the stall door and stepped inside. He grabbed the colt’s halter, clipped a lead shank to it, and turned him toward the door.

  “You sure I should ride him now?” Billie asked. “I could come back.”

  Both men stared at her, but Royal brought the colt out into the barn aisle.

  “You’re not a goddamned tire kicker are you?” Royal asked. “We get a lot of them, people faking an interest for one reason or another. You’re not one of them, right?”

  Simeon disappeared into a room and returned with a flat, slick-looking saddle over his arm, which he set atop a tack box. He went back and returned with a bridle with a wicked-looking shanked bit and hung it on a hook by the saddle.

  Royal handed Billie the lead rope and briskly went over the horse with a brush. Dust flew out from beneath his strokes. He ran a rag over the young stallion, set a saddle pad onto its back, then the saddle. Within what seemed to Billie like mere seconds, the colt was saddled. The father took the lead rope from her and bridled the horse while she tried to think of a way out of riding. She could not ride a hurt horse, and this youngster was obviously being sored.

  “I haven’t ridden in ages,” she lied. “And I’ve never been on a stallion.”

  Royal guffawed. “Just don’t sit on his balls.”

  Simeon lumbered back into the tack room and emerged with a handful of chains that he dumped in a clatter on a metal chair. Grunting, he undid the fleece wraps on the colt’s legs, balling them expertly into rolls as he tossed each from hand to hand. He straightened up to toss them onto the tack box then, gasping, he bent and unwrapped the cellophane that had been beneath them. He handled it with his fingertips, and when he was done, wadded it and threw it in a wastebasket then wiped his hands on a rag.

  “You going to get on now I’ve got him ready for you?” he asked Billie.

  She looked at Simeon and Royal, about to refuse. But in their faces, she saw pride in this horse they had trained. Both men were watching her, ready for something. She felt their eyes judging her, ready to dismiss her, to get mad, to throw her out. She could just leave, plead fear or allergies or something, but if Frank found out she’d had a chance to ride one of these horses and hadn’t, he’d outright sack her.

  Silently she apologized to the horse then put her foot in the stirrup and swung aboard. The stirrups were too long, and the horse quivered with power. It was power, she decided. Not pain.

  “I say this is the horse for you,” Simeon assured her. “Royal, put his bracelets on him so he steps out sweet for her.”

  Royal grabbed chains from the pile on the chair. Billie heard him grunt as he bent and wrapped them around the horse’s pasterns. He stood up by pulling himself up the stallion’s leg, hand over hand.

  “I’ve never ridden a walking horse,” Billie said.

  “Like fallin’ off a log,” Royal chuckled.

  “What should I do?”

  She saw that Royal was about to crack another one, probably say something like “Keep one leg on each side of your horse,” when Simeon stepped up close and laid one hand on her knee, the other on the reins she held.

  “Hold them up high, like this,” he said. “It’s different than you’re used to. Pull back on them reins more than you think you should, keep a steady pull. At the same time, put your leg on him and squeeze him up. You’re telling him with your legs to go forward and with your hands to go high. The more leg and hand you use, the bigger the lick. Start easy, now.”

  The saddle felt slick, and there was nothing to hold on to if Jazz spooked. Billie wrapped her forefinger into his mane to steady herself. The good thing about grabbing the mane instead of the saddle, her father had taught her, was that the mane stayed in the center of the horse, while the saddle could slip. Everything felt new and wobbly to her. She prayed the horse wouldn’t bolt. The barn aisle stretched ahead of them, a couple of hundred feet long and maybe forty feet wide. Cluttered tools and piles of manure lay mounded into a center median jumbled together with wooden planks, wheelbarrows, pitchforks, and a small green tractor.

  Jazz stepped off as soon as she asked him, and when she asked for more at the man’s urging, he gave it to her. She had water skied as a child, and this felt the same—like she was being lifted right off the earth and into the air. His front legs rose high with each stride, his hind legs reached farther and farther under him until he was moving forward in a smooth, steady crouch. They seemed to fly down the aisle, the chains clinking as they hit his legs. She knew they were landing on burned flesh, making him snap up his feet to get away from the torment.

  “Hey there, sister, you can ride,” Simeon said when she pulled up after several laps. “You should buy this horse. You can win big with him.”

  Billie slid off and patted the horse’s lathered neck. She felt sickened from having ridden a sored horse but thrilled by the power she felt when he moved. And he was just a baby, barely developed. What must one of the mature horses feel like? Ashamed, now she understood why someone would do this, what was in it for the rider besides money.

  “He’s lovely,” she said. “Beautiful and so well trained. But I’m not going to buy the first horse I ride. I have to look at more before I decide.”

