A Horse like Barney Read online

  8

  A Barrel of Flowers

  “This is an incredible deal!” Missy said as Sarah got into the car late on Monday afternoon. She’d made an evening appointment, for after Sarah had finished with Herky. Sarah had remembered just in time to change the “Gone swimming” note to “Going out for ice cream,” and she wished they really were.

  “I mean,” Missy said, “the price is okay, yes. But the main thing is, nothing’s setting off any bells. Know what I mean?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You know—’seen it all, done it all’—meaning ‘about to topple into the grave.’ ‘A bold mover’—meaning ‘trots like a Hackney and terrified of cows!’”

  “Yeah, I do know what you mean,” Sarah said. She slumped against Old Paint’s ruptured vinyl upholstery. When was she going to muster the courage to tell Missy that she’d already found her horse? Standardbreds weren’t normally talented at jumping, her breed book said, but Beau was half Morgan, and Morgans could jump, Sarah knew.

  But Missy was waiting. “So, what is this horse?” Sarah asked.

  “He’s a Morgan, ten years old, fourteen-two hands, rides, and drives—and this is amazing! They want eight hundred dollars for him! That’s a price from ten years ago!”

  “Why?” asked Sarah. The question fell bluntly and negatively into the space between them, but she didn’t have the energy to soften it with extra words.

  “He belongs to this couple,” Missy said, “and the guy is too busy for him. The woman isn’t interested in Morgans. She does Combined Training, big time. I think they’re very rich. She had that kind of voice. So he’s basically a toy they don’t want anymore. Think of it as a yard sale!”

  “A pretty high-priced yard sale!”

  “That is not a high price,” said Missy. “If this horse is what they say, that is a gift!” For a fraction of a second she glanced away from the road. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to see him?”

  “Oh, sure! I’m just tired,” Sarah said quickly, and Missy seemed satisfied. Sarah unstuck her back from the vinyl and leaned into the breeze from the open window. She couldn’t explain about Beau. Missy seemed to think choosing a horse was something you could be rational about.

  They arrived just as the sun was setting. Sarah was thankful to see the angry red eye disappear behind the trees. Without it the heat seemed much more bearable.

  “Whew!” said Missy. “Check out the real estate!”

  The house was old, the barn was new, and both were very expensive. From the formal, landscaped terrace a half dozen Jack Russell terriers streamed toward the car, yapping frantically. A borzoi looked on from a gap in the clipped hedge.

  Missy braked. “Where are the dogs? I can’t see—”

  A man came to the hedge and called, and after a moment all the little dogs raced back to him. Missy parked at a respectful distance from a costly European sedan.

  “Remember, you don’t have to be a millionaire,” Missy muttered as a tall woman in riding clothes stepped out of the barn. She got out of the car. “Hello, Mrs. Page. Sorry we’re late!”

  “Hello. Please call me Nancy,” said the woman, shaking hands firmly.

  “I’m Missy—I’m the one who called earlier—and this is Sarah Miles. She’s the one who’s actually looking for a horse.”

  “Well, come meet him,” said Nancy Page. “I just groomed him, so he’s all ready for you.” She wore pale, flared riding breeches and a white shirt, and neither looked as if she’d groomed a horse in them. The rich must know how to do these things, Sarah thought. She stepped into the cool, dim passageway of the barn, and a horse nickered.

  Unexpectedly Sarah’s throat tightened. It was a perfect moment, the kind of moment she’d been dreaming of: to step into a dark barn and hear a horse nicker.

  “He’s hoping for some grain,” said Nancy Page. She switched on the lights.

  A round chestnut horse stood in the crossties, looking toward them eagerly. He had large, bright eyes and a pretty head, made odd and whimsical by the crooked white blaze that trickled down his face.

  “He’s very fat,” said Nancy Page. “Aren’t you, Roy? Frank has hardly driven him at all this summer.”

  “What’s his name?” Missy asked. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

  “His registered name is very long and silly, and I’ve actually forgotten it. His stable name is Roy.”

  “Hello, Roy,” said Sarah softly. She held out her hand. Roy dropped his muzzle into it eagerly.

