Riding Lessons, Page 29

  "Yes," I say, turning away. "Malcolm! Bring him to a walk now. Once around the arena, and then halt and cross your stirrups in front of you."

  Malcolm knows what's coming, and looks at me in horror. Posting without stirrups is something none of my students enjoys. I don't admit to them that I was never any good at it either. In fact, I don't know anyone who is good at it, but I don't see any reason to tell the students that. It's a rite of passage. They can learn the truth once they're in the fold.

  "So did you read it?"

  Eva is still standing behind me, so I turn to face her. Flicka swings her black head around, nuzzling Eva's belly.

  "No, I didn't have time," I say.

  "Ian McCullough made a deal. Four years. There isn't even going to be a trial."

  I blink two or three times. Four years? The prosecutor had been going for fifteen, and that's the least the bastard deserves. Four years is nothing. He'll probably be out in three. If it were a perfect world, someone would strap him into his car by his head and then set it on fire, like he did to Hurrah.

  I turn around. "Okay, Malcolm. Start trotting now. Sit once around, and then start posting."

  Malcolm's heels lift a couple of inches from Tazz's sides, and then drop against them.

  Oh dear. We're a long way from descente de main, et descente de jambe.

  I peer over my shoulder, checking to see where Eva is. I see with relief that she has taken Flicka to the far end of the arena.

  I can't bear to talk about Hurrah, and Eva knows it. Usually she respects it, but I guess this news was big enough that she couldn't help herself.

  I had planned to fly out for the trial, despite Norma's protestations. Throughout all of this, she has urged me to keep a low profile, which I find hard to balance with my need to find Hurrah. I can't simply let him go, and Lord knows I've tried not to--I called twice a week religiously for eight weeks, but not once would anyone tell me anything useful. Dan continued to call after I gave up--and I think still does, although he's stopped mentioning it. Hurrah is lost, trapped inside some bureaucratic labyrinth. We don't even know what state he's in, although maybe that will change now that there won't be a trial.

  I jump, surprised by the vibration against my left buttock. It's my cell phone, which is set to vibrate so that if I'm riding, it won't spook the horse. At least, that's the theory. I still haven't been able to bring myself to ride. I pull the phone from my pocket and press it to my ear.

  "Yeah?" I say.

  "'Yeah?'" says Mutti. "What kind of greeting is 'yeah'?"

  "Sorry, Mutti. I'm in the middle of a lesson."

  "Fine. I'll be quick. I just got back to the office. Dan left a message. He thinks he'll probably make it home today and wants to come over."

  "Cool. Do you know when?"

  "He hopes around dinnertime, but it will depend on traffic. He's got at least five more hours of driving."

  "Great. Thanks for letting me know. Oh, Mutti?"

  "Yes?"

  "Um, could you do me a favor?"

  "What?"

  "Could you make your gateau des crepes?"

  "Oh, Annemarie." She makes a great show of sounding irritated, but she's not. It's important to her that we all love her food. Otherwise, why would she have branched out into French cooking?

  "Please?" I say.

  She sighs, a long and protracted exhalation. "Yes, all right," she says. She sounds stern, but I'll bet you any money she's smiling.

  Dan's timing couldn't be better. For one thing, maybe Eva will finally shut up, and for another, he manages to arrive just as I'm tossing the salad.

  I look like a vision in my blue silk dress, and the salad provides just a soupcon of domesticity. The dress is wildly inappropriate for the season, silk and sleeveless, but he's been gone for four days, and I want to look nice.

  Dan sweeps into the room, leaving the door wide open. "How are all my favorite ladies?" he booms. I'm about to tell him to close the door--it is early November, and I have bare arms--but it's too late. He's already making his rounds. He goes first to Mutti and stops beside her. She smiles and cocks her head. He kisses her cheek.

  "Hi Dan," says Eva, closing her magazine. She's been torturing me for nearly ten minutes, reading the article on Bastard McCullough aloud.

  Dan comes up behind me and plants a kiss on the base of my neck. Just before he pulls away, he takes a tiny piece of my flesh between his teeth. I gasp as all my hair stands on end.

  I wiggle sideways and look quickly at Eva, wondering if she saw. It's hard to tell. She's smiling broadly, but staring at the table.

  "How was the conference?" I say, safely beyond Dan's reach.

  "What conference?" he says.

  I balance the salad tongs against the side of the bowl and carry it to the table. "The one you were just at," I say.

  "I wasn't at a conference," he says.

  I set the bowl on the table, and turn to face him. He is staring at me, trying to look normal. It's not working. He's blinking too much.

  "What are you talking about?" I say.

  "I wasn't at a conference."

  "You said you were."

  "I lied."

  I stare at him. "Dan, tell me what's going on."

