Keeping Barney Read online

  Over Dad’s head, Sarah looked her thanks. “Hmm,” said Dad, his face not giving anything away. Albert went on uneasily.

  “Uh—he’s not as steady as Herk, but he’s a good horse.”

  “Ah.” Made suspicious by his tone of voice, Sarah looked closely at Dad. He wore the faraway frown that meant his mind was on his writing. After a moment, nodding shortly, he rose and left them. Albert’s grin appeared.

  “He’s a writer, isn’t he?” Sarah nodded. Albert’s eyes sparkled. With a quick, eager intake of breath, he started to say something, and thought better of it. Glancing uncomfortably at Sarah, he gulped at his hot chocolate.

  “Um … well, you didn’t miss any math homework. He didn’t give any.”

  “Oh, that’s good.” Conversation died. They sat sipping their chocolate, growing more uneasy and incapable of speech with every moment. The silence became something almost solid, a curtain hung between them.

  Star stood up under the table, rattling the mugs, gave a sharp, bright bark, and ran to the door. Relieved at the distraction, Sarah went to the window. A battered station wagon was pulling into the yard, and Jill tumbled out the moment it stopped. She was talking before she got to the door.

  “How are you feeling? You look lots better, but should you be out of bed yet? I made you some fudge this afternoon and Ma brought me over with it. It’s chocolate with nuts and it needs to harden some more—except Ma thinks it might never harden at all. But you can eat it with a spoon, it tastes good. No, Star, you can’t have any. Oh, hi, Alb! You bring Barney back? No, I can’t stay, I gotta go home and milk the goats. Gotta hurry. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” And she was gone.

  Albert and Sarah smiled at each other dazedly. “Hi, Jill.”

  Albert looked at the clock now, and stood up reluctantly. “I have to get back for milking, too. Dad said I could be a little late, but he’ll yell if I’m not home soon.”

  Sarah went with him to the door. “Thanks for bringing Barney back, and for telling Dad what happened.”

  Albert looked startled. “I didn’t tell him everything.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean that.” Now that she thought about it, Albert’s feeling seemed nobly loyal; she wasn’t going to tell him that, but the episode was definitely behind them. “It’s just—you never can tell what Dad’s thinking, especially about horse things. I just hope he doesn’t decide he has to send Barney back.”

  “Yeah, I hope so, too.” Albert looked truly concerned. “Barney’s—well, lively, but he’s an honest little guy.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, I’ll be seeing you. Good luck!”

  Mom came home a few minutes later. She and Dad started supper, Dad peeling carrots and telling her how the day’s writing had gone. Sarah sat listening, wanting to be on hand when the subject of Barney was brought up. Besides, Dad’s work was interesting. She couldn’t understand why he couldn’t just make everything come out the way he wanted. Whenever she asked, he talked about integrity or the constraints of reality, things she understood, but not in the context of writing stories. So now she just listened, waiting.

  Mom put the dinner on the table—salad and a warmed-up casserole—now they were talking about how her day had gone. Weren’t they ever going to talk about Barney?

  Over dessert, Dad finally brought up the subject. “The Jones boy brought the horse back this afternoon.” Sarah gripped the edge of her chair with nervous fingers. Things didn’t look good, if Dad was calling Barney “the horse.”

  “That was nice of him,” said Mom.

  “Yes. He tells me the whole thing yesterday was an accident.”

  “Was it?” Mom turned to her. “You haven’t really told us how it happened, Sarah.”

  Sarah explained. “Like Albert said, we were cantering and the road all of a sudden went downhill, and I tried to stop him, only one hand was tangled in his mane, so I just made him swerve.” Best not to tell them that Barney hadn’t been about to stop in any event. She remembered one more bit of favorable evidence. “Besides, Albert says he stopped right away.”

  “An admirable trait,” said Mom. “My Mary always hightailed it home when she dumped me.”

  “Then, you still think he’s safe for her,” Dad said, frowning.

  “No horse is completely safe, George. They’re timid, and their instincts all tell them to flee if there’s any doubt at all of their safety. Besides that, they can be God-awfully set in their ways. Still, for so powerful an animal, they’re amazingly gentle.”

