Keeping Barney Page 6

  They were on the flat now, and she tried a canter, a short one because of the frozen ground. Barney stepped into it willingly, but without his usual explosion. She pulled him in after a few strides; two trotting steps, two walking steps, and a smooth, square halt. “Barney, I just don’t understand you!”

  Barney tossed his mane arrogantly. Of course she didn’t. He wasn’t meant to be understood. He thrust his nose down, pulling Sarah forward onto his neck, and snatched a mouthful of brown grass. Sarah pulled him up. “No, Barney! That’s a bad habit, and I don’t care if Missy let you. While you’re my horse, you don’t.” And you’re not my horse for long, now. Wonder why she hasn’t come yet?

  To quell these thoughts, she put Barney into a working trot, and worked for a while on keeping her legs steady while she posted. But she couldn’t concentrate—her mind kept jumping to Missy and how much better she probably did it.

  At last, with a sigh, she let Barney walk. “OK, we’ll go back along the fence line now, and see if we can see a deer.”

  The chances weren’t too good, now that it was hunting season, but there was another reason. Going along the fence, they got quite close to the barn before they could see it, as it was hidden behind the hill. That meant a shorter distance in which to fight the losing battle to slow Barney down.

  As she’d expected, they saw only squirrels and blue jays. She’d fallen in love with the jays, so beautiful and smart and bad-mannered. “Just like you, Bear.” Barney dipped his muzzle innocently. Then his ears swept forward as the barn came into sight, the barn which promised hay, unsaddling, and rest. Sarah snatched up a length of rein, but too late to keep him from breaking into a canter. His neck bowed like a war-horse, he strode on. Sarah was still hauling futilely on the reins when they swept through the gate. Barney skidded to a halt at his usual fence post, and tossed his head triumphantly. He’d won again.

  Suddenly, a thin, trilling whistle cut the air. Barney swung his head around, his ears straining forward. Sarah turned, too, and saw a small, pale-haired girl running toward them. A loud nicker burst from Barney’s throat, far different from the greedy little sound he made for Sarah. The girl flung her arms around his neck, while Sarah sat frozen in the saddle.

  They stood that way awhile, Missy’s face buried in Barney’s mane, his nose scrubbing her back pocket. Then Missy stepped back and looked at his head, stroking the flat of the cheek and the hollows above his eyes, fluffing his forelock. All the while she talked to him, in a barely audible voice.

  It was like watching two people kiss in a bus station. Sarah dismounted to go, then stopped, paralyzed, as Missy’s hand found one of the raw patches by Barney’s mouth, where the bit rubbed when he pulled too hard.

  She closed one hand over his nose and turned his head firmly so she could see. The little patch showed up terribly red to Sarah’s frightened eyes. The color rose in Missy’s face, but she only folded her lips tightly and turned away. When she looked at Sarah again, she showed no expression. “Hello, are you Sarah?”

  “Yes,” Sarah gulped.

  “I’m Missy. I’ve come to take Barney home for a while, as I wrote you I would. He … he looks to be in good shape.”

  Sarah’s face went hot. “Those sores … I’m … I put Vaseline on.…”

  Missy touched the raw patch tenderly. “Yes, Vaseline’s the thing to use. But you shouldn’t …” She stopped abruptly, folding her lips again.

  “I know he shouldn’t have them at all, but he pulls so and I have to pull too or I can’t make him do anything.” She broke off, hating the wail in her voice. Missy ducked her head and pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “I realize it’s difficult,” she said finally, and Sarah could hear the barely controlled tremble in her voice. “But you can’t … no, not now!” Very flushed, she shook her head and turned away. “I … I have to get home quickly, before it starts snowing. Will you please—there’s a grain bag in the doorway of the barn. Will you please put the brushes and hoofpick and … the Vaseline … in for me? Thank you.”

  Sarah got the things, trembling inwardly, and gave the bag to Missy, already on Barney’s back, straight and terrible and angry as Joan of Arc on her charger.

  “Thanks,” she said again, and whirling Barney with barely a touch of the reins, she rode away. Stunned, Sarah watched them go down the driveway, Missy riding slim and easy on a loose rein, and the first snowflake caught in Barney’s black tail.