  “He seems bigger than fourteen-two,” said Missy.

  “We can measure him. I have a stick.”

  Nancy Page’s stick was beautiful, the numbers deeply incised in the glowing wood, the ends tipped in brass. At home Sarah had a paper measuring tape that had come free from the feed store.

  “Fourteen-two and a fraction,” said Nancy Page. “And his feet do need trimming. He has excellent feet and legs—never lame a day since we’ve owned him.”

  Sarah stepped back to look at Roy’s excellent feet and legs. They looked as round and sturdy and useful as the legs of her bed—like Barney’s legs. Sarah groaned inside. She’d known this was going to happen.…

  “What’s his background?” Missy asked.

  “He’s been a show horse. A young girl had him, and I understand he won several championships at the larger shows. Saddle-seat, you know. All that up and down stuff.”

  Instantly Sarah was back at ringside, watching the carousel horses circle. She missed a few beats of the conversation.

  “… very good on the trail, and Frank has driven him quite a lot. He’s a wonderful driving horse.”

  “Well, we should try him out before it gets dark,” said Missy.

  “Don’t worry, there are lights.” Nancy Page got a bridle, and Missy brought her saddle from the car and girthed it on.

  Nancy Page asked, “Do either of you have a hard hat?”

  “I forgot to bring it,” Sarah said. She never wore a hard hat for her trots on Herky. It was too hot, and he was always so good.

  “That’s one thing I’ll insist on,” said Nancy Page, and brought a white event helmet from the tack room. “It has an adjustable harness. Here.” She showed Sarah the complex-looking buckle on the chin strap. “You’ll be able to make it fit.” She unhitched Roy from the crossties, and Sarah took the reins.

  Quietly they crunched up the gravel path, following Nancy Page to the ring. It was hidden from the barn by a screen of trees. High on telephone poles, lights glared whitely against the gathering dusk.

  The ring itself was carved out of the hillside and surrounded by a foot-deep ditch. Like all dressage rings, it had no fence; just a border of white logs laid on the ground, with letter markers at even intervals. The gate was a gap in the logs at one end of the rectangle, with a big white barrel of geraniums on either side. Nancy Page started picking off dead blossoms, while Sarah tried to adjust the helmet strap and Missy tightened the girth.

  “Ready?” Missy asked.

  “Mmm.” Sarah gave up on the helmet. It fitted well enough—a little sloppy, but it certainly wouldn’t fall off. Time to mount up.

  “Shall I let go?” Missy asked when Sarah had settled herself in the saddle. Sarah nodded, and the helmet slipped forward a little. She pushed it back into place. “Okay, Roy. Walk.”

  Roy had a bouncy walk, high-headed and hard-muscled. He was easy to turn, easy to stop, but Sarah had the feeling he was only humoring her. She thought she should do something about it, but she didn’t know what, and Nancy Page didn’t notice. Missy didn’t seem to feel like yelling at her in the normal way either.

  “Nan?” A man’s voice spoke clearly, from a box on one of the telephone poles. Sarah and Roy jumped.

  Nancy Page said, “Yes, Frank.”

  “Phone for you. Can you come?”

  Nancy Page looked from Missy to Sarah and Roy. “Do you mind if I leave you alone? He’ll take good care of you.”

  “No, go ahead!” Mis
sy and Sarah spoke almost in unison.

  When Nancy Page was gone, they both felt freer.

  “Try to get his head down,” Missy called. “Drive him forward onto the bit.” Sarah set her teeth and obeyed, although urging Roy forward felt just a little dangerous. As she’d expected, he started to trot.

  “That’s okay,” Missy called. “Just set your hands and drive him forward.”

  Roy surged ahead, trotting even faster with his head still high.

  “Massage his mouth!” Missy yelled.

  The helmet vibrated down on Sarah’s forehead, nearly blinding her. She jerked her head, sliding it back into place. Massage his mouth! Sure! She was losing a stirrup, and she was already out of breath. This was more work than twelve miles on Herky!

  “Squeeze with your left hand,” called Missy. “Squeeze and release. Hold the other hand steady!”

  Okay, thought Sarah, and tried it.

