into a long Saturday night,
and I don’t really want
to spend the rest of the day
watching Dad and Zelda
get blotto, so I ask Gabe
for a ride home. When
he agrees, Dad insists,
I’ll have an eye on the clock.
I know exactly how long it
takes to get there and back,
so don’t get cocky, hear?
No worries. Straight there
and back, and I promise
to be the perfect gentleman.
Your daughter is safe with me.
Dad slaps Zelda on the butt.
Wish I could promise your
aunt is safe with me, but I am
a man of my word. The two
of them cackle like crows.
I’m glad to be out of there,
and grateful to Gabe for
taking me home. His junker
is what some people call
a classic, but I mostly see
it as just plain old. It could
use some body work, not
to mention upholstery.
“What kind of car is this?”
It’s a ’67 GTO, and it’s fast.
He starts it up, and any doubt
of its speed dissolves with
the rev of its well-tuned engine.
“Well, in that case, maybe
I should remind you that
you said I’d be safe in your care.”
You don’t like speed? He pulls
out onto the road carefully, putts
through town. Is this slow enough?
“You don’t have to drive like
an old woman. I won’t jump
out or do anything stupid.
I guess I’m a bit overcautious.”
Always worried about losing
whatever advantage I might’ve
recently gained. Sad really.
What Fun Is That?
That’s what he asks, and it’s a valid
question. Wasn’t I only recently thinking
about the folly of taking no chances?
So when we get far enough out of town,
I tell him, “So, go for it. Show me what
she can do. I’ll even keep my eyes open.”
He grins. Okay, if you’re sure. Hold
on to your hat! Pedal to the metal,
we’re over a hundred in mere seconds
flat. The acceleration forces me back
into the seat and the landscape outside
the windows blurs. The rush is incredible.
If I ever do get my own car, I’d better
settle for a clunker with an engine half
this size or expect regular ticketing.
When Gabe dials back, regret descends.
“Wow. That was awesome. I’d never
have guessed this car could do that.”
Never judge a book by its cover. But
I’m glad Fiona and I could impress you.
“Wait, wait, wait. Fiona? Are you,
like, a Shrek fan or something?”
Is anyone not a Shrek fan? But hey,
I’ve got an idea. Wanna drive? Fast?
He’d let me drive his car? Of course,
he has no idea. “I don’t have my license.”
Why not? No one ever taught you how,
or you flunked the test, or what?
“Actually, I’ve got my permit, and logged in
my hours, but Dad won’t sign the application.”
You live pretty far out here. You’d think
he’d want you to have transportation.
“I guess it’s his way of keeping me close
to home. Doesn’t really matter. I don’t
have a car or any way to buy one. No car,
no job. No job, no car. Catch-22.”
If you’re comfortable behind the wheel,
you can still take Fiona for a short spin.
I won’t ask to see your license. It’s a tempting
invitation, and I’m thinking it over when . . .
I Spy Something
“Hey. Take it easy. What’s that?”
It’s hard to see in the failing light,
but it’s in the road, moving toward us.
I think it’s a horse. But no rider.
The saddle on the tall trotting
chestnut is, indeed, empty. “Can you
angle the car across the road and stop?”
He manages to block most of
both lanes diagonally, and when
the winded horse notices, it slows
to a walk. I get out of the car, approach
the sweating mare carefully. “Whoa,
now,” I tell her. “Hold on, big girl.”
She tilts her head, perhaps considering
something makes her decide to come
toward me and allow me to take hold
of her reins. I stroke the length
of her wide pale blaze. “Atta girl.”
I steer her to the shoulder, allowing
Gabe to park the GTO off the asphalt.
When he gets out and joins me, he says,
That was awesome. You know horses?
“Some. My Oklahoma grandparents own
them, or did. Pops taught me to ride when
I was little. And one of Dad’s girlfriends
lived on a ranch. Nadia, who worshipped
her warmbloods, showed me a lot more.
So yes, I’m acquainted with horses.”
Well, this one must’ve left someone behind.
“I’d say that’s a given. Tell you what.
You take the car and see if you can find
them. I’ll ride the horse in that direction.
She’s awfully tall, though. Can you please
give me a boost?” I’d try it without help
but my jeans are kind of tight, and I don’t
want to rip the butt seam. I had no idea
I’d go riding today. I expect an awkward
attempt, but he immediately interlocks
his fingers, creating a pocket for my foot,
and launches me into the saddle. “Okay,
wait. I take it you know horses, too?”