  (10)Thanksgiving

  Sarah lay on her bed, listening to the sounds from downstairs—clinks and clatters as Dad and Gramp did the Thanksgiving dishes, their voices, music on the stereo. She should be down there being sociable, but it was impossible. Gramp kept saying she should stop moping, look alive, take an interest in something, and Gram was always asking questions about “her” horse. Barney was the last thing she wanted to talk about right now.

  She rolled over, staring at the row of books along the opposite wall. She knew exactly which pleasures each held, and none was quite what she wanted. Restlessly, her gaze wandered around the room, lighting finally on the one picture she had of Barney. Mom had taken it as they came into the yard after that horrible morning at Albert’s. Her tears had dried, and Barney looked pretty, cheerful, and virtuous. It reminded her of the pictures at Missy’s house. From that, she looked to her old riding school ribbons, hung above her bureau. They conjured up a picture of long-faced, docile horses endlessly circling a ring.

  All her old pride of accomplishment was gone. After all, what was so great about being able to sit in perfect form, with light hands, on smooth-gaited, mild-mannered Thistledown? If he’d ever had an independent thought in his life, it must have been back before he was weaned. He was lovely, amiable, tractable, and competent—but he never did anything.

  If I could learn to ride Barney, it’d really mean something, she thought. If he ever responded the way Thistledown had, it would mean that she’d gained his love, that he was really her horse … but how could that ever happen? Even if Missy did bring him back.…

  There was a knock, and Mom looked around the door. “Sarah?”

  “Yes. What, Mom?”

  “Just seeing what you’re up to.” She crossed over to the bed and sank down, sighing. “Oh, I’m getting old. Thanksgiving preparations tire me more than an all-day ride used to.” She leaned back, eyes closed. After a few minutes, when neither of them had spoken, she said quietly, “Something more is bothering you than just losing Barney for a week, isn’t it?”

  Sarah didn’t answer for a while. Somehow it seemed hard to lead directly into the subject. Finally, she asked, “Was your Mary hard to handle?”

  “She was an old darling,” said Mom. “She just knew how to get her own way. At first she only did what she wanted, and when I scolded, she’d give me this big-eyed, hurt look as if to say, ‘But I didn’t understand!’ And she had countless tricks—shying, pretending to stare at something faraway, acting lame or sick or sad or bored—she was a wise old mare. I ended up being able to outfox her most of the time, but we were never completely sure which one of us ran the show.” Sarah could look up now. Mom’s eyes were faraway, resting affectionately on an old white mare.

  “Do you miss her?”

  “No, dear,” said Mom slowly. “It’s been many years now, and I’ve gotten used to living without her. But I loved her very much. She was a good friend.”

  “A friend, when she did all that?” Sarah was thinking of Barney’s tricks and stubbornness that made her despair of ever establishing the proper horse-rider relationship.

  “Oh sure, hon. It’s just the way they are. They’re not puppets, they have minds and wills of their own, and they don’t like being bossed anymore than you do. At least, that’s the way it is with family horses, ones you’ve grown up with.”

  “Yeah, but … but Barney never obeys unless he feels like it! Missy wrote to be careful of his mouth, but he won’t do anything unless I pull, and she came and saw me hauling on his mouth, and I kn
ow she won’t bring him back.”

  Mom, thank heaven, took it all seriously. She spent a moment forming her answer. “I’m sure Missy was angry, and you can’t blame her, of course. But maybe she’ll understand, when she has time to think about it. She’s had him long enough to realize how difficult he can be.”

  “He’s probably not like that with her.”

  “Oh, I bet he is, or would be if she didn’t know how to get around him.”

  “Really?”

  “Love, there may be perfectly mannered horses that anticipate your every command and whose only desire is to please you, but I’ve never met one. And frankly, I don’t think I’d want to.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “If your horse did everything you wanted, all the time, it might as well be in a book, or in your head. The resistance is part of its being real, if you see what I mean.” Like the difference between games with toys and games with people, Sarah thought. Unpredictability was part of their being alive. But realizing that didn’t help her much now.

  “Do you think she’ll send him back?”

  Mom frowned. “Probably. I understand how she feels, of course, but she does need a place for him, and that gives you another chance.” She stood up. “I’m going downstairs now—come on whenever you’re ready.”