  “But they can be vicious, anything can be vicious, and I want to know if Barney is. Specifics, not generalities, Helen.”

  Instead of answering, Mom turned to Sarah. The look forced her to be honest. “Well, he’s pretty hard to handle sometimes—he never lets me forget he’s older than me—but he’s pretty trustworthy, too. He—I don’t know if I could have stopped him yesterday, but he definitely didn’t mean to throw me. He looked as shocked as I was.”

  Mom gave her an appreciative smile. “I thought that might have been the case. No, George, I don’t think you have to worry too much about Barney.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it,” said Dad, though it seemed that he entertained a few lingering doubts.

  (8)A Letter

  So Barney stayed. By Friday Sarah could go out to groom him, though she wasn’t allowed to even think of getting on. She went eagerly to the barnyard, hoping for a nicker, signs of friendship and being missed. Barney nuzzled her, found the apple core she’d brought, and went back to grazing. He wants Missy, of course, Sarah thought. But she’s not here, and maybe she’ll fall in love. College kids always do that … and then she won’t want you anymore, and I can buy you. Feeding herself on dreams, she could ignore his indifference.

  On Wednesday she was in the saddle again. To be on the safe side, she rode only around the field that first day. Barney behaved about as well as usual; that is, he always went a little faster than Sarah wanted, and unless she was strong-armed enough to pull him back on course, he went where he wished. Time after time Sarah came out of a daydream to find herself somewhere she’d had no intention of going, Barney having refused the role of obedient, mind-reading steed.

  Her afternoons settled into a satisfying pattern; she checked the mailbox and walked up the road, had a snack, changed her clothes and went riding, sometimes with Albert and Jill, sometimes just with Albert, sometimes alone. She would come home to find supper cooking. After dinner came homework, a bath, and a long read in bed before turning out the light.

  Then, one cold day in late October, she opened the mailbox to find a letter from Missy.

  Dear Sarah,

  Hi. How’s my Barney Bear doing? Just thought I’d write to tell you I’ll be back for a week over Thanksgiving, and will be taking him home with me.

  Have there been any problems? I expect so. Barney can be a monster in the fall. Remember, be firm with him, but go easy on his mouth. I don’t want it ruined. Not that I mean to suggest you would, but it would be easy to be too firm with him, in some of the moods he gets into. And if you haven’t started him on hay yet, he should be getting some now, about three-quarters of a bail per day. Sprinkle it with water if it’s at all dusty—can’t take a chance of him getting heaves.

  Well, I’ll sign off now. Say hi to him for me, and tell him I’ll be seeing him soon.

  Yours truly,

  Missy

  Sarah’s heart sank. Slowly she folded the letter and put it in her schoolbag. Of course Missy would want Barney on vacations. She’d never thought of that.

  Had she been doing things right? “Go easy on his mouth.” Uncomfortably, she remembered all the times, yesterday alone, that she’d hauled on the reins to stop or slow or turn him. Good lord, suppose she’d ruined him! But what else could she do? He wouldn’t do anything unless she pulled him. Turning her hands over, she examined the callouses the reins had made. Callouses! Her hands had been the lightest of all her class at riding school. And remem
bering the long, bland faces of the horses she’d ridden there, she groaned. How could they teach her anything about how to handle Barney?

  She scuffed somberly home through the brown leaves. Star greeted her at the door, but Sarah pushed her aside absently and went into the kitchen. She got an apple for a snack. Instead of rushing out to Barney the way she usually did, she paused to read the funnies in the paper. She didn’t feel like facing Barney so soon after being reminded that he wasn’t hers. If she hadn’t promised to meet Albert, she wouldn’t have gone riding at all.

  Albert, looking like a plump apple in his red winter coat, met them halfway to Jones Dairy. “Hi, Sarah,” he sniffled. Cold had turned his nose as red as the coat. “You want to go on the trail by Bemis’s camp? We’re kind of late, and that’s short enough to get me back in time for chores. ’Sides, it gets dark early now, without daylight savings.”

  Sarah groaned, sympathizing with the disgust in his voice. The time change cut them short an hour of riding time.