  Roy dropped his head. His mouth softened, and all at once the trot was different. Instead of pounding up and down he was springing forward, lightly and powerfully. A big grin spread across Sarah’s face.

  “Great!” Missy shouted. “Keep him like that!”

  Instantly Sarah lost all that she had gained. But now she knew what she was looking for, and she could get it back. She kept at it till Missy yelled, “Walk.” Both she and Roy were breathing hard.

  “He looked great!” Missy said. “He’s really powerful. Wait till you two catch your breath, and try a canter.”

  Sarah took off the helmet and tried again to adjust it, without success. Missy was walking around Roy, looking him over more thoroughly than she’d looked at any horse they’d seen so far. “Take him out again, and then I want to try him.”

  Sarah put the sloppy helmet back on. This time she felt eager and confident. She liked the explosive feeling of Roy’s walk, as if he could barely contain himself. She liked his high neck and his coiled-spring muscles.

  “All right, boy,” she whispered. “Let’s canter.” And she tried to remember all of Missy’s instructions: Collect the horse, inside rein, outside leg.…

  But Roy jumped off in a pounding trot, jolting Sarah off-balance. She tried to settle herself. “Canter!” She nudged again with her outside heel, the helmet slipped, and Roy cantered.

  Instantly Sarah knew she was in trouble. She was still off-balance, and all of a sudden the brakes didn’t work. Roy paid no attention when Sarah massaged his mouth or even when she pulled. He just went faster, leaning around the corners like a motorcycle, pouring on even more speed down the long side. He wasn’t going to make the next corner.…

  A lurch, a brief, silent moment, and they landed on the sloping ground on the other side of the ditch. The ditch and the white log were all Sarah could see, as Roy galloped alongside them. Desperately she tilted her head back and peered out beneath the helmet’s rim. Unless she turned now, they’d burst out through the screen of trees and head straight to the barn.

  Could he jump the ditch at this speed? Even as she wondered, Sarah was turning him. That blank moment again, the jar of landing, and she swung him in a wide circle, looking for the gate into the ring.

  Suddenly Roy slammed on the brakes. There was a huge white blur just ahead, beneath his neck—the flower barrel! He’s going to jump it! Sarah grabbed a handful of mane, there was another fierce jolt, and then he stopped. Sarah found herself near the center of the ring, clutching mane with both hands. Then Missy was there beside her, reaching for the reins. “Sarah! Are you all right?”

  Sarah sat up straight. After a moment she let herself down from the saddle, carefully. Her knees felt weak. She hung on to the stirrup with one hand and with the other fumbled Nancy Page’s helmet off.

  “Sarah? God, that was some jump!”

  “I couldn’t see,” Sarah said. Her voice sounded thin. “The helmet slipped.”

  “The helmet! Oh, Lord, I saw you fussing.…” Missy put an arm around Sarah’s shoulders. “You okay?”

  “I’m—yes, I’m okay,” Sarah said. “I’m going to sit down.” And she went over and sat on the edge of the white flower tub. It was dusk now, and under the lights the white-rimmed dressage ring seemed to spin slightly.

  “All right, Mr. Roy,” said Missy grimly. She jammed the helmet on her head and mounted. “Let’s find your brakes!”

  It got darker. Sarah perched on the edge of the flower barrel, smelling the geranium leaves and watching Missy ride. She could smell Roy’s hot body when he passed and hear his loud breathing. Of course, he was good now. Sarah couldn’t tell if he was good of his own accord or because Missy was making him. All she could see was the beautiful way he rounded his back, his prompt, precise halts, his controlled canter.

  Finally Missy stopped in front of Sarah. “You should get on him again.”

  “He’s really hot.”

  “He’s not that hot. We’ll cool him out afterward.”

  Missy jumped down, and reluctantly Sarah stood. The world felt solid now; it had stopped spinning. But Sarah didn’t like the feeling in her heart as she approached Roy. She was afraid.

  Other times, approaching a strange horse, she’d been worried about making a fool of herself. Sometimes she’d been a little nervous. Now she was really, deeply afraid, and it was very different—as if something were gone inside her that she’d always counted on without realizing it was there.