I do. I’ll tell you about it later, though.
The Mare Argues
When I try to turn her around.
That means home, or at least
whatever she’s focused on
reaching, is in the opposite
direction. I do my best to talk
her into acquiescing. “Come on,
girl. Your person needs a ride.”
Reluctantly, she lets me head
the other way. Rather than hurry,
we walk to cool her off, and I
think about Nadia, who was
the last person I saw tossed
off a horse into the dirt, not
that she didn’t deserve it.
The woman was a piece of work.
Dad hooked up with her in
Arizona, where ranch life is only
pleasant seasonally. Maybe
that was part of her problem.
While Pops insisted I ride
his beautifully trained
quarter horses using nothing
more than halters for reining,
Nadia got off on spade bits
in her bridles, and I’m pretty
sure that’s how she dealt
with men—pain as control.
I’ve no clue if Dad gets off
on pain, but relinquishing
the reins, so to speak, is for
sure not his thing, and YAY!
Since he didn’t fit Nadia’s profile,
the relationship quickly went
south. Still, I loved being there.
Her horses were stunning—
big Spanish mounts. I learned
not to fear their size. And, unlike
Nadia, I didn’t rely on ugly bits
to gain their cooperation.
What I discovered was how
easily horses worked using
nothing but subtle shifts
of weight, and once in a while,
for punctuation, a gentle
touch of knees or hands.
This was their instinct
and, somehow, mine.
But then, no surprise, Dad
decided it was time to leave,
or Nadia did. That was more
than two years ago, and I haven’t
been anywhere near a horse
since. Until now. Guess
it’s like riding a bike.
Once you’ve accomplished
the skill, you never forget how.
We Crest a Small Rise
And up ahead in the distance,
I can see Gabe’s GTO, pulled over
on the shoulder. I squint and discover
him in an open expanse, well off
the road, kneeling over something
on the ground. I urge the mare into
a gallop and when we get closer,
I notice a person, lying motionless
in the dirt. Doubtless they were
ejected from the saddle I’m currently
occupying. “Everything okay?” I shout,
though it’s a ridiculous question.
Even from here, Gabe’s concern
is obvious. She’s in shock, he yells.
Get my jacket off the backseat.
I’ve already called 9-1-1.
I hop down off the horse and loop
her reins through the door handle.
If she really wants to get loose,
she will, I guess. I grab Gabe’s coat
and hustle on foot to join him. When
I reach his side, he pulls back, and
I recognize the person he’s tending
to. Hillary. Damn. “Is she conscious?”
No. Not sure if she’s got head or neck
injuries, so I don’t want to raise
her feet. For now, we’ll just keep her
warm and let the EMTs figure it out.
I’m torn between joining his vigil
and taking better care of the horse,
who might spook if a car goes by or at
an approaching siren and flashing lights.
Not much I can do for Hillary, and
I know she’d be worried about the mare.
“I’m going to move her horse away
from the road. I’ll be right back.”
He tucks the coat carefully around
Hillary. Call your dad and let him know
why I won’t be back right away, okay?
Don’t want him to get the wrong idea.
I wouldn’t have even thought
about calling Dad, but it’s a good
idea. When he answers his phone,
he’s skeptical at first, like we’d go
to such lengths to try and deceive
him. “Listen. Hillary’s on the basketball
team, and it’s a pretty great coincidence
that we found her when we did.”
He Asks
About a dozen questions,
most of which I can only
answer with, “I don’t know.”
How bad is she hurt?
What was she doing out there?
How long till the ambulance arrives?
What are you going to do after that?
Have you called her parents?
Okay, that last one deserves
some thought. I don’t know
her parents at all, but their
number must be listed.
Their ranch is what’s known
in the trade as a “going concern.”
“Listen, Dad, I’ll get back to you
when I’ve got more answers.
I’ll try calling her parents now.”
I can’t believe I didn’t think
about doing that myself.
I ask information for “Grantham,”
but the operator can’t find a listing.
I can’t remember the name
of the ranch. Something with a G.
The Lazy G? Crooked G? No,
not right. Then it strikes me
that Hillary’s probably carrying
a cell phone, with relevant
numbers programmed in.