  A few feet farther they turned off the road, up a steep, shale-covered trail. Albert took the lead so they could talk. If Sarah turned her attention backward, Barney would immediately think up some naughtiness and do it. But today, she didn’t feel like talking, and after two attempts to start a conversation, Albert left her to her own gloomy thoughts.

  Barney was beginning to blow at the steepness of the hill, sending clouds of steamy breath up around his head. Sarah loosened the reins and leaned forward in the saddle, taking her weight off his hindquarters.

  They heaved up to level ground at last, and before Sarah could tighten the reins, Barney ducked into the brush. For a moment they crashed along, Sarah helpless to stop him. Then a branch caught one of her braids, hauling her backward; it felt like it was ripping out of her head. “Whoa,” she shrieked. Barney stopped, but only because he’d gotten his feet tangled in some saplings. He tossed his head fretfully. Hearing nothing from Albert, Sarah rolled an eye backward. He was continuing up the trail, serenely unaware.

  “Bert!”

  “Yeah?” He turned in the saddle, and gave a shout of laughter.

  “Hey, it’s not funny! Come get us loose!”

  “It is so funny! You should see yourself—you look like you’re taking a nap on him, with an invisible pillow. Wish I had a camera.”

  “He’s pulling my hair out,” Sarah shrieked. “Hurry up, will you?”

  “Hold on a sec,” said Albert, still snickering. She heard him dismount, and a rustle as he tied Herky to a branch. “Whoa, Barney.” He was beside her. “Darn, I can’t reach your hair to untangle it. Can you get it if I hold him still?”

  “Um …” She felt out along the braid with one hand. “I guess so.” She dropped the reins. Albert’s “Wait!” came simultaneously with Barney’s worried fidget. Air beneath her, a wrench at her braid, and she was flat on the ground, looking up at Barney’s stomach and Albert’s grin.

  “All right?”

  “Ouch!” She got up, rubbing her head. “Lucky I’ve got any hair left. Ow!”

  Albert patted Barney’s neck.

  “He’s a good old guy, Sarah. He could have kicked your brains out when you fell; a lot of horses would have.”

  “Oh, he’s a great old guy. He’ll only half kill you. How are we going to get him loose?”

  “Let him alone, and he’ll figure it out himself.”

  Given his head, Barney sniffed the tangle around his feet. Then, steadily and carefully, he picked his way backward. Free, he shook himself till the saddle creaked, and trotted over to tell his troubles to Herky. Sarah caught him and mounted, praising him for being so clever—which was ridiculous, since the whole thing was his own fault, but he had been smart and surefooted.

  “Gotta hurry,” said Albert, putting Herky into a trot. “Can’t be late for chores.”

  Posting quickly to the gay jounce of Barney’s trot, Sarah called, “Why not? It’s only your father—he wouldn’t fire you.”

  “Yeah, but we run on the cows’ schedule, not the people’s. They have to be milked at the same time every day or production falls off. Gotta get ’em in at five-thirty, then I feed ’em and the calves, and help finish up the milking.”

  “When do you get any time for yourself?” Sarah asked, thinking of her own self-indulgent schedule.

  Albert sighed sharply. “There isn’t much. I have to do homework right after supper, and if I want to do any writing, I have to do it after Mom thinks I’ve gone to bed.”

  “You write stories?”

  Albert’s ears flamed. “Yeah, some.”

  That explained his interest in Dad. “What kind of stories do you write?”

  “Science fiction,” Albert mumbled, closing his legs tighter on Herky’s sides. The big red gelding lengthened his stride, and Sarah decided not to pry. He probably thought writing was unmanly or something stupid like that, but anyway, she wouldn’t press him.

  They started downhill. Sarah’s cold hands were stiff on the reins, and her nose felt a little drippy. Her ankles were tired, too. But the world looked incomparably better from fourteen hands up, framed between an alert pair of ears. She wiped her nose on her jacket sleeve and hummed the part of “The Happy Wanderer” that she could remember.

  The trail came out behind the Joneses’ cornfield. A long tractor road led straight through the middle of the field, perfect for cantering. Herky had to walk now, to come in cool, but Sarah could take advantage of the opportunity. She trotted up to come even with Albert.

  “See you at the barnyard.”