  Nobody moves, not a muscle. Mutti has turned from the sink and is watching me closely. Eva is staring as though at a train wreck.

  "So where were you then?"

  "Santa Fe," he says.

  I'm frowning, shaking my head. I don't understand.

  Dan steps behind me, takes hold of my shoulders, and steers me toward the door.

  I know before we even get there. I know the second Dan takes hold of me, although I don't believe it until I'm actually looking at him through the screen.

  He's fat, he's sleek, and he's striped again. He's in the pasture, ripping up grass as though he's never been gone, swishing his long tail from side to side.

  I clap a hand to my mouth, unsure whether I'm going to scream or cry. "Oh, Dan," I say. "Oh, Dan."

  I spin around. Eva shrieks happily, and claps her hands. Mutti brings her hands to her face, almost in a gesture of prayer. They all knew. Every one of them.

  I look through the screen again. He's beautiful. He's gorgeous. He's shiny, sleek, and groomed.

  Dan comes up behind me. "So do you forgive me?"

  "Forgive you?"

  "I mean for losing him for you in the first place."

  I choke back a sob and turn to him, throwing my arms around his neck. After a moment, I let go, wiping my eyes and nose on my arm.

  "How did you do it? How did you get him?"

  "Police auction."

  "How did you find out? I mean, I've been trying for months..."

  I lean my forehead against the glass, staring in disbelief. "He looks great. I mean, really, really wonderful."

  "They were boarding him at a local stable. I understand he was something of a favorite."

  "How much did you get him for?"

  "You don't want to know."

  "Yes, I do."

  "Almost nothing."

  I'm offended. "Why?"

  "Perhaps because he has degenerative joint disease and only one eye?"

  Dan looks into my eyes, and realizes I don't see the humor in this. "Because the only other person bidding was a dealer, and he couldn't bid above what he would have gotten from a slaughterhouse."

  "Oh, Dan," I say, horrified. "What if you'd been outbid? You should have told me about it." The idea of Hurrah ending up in the kill pen again is inconceivable.

  "I didn't want to tell you in case it didn't work out. And being outbid was not going to be a problem. Your mother authorized an obscene amount."

  I look from Mutti to Dan, and then back again, speechless with gratitude. I feel physically over-wrought, as though someone were wringing out my heart.

  "So here he is, and he's yours. Legally this time. Well, actually, he's mine legally, but if you're nice to me, maybe I'll transfer ownership to you."

&
nbsp; I stand blinking, unable to speak.

  "So, you going to ride him?" asks Dan.

  "Of course."

  Dan laughs. "Go on, then."

  "Not now. He just got here. He needs a day or two to get settled."

  "Yup. Because you can see he's all emaciated and stressed," says Dan.

  Mutti goes to the oven and peers in the door. "Eva, set the table please."

  I pull on one of my paddock boots. "You guys get started. I'll be along in a minute."

  I expect Mutti to argue with me, but when I turn to grab my other boot, she's coming toward me. "Here," she says, holding out an apple.

  I trip twice on my way to the pasture, because I can't take my eyes off Hurrah. I'm afraid he'll disappear, like a vision of water on a hot road. When I get to the fence, I hitch my blue silk up with one hand and climb over. I must be the picture of elegance, tromping through the long grass in my rubber boots and bare legs.

  Hurrah raises his head, staring at me as I approach. Then he snorts, swinging his head up and down.

  I laugh, and reach for him, grateful when my hand meets cool, smooth coat. I try to run my hand across his shoulder, but he's seen what's in my other hand, and turns to reach for it. He takes the apple in his teeth, spraying droplets of juice over both of us.

  When he finishes, I lean forward, sliding my arms around his neck. I close my eyes and press my face against his muscled neck, running my hands along both sides of it and then down his chest, seeking the cowlick. I know this body. I know it frontward and backward and with my eyes shut.

  When I open my eyes, Hurrah is looking at me quizzically. He swivels his ears, and then presses his muzzle against my hips, unaware that dresses don't have pockets.

  I cup his muzzle in both hands, feeling the cool velvet of his lips, and the firm, fluted curves of his nostrils, the in and out of hot breath on my open palms.

  I look back at the house. Mutti, Dan, and Eva are standing at the door, looking through the screen.

  "They want me to ride you, you know," I say to Hurrah. I reach up and grab one of his ears in my hand, and then let it slide slowly through my fist. Then I straighten his forelock, smoothing it neatly down the center of his forehead. "How would you like that? You want me to ride you?"

  Hurrah turns and snorts wetly. I look down at my dress, which is now completely destroyed.

  "Yeah, you're right," I say softly. "There's time for that later."

  Hurrah is losing interest now that it seems I'm out of apples. He checks once more and rubs his head up and down my front, further desecrating the silk. Then he drops his head and starts to graze.