I take hold of the horse, whose
breathing has slowed to warm
puffs of steam exhaled into
the rapidly cooling air. Just
as we turn away from the road,
an old pickup belches by, and
I know without looking who
it belongs to. Garrett doesn’t
even slow down to see what’s
going on. In fact, he picks up
speed, hoping, I’m sure, to kick
up some dust. The mare reacts
with a nervous skitter, and
I’m glad Garrett’s timing isn’t
worse. “Easy, lady,” I tell her.
“He’s a jerk, but you’re okay.”
I lead her out into the field,
close to the girl she left lying
there. “Hey, Gabe. See if Hillary
has a phone on her, would you?”
When he asks why and I explain,
he says, Would you please do it?
I’m uncomfortable reaching into
her pockets. I’ll hold on to the horse.
He’s Comfortable
With that, at least, so we trade places
and as I kneel beside my not-quite-friend
he walks the mare to keep her calm.
Hillary’s wearing a Windbreaker,
and I try those pockets first, come
up empty. I’m scared to move her
too much, but the front pockets
on her jeans yield nothing, so I reach
under her and find what I’m looking
for. She moans a little as I extract
it, and I have no clue if that’s bad
or good. Maybe she’s coming to?
“Hillary? It’s Ariel. Don’t move,
okay?” There’s no sign she hears
me, but perhaps the sound of a familiar
voice will comfort her somehow.
When I go into her contacts, the first
one to pop up is “Daddy.”
“Answer. Answer,” I pray, but it goes
to voice mail. “Um, Mr. Grantham?
This is Ariel Pearson. I’m one of
Hillary’s teammates. There’s been
an accident. Looks like Hillary
was tossed from her horse and . . .”
I offer the spotty details, and as
I disconnect I can hear the not-so-
subtle approach of the ambulance.
Noting the horse’s reaction, I offer
to take charge of her while Gabe
goes to wave down the EMTs.
As I move her farther away from
the scene, I look for another contact
and find a Peg Grantham under favorites.
She answers on the fourth ring, but
freaks at the unfamiliar voice. What
are you doing with Hillary’s phone?
Her accusatory shriek pisses me off.
“Okay, listen. Hillary’s horse threw her.
My friend and I found her, and called
9-1-1. The ambulance just got here,
so she’ll be on her way to the hospital
soon. I’ve got the mare and can bring her
to you, or you can come get her. Just
tell me what I should do. By the way,
I’m not into stealing horses or phones.”
Well, that’s c
ertainly good to hear.
Do you know where the ranch is located?
The foreman can meet you at the gate.
Okay, That Was Weird
I guess maybe expecting
an apology was too much,
but, “I know where you are,
and I’m happy to deliver
the horse, but don’t you
want to know how Hillary is?”
Well, of course. You just upset
me and I forgot to ask. Is she
okay? Any bones broken?
“I’m really not sure, but I
can tell you she’s unconscious.”
And now I really have to ask,
“Are you Hillary’s mother?”
I realize I know nothing about
her family except the rumors
passed around about her dad:
He’s a real estate developer
who owns a sizable chunk
of the state, and has powerful
friends in California politics.
Who knows how much is true?
No, I happen to be Hillary’s aunt.
Her father’s out of town and left
me in charge, but I’ll let him know
what happened. Oh, and I guess
I ought to thank you for your help.
I’m Glad
Dear, sweet Peg Grantham
isn’t Hillary’s actual mom.
Such a caring individual!
Now I feel sorry for Hillary.
Busy dad. Ice-blooded aunt,
who’s apparently her caretaker.
No wonder Hillary is so cool.
Gabe, on the other hand,
impresses me with
not only his warmth, but
also his bank of knowledge:
treatment for shock;
equine handling; giving
a girl a decent boost.
I watch as they strap
Hillary to a backboard,
under Gabe’s watchful eye.
She’s moving a little, and
they warn her to stop.
Does that mean she’s come
around? Yes. She’s asking
about her horse. Niagara?
Where’s Niagara? Is she okay?
At the sound of Hillary’s voice,
the mare’s ears start twitching.
I lead her a little closer, hoping
Hillary can see her. “It’s me,
Ariel. Don’t worry about Niagara.
I’ve got her, and I’ve already
talked to your aunt and
arranged to take her home.
You concentrate on getting well.”
As the EMTs lift the backboard
onto a gurney, then roll it toward
the ambulance’s maw, Hillary
says, Ariel? But . . . how?
“Just a strange coincidence.
Everything’s going to be fine,