  Slightly comforted, more by being talked to realistically than from any new hope, Sarah lay back listening to Mom’s retreating steps. Just before she reached the bottom of the stairs, the phone rang. “For you, Sarah. It’s Albert.”

  Albert’s voice sounded childish over the phone. “Hi, Sarah. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Same to you. Did you eat a lot?”

  Albert groaned. “I could hardly walk away from the table. Hey, you want to go for a ride and work some of it off?”

  Regret and worry made Sarah’s voice sharp. “I can’t. I don’t have a horse.”

  A pause. “Oh, I forgot. Well, there wouldn’t be time to go far anyway. When do you get him back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hey, Sarah, are you all right? You sound really strange.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Um … I’ll come up sometime this weekend, OK?”

  “OK, be seeing you then. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Now she didn’t feel like going back upstairs. In the living room, Dad and Gramp were playing chess, and Mom and Gram were talking, mostly about old friends in Boston. That wasn’t too interesting, but they were bound to branch off soon. Sarah sat on the hearth to listen.

  Gramp looked over at her, grinning. “So, getting calls from the boys already, are you? Starting early?”

  “No.” Sarah felt herself blushing. Idiot! Gramp always asked her about the boys; it didn’t mean anything. But now, of course, he had a specific boy to ask about.

  “Who is this Albert? What’s he like?”

  That was always a difficult question, even if you’d been friends with someone since second grade, and she really didn’t know Albert that well. “Oh, he’s very nice,” she managed.

  “Seems like a good kid,” said Dad. “He could stand to lose a few pounds, but he’s polite and intelligent, and he shares her mania for horses. Nice boy.…”

  “Which reminds me,” Mom interrupted skillfully, “do you know if Pete and Elaine know where we are?” Sarah shot her a grateful look. Ridiculous to talk about Albert as if he were her boyfriend—and even more ridiculous for her to be embarrassed by it!

  The phone rang again. “Will you answer that, Sarah?” Mom asked, from the depths of her chair. Sarah went to the phone. “Hello.”

  “Hello, Sarah? This is Missy O’Brien.”

  Sarah’s heart leaped wildly. She couldn’t get a word out, even if she had been able to think of something to say.

  “I noticed yesterday you seemed to be having some trouble with the Bear, and I thought maybe if you could come over sometime, I’d give you a few pointers. Would you like to?”

  Sarah’s voice exploded with relief. “Yes! Yes, I’d love to!”

  Missy laughed. “Tomorrow afternoon OK? Good, I’ll see you then. Happy Thanksgiving!”

  (11)A Lesson

  Sarah stood for a moment before the O’Briens’ front door, her heart thumping heavily, before she dared to knock. Mr. O’Brien answered. “Hi, Sarah, come in. Missy’s in her room—I’ll call her.” He led Sarah into the living room, where Mrs. O’Brien sat in her chair, the black cat on her lap. A rocking chair was pulled opposite her, and a half-finished game of checkers sat on the coffee table between them.

  “Hello, Sarah. How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks, How are you?”

  “Oh, very well.” Mrs. O’Brien’s broad, happy smile was new to Sarah. “Missy tells us you’ve been having problems with Barney.”

  Sarah flushed. How had Missy told it? she wondered. “Yes, I have, a little.”

  “I’m not surprised. He’s pretty set in his ways, I guess. Probably should have warned you, but it’s been so long since we brought Missy through her growing pains with him that I didn’t think of it.”

  “He gave Missy trouble?”

  “Endless trouble,” said Mrs. O’Brien with a fond smile. “He was … oh, Missy, darling, make sure you wear a heavy coat. Dad says it’s cold out.”

  Missy nodded, and crossed over to pat the cat in her mother’s lap. Velvet stretched luxuriously, made a whirring sound, and forced her chin over Missy’s fingers; while she was occupied scratching the cat, Sarah studied her closely for the first time. Somehow, before, she’d missed the prettiness, the intelligence, the determination in Missy’s face. She’d seen only her rival—now she was seeing another person, an interesting one.