  “’Course,” he slumped. “’Course you do.” He pulled off the saddle. “There’s no market anymore. Everyone’s hurting. All these investigations and new rules are shutting us down.” He unhooked the chains and crammed them into his pockets. He led the horse to its stall and took off the bridle. “Get in there you piece of shit,” he said, but his hand slid over the horse’s back as it entered the stall, lingering appreciatively. He latched the door. “I’m heading back to Minnesota soon as I can get out of this.” He gestured at the horses.

  “Minnesota?”

  “I first saw these horses at a show near Saint Paul. Thought I could train some. The good ones bring a lot of money. So I moved here. Did okay for a while. But I don’t like what I have to do to get the wins. I didn’t know I’d have to do it. I thought I could train without it. But if I didn’t do it, I lost. Now the government’s all over us too, checking up and testing and disqualifying even sound horses. They don’t know what they’re doing half of the time. M
ost of the time. But it’s shutting down the industry. I can’t make a living. I can’t even hire help, can’t afford it anymore. It’s just me here, and Royal.”

  Billie flashed on herself, doing all the work on her ranch.

  “Haven’t got it in me. I saved some of these horses from other trainers who went bust. Now it’s my turn. Nothing I can do about it.”

  “What do you want for the horse I just rode?”

  “Fifteen thousand. And that’s a steal. A year ago, he was worth a hundred grand.”

  Not a single horse on her ranch, not even Starship, was worth more than fifteen hundred.

  She got Simeon’s phone number and promised to call. He said sure like he knew she wouldn’t, and she didn’t try to convince him otherwise. As she drove away, she wondered what lay ahead for the horses living in filth in his barn and for the two-year-old she had just ridden. She imagined saving him, driving all the way from home to this ramshackle farm to get him and bring him to her ranch.

  CHAPTER 23

  AS BILLIE RETRACED her way back toward Shelbyville, the dozens of sleepy walking horse farms she’d passed in the early morning were now bustling. Trucks had been hitched to trailers, their doors open and piles of tack boxes stacked beside them. Men and women bustled in and out of the barns, some leading horses, everyone seeming to have a purpose. But when she tried to turn into the driveways, she found them blocked. Gates had been shut and bolted on some. Other driveways were obstructed by tractors or flatbed trailers that prevented her from driving in. At the fourth barricaded farm, she parked the rental car beside the road, got out, and hiked toward the barn, skirting a Polaris ATV with a dump cart hitched to it, filled with hay bales.

  A gangly boy loped down the driveway toward her. “Closed!” he shouted.

  “I just… Bo?”

  He looked younger somehow, appearing so unexpectedly. He stopped then continued toward her, his hand raised in a stop gesture.

  “Bo, it’s me, Billie. From Arizona.”

  “We’re closed.” He scowled. “What are you doing here?”

  “Here? What do you mean? Where am I?”

  “This is our place,” he said then added, “Mom’s.”

  She took a step backward, looking around for something that would have told her. She realized she had never once asked the name of Richard’s almost-ex’s farm.

  “It’s good to see you, Bo. How’s Alice Dean?”

  He glanced away from her, back toward the barn and the people there, who were turning to look at him. “She’s better,” he said. “You should go.”

  “Bo!” a woman called. “You need help?”

  “I’m fine, Ma!” he yelled back. To Billie he said, “There’s a horse show tonight everyone’s going to. We’re getting ready. I’ve got to go, Billie. Please.”

  Billie squinted over the boy’s shoulder, trying to see his mother, Richard’s wife. The sun was behind her, making it impossible to see well, but she seemed slender and possibly tall, the same body type as Sylvie. Billie felt a wave of jealousy. “Where’s the show?”

  “At Adam’s farm. Jesus, Billie…” He turned away.

  Billie wanted a longer look but did as he asked and headed back to her car. Before she got there though, she turned. “Thanks!” she called. “I’ll find it!”

  He had already returned to his mother at the end of the long driveway and was helping her hoist a hay bale into the back of a truck. He paused to look at her for a second then turned back to his work.

  After an hour’s drive on crisscrossing country roads, Billie found herself at last on a narrow, tree-shrouded lane that dipped and rose and dipped again before settling down into a long, shaded straightaway that sloped toward the distant sparkle of a river. Small, exhausted-looking houses with peeling paint and missing shingles hung close to the little road. Between the houses sprawled farms, many clearly struggling, but three or four were opulent, manicured, with paved driveways, whitewashed fences, and barns that dwarfed the homes.

  She was singing along with the radio when she rounded a sharp curve and slammed on her brakes, nearly ramming into a faded red pickup truck. She realized it was the last of a long line of vehicles creeping toward a sandwich board sign with letters spelling ADAM’S FARM/SHOW TONITE and an arrow pointing to the right. She followed the pickup off the road and into a field. A man took five dollars from her and gave her a program. She found a spot to park in a ragged row of cars and trucks disgorging couples and families with folding chairs, picnic baskets, and coolers. She slipped her cell phone into one hip pocket of her shorts and a wad of cash into the other pocket.