  I lean against him, resting my arms and chin on his back. I stand like this until the last bit of sun disappears beneath the horizon, casting floss-pink streaks across the sky.

  When I head back to the house, there's a hiccup in my heart, a peculiar feeling I cannot identify. My hands are freezing and I'm trembling with the cold, but it's more than that. There's something running through my veins, welling up from the core of me.

  It's as though the ground has shifted, and the chasm closed. This horse is not Harry and I am not the girl who rode him. There are no Olympics in our future, but I don't care. At this moment, I am all I want to be.

  I stop, perplexed. I examine it a little, and toss it about in my head, testing its consistency. I poke it, and it pokes back. Is this what it feels like? Yes, by God, it is. It's contentment, and I'm so full of it I almost don't know what to do.

  It's night, and I'm standing at the entrance of the stable, illuminated only by what spills around the corner from the parking lot floods.

  I unlatch the main door and slide it open. There's a fluttering in my chest, and my breath is coming fast. I am giddy and excited, and filled with a sense of purpose. I've been working toward this moment for twenty years.

  I step into the stable, pausing to breathe the fragrant horsy air. I'm tempted to go see him first, just to say hello, but am afraid I might lose my nerve. Instead I slip into the narrow hall that separates the aisles.

  I flick on the light, suppressing a cough. The air is sharp with hay dust from the loft above. Particles float lazily among the saddles.

  There are probably twenty burnished tack chests lined up against the walls, some covered with quilted, monogrammed covers. Above them are rows of saddle racks, sporting English saddles of all shapes and sizes--dressage, jumping, general purpose, even saddleseat. There are shelves stacked with freshly laundered saddle pads, fly sheets, and leg wraps. Round rubber bell boots shoved up against the wall. Grooming kits, set on top of boxes. Pastern boots spread open to dry. Bridles, halters, and chaps hanging from hooks.

  I start to walk, slowly, looking from side to side. About halfway down the hall, I find a pair of schooling chaps that looks about right. I pull them from their hook and hold them against me, checking for size.

  I step into them and lean over to gather the open flaps around my legs. One zip, and then another, and my legs are encased in leather. I press the snaps shut and straighten up.

  I take a deep breath because my heart is pounding, and then continue walking.

  I stop to scrutinize a saddle. I picture the slope of his back, and move on. A few steps later, I see a Passier dressage saddle, black, with a sixteen-and-a-half-inch seat and an extra-wide tree.

  I crouch down and peer through the gullet. Then I straighten up and curl my fingers around the cool leather of the pommel. It's nice and high, and will clear his withers easily. I take the stirrup in my fingers and run the iron down, savoring the slapping sound as I pull the leather through it. Then I pull it into my armpit. With my other arm, I reach for the saddle. My fingertips just reach--I may not even have to adjust the length of the stirrups.

  There's a bridle on the hook above the saddle. I finger the bit. It's a slow twist snaffle--I'd have preferred an egg-butt, but this will do.

  My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears, a great whooshing machine. I hang the bridle over my left shoulder, and then lift the saddle so that it's resting along my right forearm. With my free hand, I grab a saddle pad and head for the aisle.

  I hang the bridle on the door of the opposite stall. The horse inside shifts, and I see a flash of gray face through the bars. Then I swallow my breath and turn.

  I cross the aisle like a cadet, in three long strides. As I lay my hand on the latch, I pause, frozen by doubt. Then I throw the bolt and slide the door along its track.

  I stand in the doorway, watching my breath in the cold night air. The saddle is heavy on my jutting hip, and as Hurrah comes into focus I wonder if I'm ready for this. Twenty years. Twenty years, and I just don't know.

  "Are you ready?" I ask Hurrah.

  He turns and snorts, and I burst out laughing, because it's suddenly clear that I've never been so ready in all my life.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a novel is an arduous process, and during it I became indebted to a number of people: To my critique partner and friend, Kristy Kiernan, who was there from conception to birth.

  To Erin Narey and Lori Coale for their time, input, and encouragement.

  To my mother, Kathryn Puffett, both for valuable criticism and for believing I could do this.

  To Brian Porter, Robert Farmer (you old goat, you), and Carolyn Flasch, all of whom helped shape the book.

  To Michael S. Beeson, M.D., of Summa Health System in Akron, for providing information about spinal cord injury.

  To Susan Laidlaw, a student of 1996 Olympic Dressage Team Bronze Medalist Michelle Gibson and a fine rider in her own right, for answering my questions about the eventing world.

  To my agent, Emma Sweeney, for her belief in me.

  And most importantly, to my husband, Bob, without whom this simply would not have happened.

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actu
al events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  RIDING LESSONS. Copyright (c) 2004 by Sara Gruen. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Mobipocket Reader September 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-154902-1

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