  Barney jiggled, and she gave him his head. His canter was bouncy, but the bounciness and his long, flying mane gave a sense of great speed. He had a fiery way of snorting every few strides and striking out harder than usual with one front foot. The tempo of hoofbeats exhilarated her. They were running the Kentucky Derby—no, they were Secretariat and Ron Turcotte in the Belmont, and Herky was the vanquished field, thirty-one lengths back. No, they were in the pony express, being chased by—

  Suddenly they were at the end of the cornfield, thundering up the lane that ran between two pastures to the barn. Startled at being there so soon, Sarah tried to stop Barney. And tried harder. Barney’s neck bowed until his chin touched his chest, but he plowed on. Desperately, Sarah hauled on the reins. He’d run into the barn, or worse, he’d turn too quickly.…

  A sharp, silvery neigh pierced the wall of wind around her head. She caught a glimpse of flying mane as Ginger raced to the fence to meet them. Barney, neck still bowed iron-hard, pricked his ears toward her. He’s going to swerve! She abandoned the reins and grabbed his mane, just in time. He ducked toward the fence and stopped, in two bounces. Only her hold on his mane kept Sarah from flying forward onto the barbed wire.

  She was still sitting there, shaken, when Albert rode up. “Boy, Sarah, you’re the only person I know who doesn’t even realize when she’s being run away with! You didn’t even try to stop him.”

  Sarah nodded wearily. “I know.” With difficulty, she pulled Barney away from the fence, and they continued up the lane. “See you tomorrow,” Sarah said when they got to the yard, and rode down the road.

  Fool! Daydreaming while Barney ran away! If he’d dumped her onto that fence, Dad would have sent him back for sure. Why couldn’t the little creep be good? And where was the rapport you were supposed to develop with your mount, the respectful give and take, the responsiveness and trust?

  Missy’ll have you back soon enough, she thought morosely. Obviously you belong together.… Sunk in the gloom of this thought, she rode slowly home.

  (9)Missy

  Sarah peeled the last sliver of red skin from the last naked white apple, split it, and cut the core into the pan of parings. There, that was done. She got her coat and went to take the cores out to Barney.

  He was eating hay in a corner of the huge box stall, but he turned eagerly when she came in, and nickered. It was more in greed than friendship, since he’d been reaping the benefits of Thanksg
iving cooking all week long. Still, it was a homey, comfortable sound. Sarah emptied the pan into the oak feed box, and he nudged her aside. She watched him slobber and fumble, his busy tongue and lips searching the corners to make sure he’d gotten it all. “Pig.” She ran her fingers through his deep coat. He felt warm; he smelled warm, too, as she pressed her face against his shoulder, warm and dusty and pungently horsey. Was there time for a ride?

  She went to the door to look at the sky. It hung low-bellied and sullen, threatening snow. Dad’s parents were driving up tonight from Boston for Thanksgiving. She hoped the snow would hold off till they arrived. Gramp regarded bad weather as a personal challenge from Nature, and never deigned to adjust his schedule to it.

  She went in to check the time—only two. “Mom, I’m riding,” she called.

  “OK, dear, but I need help with the pies in a while.”

  “All right,” Sarah groaned. She hated making pie. It was hard to get right, and she always spilled flour all over everything. But Mom, who was also an only child, had always made the Thanksgiving pie with her mother, and that’s the way it had to be. Sarah had to admit, when they were set out on the table, that they were worth the work.

  She led Barney outside and tacked up, remembering to warm the bit with her breath as the cowboy hero always did. Her bulky winter coat made mounting harder, and already her fingers were red and stiff. She needed gloves; mittens were no good for riding. Maybe for Christmas …

  Riding in the pasture wasn’t as unvaried as it sounded; Barney did his best to make it interesting. On the flat at the bottom, he turned and stopped like a dressage champion, at the lightest pressure, and Sarah dreamed dreams of three-day event triumphs. But going uphill toward the barn he shattered them, going like a freight train with the brakes gone. There were a dozen degrees in between, depending on whether he was watching something, or feeling good, bored, or spooky. Was his mouth soft or hard? Iron gloved in velvet, Sarah decided. Which meant, really, that he did what he pleased.