  “Sorry, Velvet, that’s enough,” said Missy, moving away from the unsatisfied cat. “Well, let’s get going, Sarah.” She went into the kitchen, got sugar lumps and a ragged denim coat, and led the way to the barn.

  They went in through a small side door, and a dark, cluttered storage area. Somewhere farther on, Barney nickered, a hard, impatient sound. “Coming, Bear,” Missy called. He nickered again. They rounded a corner, and there he was, looking eagerly over the stall door. He stretched his nose out to Missy, who grabbed the twitching upper lip. She held it, laughing, while Barney wriggled. He freed himself and nosed her pockets.

  “Pig!” She slapped his neck affectionately, making the dust fly. “All you think about is food.” Barney swept the sugar cube off her palm. He chomped twice, nodding his head thoughtfully each time, and reached out his nose again, first to Missy and then to Sarah.

  “No more till you’ve done some work,” Missy told him firmly. She led him out, tied him in the aisle, and handed Sarah a brush. While Sarah groomed, she picked out his hooves. Sarah watched, fascinated by the ease with which it was accomplished.

  “He picks them up when you say ‘Foot, please’?”

  “Usually; but he never lifts the right front without a fight. You just learn to live with that.”

  Sarah’s brush reached the ticklish spot over the hip. Barney jerked his foot up warningly, and Sarah flinched back as she always did. Then she caught Missy’s frown, and flushed.

  “Don’t do that,” said Missy quietly. “Barney never kicks, and you must never seem afraid of him. Besides, if you were dealing with a kicker, stepping back would be the worst thing to do. You stay close to a kicker; that way, they can’t get much of a swing, and the blow is softened.”

  “Oh.” Now that Missy reminded her, Sarah remembered reading that somewhere. She finished brushing Barney’s plump quarter, and went up to get his forelock. He decided what he wanted more than that was to rub his head on her shoulder, and did so with his usual vigor, almost knocking her down.

  “Cut it out, Bear,” said Missy, coming up to catch his halter. “It’s my fault he does that, I’m afraid. I used to rub his head after a ride, when he was sweaty under the bridle, and now he thinks it’s OK any time.” She took the brush and went into the little room beside the stall. Pee
ring in, Sarah saw a warm, glossy grain bin, and the bridle and saddle hung on pegs just like hers. Missy brought the tack out, and settled the saddle on Barney’s back.

  “I suppose you found out about his bloating?”

  Sarah’s mind flashed back to the first day, and the ridiculous image of herself sitting on the sideways saddle. “Oh, boy, did I!”

  “His favorite trick. He even catches me sometimes.” With just as much effort as Sarah usually had to put into it, she girthed him up. Then she bridled him, led him outside, and tightened the girth another notch. “I’ll just take him around to see how he’s going to behave.” She swung into the saddle, lightly and gracefully. Sarah saw a subtle change in her face as she settled herself, a combination of contentment, fondness, and firmness.

  She spoke to Sarah and they set off at a brisk walk. Sarah angled around to see Missy’s hands; light, following hands, the kind she had always been praised for. Easy enough at a walk, she thought. Let’s see how you do when he wants to get back to the barn.

  Barney was trotting now, a long sweep across the field and back. In the middle again, they slowed slightly, to circle at a sitting trot. Sarah was surprised. She hadn’t seen a signal, and her admiration rose again. To circle at a trot, she always had to pull very obviously. But how did Missy do it?

  Barney dropped back to a walk. This time Sarah saw the signal, but it was very slight. And how freely he moved, dropping his nose softly to the bit and slowing in balance! Missy walked him to one end of the field, turned, and lifted him into a canter.

  They made a lovely picture, Barney’s mane and Missy’s hair flying in the wind he made, Missy rocking, supple and close to the saddle. She took him in a large circle back to the center of the field and guided him through a figure eight, with a smooth flying change of leads. At the completion of the last loop she brought him back to the middle and halted, with only one walking step. He stood quietly, though the wild swiveling of his ears betrayed his excitement. Then, the final touch to a beautiful performance—show off, Sarah thought enviously—Missy backed him, six calm steps. She turned him then toward the barn and Sarah. His steps quickened eagerly, but Missy held him to a walk in some soft, unseen way. She halted him beside Sarah, and dismounted.