  “Wait a minute,” said Missy, and adjusted the helmet strap. “There—now you won’t have any extra handicap.”

  Extra! thought Sarah. Her mouth felt dry. She buckled on the helmet, and quickly, before she could think another thought, she mounted.

  Heat rolled off Roy’s sweat-dark shoulders. He felt different now—looser, softer. He was willing to walk slowly. And that was good, because every twitch he made, every time he bobbed his head suddenly, even just to shake off a fly, made Sarah’s insides jump.

  “Just canter him once around,” said Missy. Canter him? But Missy was making it happen, her voice ringing clear across the dusky ring. “Hold him together—more rein. More! All right, now!”

  Sarah didn’t see how Roy could canter, she had shortened the reins so much. But he did, lifting himself instead of plunging forward. For the first time Sarah understood the term rocking-horse canter. It was the first canter she’d ever ridden that felt slow. It seemed to take forever to get all the way around the ring, to the place where she could stop.

  “There!” said Missy when Sarah got off. Her voice was full of relief and satisfaction. “Wasn’t that great?”

  “Mmm,” said Sarah. She loosened the girth and began to walk Roy. His head was low now. He seemed tired and quiet. Sarah left a long loop of rein between them.

  “This is the kind of horse you’re looking for,” Missy said, after a few minutes. “Really, Sarah, this horse can do anything.”

  “Mmm.”

  “He’ll make you work,” Missy warned. “He doesn’t understand yet that he can go relaxed, probably because of the show training. And he’s sassy. But really, you should bring your mother to see him.”

  Sarah nodded. She felt as if a hole had been scooped out somewhere inside her, and she didn’t know what to say.

  9

  At Missy’s

  “Sarah! What are you doing to him?”

  “I’m trying to slow him down!” yelled Sarah. As her attention wavered, Barney veered out of the circle he was supposed to be making around Missy and, as if by accident, headed toward the barn.

  “He was doing fine! He’s supposed to be bold. Why do you keep cramping him back?”

  Sarah shut her mouth firmly and concentrated on guiding Barney back to the circle. It was almost dark, two days after her ride on Roy and a slightly cooler day—high of eighty-eight, and eighty-eight was nothing. But it felt so long since Sarah had been really cool, and she was very tired of being bossed around.

  “It felt to me like he was going too fast,” she said when they were once more circling Missy.

 
“That’s why you need a teacher,” said Missy. “’Cause he was going like a dog! You’ve been riding that fat quarter horse too much.”

  “Herky goes a lot better now—and he isn’t fat!”

  “He’s a slug,” said Missy. “There’s no way he’s going to win anything. Hey, wake him up, Sarah! And quit hanging on his mouth, or I’ll make you ride without reins. Use your legs! Now!”

  Barney surged forward, and just in time Sarah prevented herself from clutching at him. Her heart quickened in alarm and then settled. This was Barney, and he was fast and strong but familiar. She concentrated on letting him go, even though he seemed out of control, until at last Missy was satisfied.

  “Okay, let’s take him back to the barn and cool him out. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Sarah. Why are you afraid to let him go forward?”

  “I let him go forward, okay?” Sarah stared hard into Missy’s blue eyes, which stared hard back. They stayed that way for a long moment. Then Missy shrugged and turned toward the barn. Sarah dismounted and followed her, leading Barney. Heat poured off him. He felt like a wood stove.

  “Sorry,” Missy said gruffly, after a moment. “This heat is really getting to me, I guess. Vacation’ll be good.”

  “Vacation?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? Dad’s taking a week off, and I’m quitting the motel a week early, and we’re all just going camping.”

  Sarah didn’t know whether to feel relieved or abandoned. “Do you want me to come take care of Barney?”

  “He doesn’t—”

  “Hello?” said a voice from the shadows. All three of them jumped.

  “Sorry. It’s me.” Jill stepped out into the dim light. “I called your house, Sarah, and your mother said you were here, so I biked over.”

  “Didn’t it take you forever?”

  “No, there’s a shortcut,” said Jill. “One of the back roads comes straight over the hill. My house is really close, as the crow flies.”