  Even though it was past six in the evening, the humid Tennessee heat struck her like a blow when she got out of the car. Grass tickled her ankles. The scent of rich earth, vegetation from the nearby forest, horses, and bug repellant transported her to horse shows from her childhood, to state fairs and carnivals.

  A rectangular white fence created a riding arena. People set up their chairs nearby, spreading blankets on the grass and unpacking their coolers. Billie spied a snack stand by the arena in-gate. By the time she reached it, she was sticky with sweat. A sign under a blue shade offered lemonade and sodas. She chose lemonade, and with her first gulp, felt her core temperature plummet. She looked around.

  Behind the arena, dozens of horse trailers and RVs were parked haphazardly. Horses were being unloaded and tied to the trailers. A shimmering scrim of insects hovered everywhere. Gnats and mosquitoes zoomed at her ears and bit the backs of her arms. And, although she couldn’t see them, she knew that ticks clung to blades of grass and leaves, poised to latch onto her. Flies pestered the horses, landing on their legs and bellies, their noses and ears.

  She was tempted to wander over to the trailers. Instead, she leaned against a sapling and sipped her drink, swatting at the mosquitoes and shivering with each bitter swallow.

  By the time she’d finished, she had a sense of the movement around the arena and in the trailer area. Most of it was what she’d expected—owners, trainers, and riders preparing their horses and themselves to enter the ring when their class was called. But gradually she became aware of other factions. Workmen erected portable lights for the arena. Two men moved from trailer to trailer, stopping to shake hands at each vehicle as if they were running for office, a welcoming committee. As she watched, she noticed that with each handshake, they glanced over their shoulders, expecting trouble.

  A half dozen horse inspection officers were stationed at the arena in- and out-gates. They had established an area for the horses to be examined, using police tape and traffic cones.

  A van with a government logo on its side that Billie couldn’t make out bounced across the field and stopped beside the inspection area. Five men and one woman wearing identical khaki slacks and bright blue polo shirts got out and set up a card table near the other inspectors. They unloaded ice chests, draped stethoscopes around their necks, and loaded clipboards with papers.

  Billie spotted Lucille and Addie seated in folding lawn chairs beside the arena.

  “Well, hey,” Lucille greeted her. “Come set. Grab her a chair, Addie. Addie’s boy’s got hisself about a hundred of ’em.”

  “I’ll get it,” Billie interrupted. “Just tell me where.” Addie pointed to a stack of chairs folded and leaning against a rusted two-horse trailer parked a ways off.

  “He won’t mind?” Billie asked.

  “Won’t even notice.”

  “We’re done for now,” Addie said when Billie returned. “Now the feds are here, everyone will pack up and go home.”

  “Maybe not,” Billie opened the chair and sat in it, grateful for its comfort. “No one’s leaving yet.”

  “You’re right,” Addie said. “I wonder what’s up?”

  “Do you have a horse in this show?” Billie asked her. “Does your son?”

  “Not today. We heard the government might be coming, so we decided not to bring a horse. The inspections are bogus, completely subjective and
unfair. You can have a horse who’s passed every inspection of his life and still have the feds turn him down. Then what? Then you’ve got a mess for nothing. I’m just here tonight to watch. Like you.”

  Addie’s lament reminded her of what Simeon had said earlier, the complaint about unfair inspections. She unfolded a chair and set it beside Addie, who offered her an orange from the ice chest and crossed her ankles to wait for the show’s classes to start. Billie wondered how people who picnicked beside a spectacle of tortured horses could think of themselves as innocents.

  She wanted to ask those questions in the article, so she retrieved her notebook from her bag and scribbled them down. As she slipped her pen back into the notebook’s spiral binding, a movement in the trees at the far side of the field caught her eye. A person? she wondered, peering. She couldn’t see anything. Most likely a deer or a cow.

  Addie still talked beside her about the horses she used to own. She’d be a good source about the breed’s history, Billie realized, as Addie reminisced about showing in the 1950s and 1960s.

  Billie saw movement in the woods again. Then, again, it stopped. She kept her eyes on the area where she’d seen it, and when she’d finished scrawling her notes on what Addie had told her, she excused herself and headed around the far side of the arena, and from there to the woods.

  The loamy smell of damp soil rose from the ground. She heard a bird’s song. But she didn’t find anything there, just some trampled leaves that could have been a spot where deer or wild pigs slept. Deeper in the woods, she saw a flock of startled birds rise. Shiny vines twisted around the tree trunks. Poison ivy? Poison oak? Poison sumac? She tucked her arms in close to her body and sidled back out toward the show. Maybe she’d imagined something to get away from Addie’s lecture and the stress of waiting to become a spectator again at another Big Lick show.