Horse Whispers
Page 8
Lisa felt the same way. She always liked to challenge herself. This could be her next project. They could see Phyllis was wavering.
“Please!” Lisa begged. “This will be just the thing I need to ace home ec. If I can do this, I can do anything.”
“I’ll help them, Mom!” Kate added.
Phyllis blew her nose. She coughed slightly. She turned to Stevie and Lisa. They couldn’t tell what she was thinking. They tried to look as eager as possible.
“We-ell, maybe if you made spaghetti with jar sauce and a big salad—”
“Spaghetti it is!” Stevie said. She feigned a bad Italian accent. “Lovely spaghetti with-a sauce-a from-a the jar-o. Bon appétit!”
“Uh, Stevie?” Lisa said.
“Yeah?”
“Bon appétit is French.”
“Oh. Okay. Bueno appetito?”
Lisa smiled. “I don’t think so.”
“But you will let us make dinner, won’t you?” Stevie pleaded.
Phyllis laughed. “All right. I can’t say no to this much enthusiasm. But keep it simple!”
WHEN CAROLE RETURNED from the barn, two of her friends were hard at work. Kate had volunteered to make the salad. She was busy tearing lettuce into a wooden salad bowl. Lisa had filled a large pot with water and was hunting for smaller pots for the sauce. Stevie was looking through a stack of cookbooks. She had nothing to do right then. Her job was cooking the spaghetti, and she had already read the directions on the back of the spaghetti box—three times.
Feeling self-conscious, Carole cleared her throat. “Can I help?” she asked. No matter how upset she was about the black mare, she was not going to show it. She was going to pretend that everything was normal. She’d figure something out soon enough, and she didn’t need a lot of suspicious questions from Lisa and Stevie in the meantime.
“Yeah,” Lisa said, looking up in surprise. “That would be great.” She told Carole the menu so far, explaining that Phyllis had gone to bed early. She consciously avoided asking about the mare. John’s words had stung at first, but now that they had sunk in, she thought he might be right. If Carole wanted their help, she could ask for it. “We’re wondering what else we should have with dinner.”
Carole thought for a minute, glad for the distraction. “Hmmm … How about garlic bread? Dad and I always make that. It’s really simple.”
“Excellent!” Stevie exclaimed. “The more carbohydrates, the better!”
Lisa laughed. A litte enviously, she watched Carole get bread from the pantry, butter from the fridge, and garlic from the garlic braid hanging above the stove. There was something about Carole’s attitude that showed confidence in the kitchen. Feeling lame, Lisa banged a jar of tomato sauce on the edge of the counter to loosen the lid. She opened the jar and dumped the contents into a pot. Then she stood there stirring it. She hated to admit it, but the competitive side in her was coming out. She wanted to get credit for the dinner, too! Opening a couple of jars of sauce just didn’t cut it.
Stevie dumped the spaghetti into the boiling water and re-covered the pot. Then she went back to her perch on the counter. She flipped a page in the cookbook she was studying: Desserts from Paris, with Love!
“Tarte Tatin,” she read. “Hey, this looks good! It’s kind of like a fancy apple pie that’s upside down. Or something. Ooh, wait: crème brûlée. I had this once in a restaurant with my parents. It’s so good. It’s pudding with burned stuff on top.”
“Sounds disgusting,” said Kate. “And anyway, that cookbook is ancient. Why don’t you use something more up to date?”
Stevie shot her an annoyed look.
“Well, I’m all done,” Kate announced. She wiped her hands briskly on her jeans and put the salad in the refrigerator.
“Me too,” said Carole. She set the two long halves of French bread on a cookie tray. “These have butter and garlic on them. They just have to bake.”
Lisa made a face behind her back. Why was everyone Miss Perfect Cook all of a sudden?
“Let’s you and I go set the table,” Kate suggested. “Boy, this sure is fun, cooking together, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” said Lisa, barely able to hide her sarcasm. When they were gone, she ran over to Stevie. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“They’re going to get all the credit!” Stevie answered. Her competitive blood was up, too.
“Exactly!” said Lisa.
Stevie’s eyes narrowed. “But not if we knock their socks off with a fabulous French dessert! Let’s make crème brûlée and tarte Tatin!”
It was too good a suggestion to ignore. The two girls whizzed into action. Stevie got out eggs, milk, butter, and flour. Lisa found apples and began to peel them. They worked at a feverish pace, running back and forth to consult the recipes.
“Ow!” Lisa screamed. “I cut my thumb!”
“Are you okay?” Stevie asked, ambulances and hospitals flashing through her mind.
“Forget me!” Lisa cried. “There’s blood on the apples!”
Stevie ran over to look. “Gross!”
“It’s not my fault!” Lisa snapped.
“I know, I know! But you’re going to have to throw them out.”
Lisa could have screamed. She looked into the bloodied bowl of apples. All that work for nothing! It was enough to—
There was a loud clattering sound. Both girls turned and looked at the stove. “The spaghetti!” Stevie shrieked. The pot was boiling over. Water was spilling onto the stove at an alarming rate.
“What the— You put the top back on!” Lisa screeched. “Even I know you’re not supposed to do that!”
“I forgot!” Stevie wailed.
“Turn off the burner!” Lisa cried, reaching for the oven mitts.
Stevie lunged for the closest knob and turned it all the way. Unfortunately, it was the wrong burner. More unfortunately, she turned the heat up, not off. And even more unfortunately, the oven mitts happened to be resting on that very burner—and Lisa happened to be grabbing for them.
“Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!” Lisa’s bloodcurdling roar resounded through the house. In the dining room Kate and Carole dropped the basket of flatware. Next door Frank shot out of his office. Upstairs Phyllis tore out of her bedroom. They all came running into the kitchen as fast as they could.
“What on earth—”
“Stop! Drop! And roll!” Stevie shouted.
Lisa took a huge pot of water and threw it at the stove, where a small fire had erupted. She missed. She soaked the Devines.
At that moment Stevie managed to get the kitchen fire extinguisher to work. She drenched the stove. She also drenched the pantry, the table, the cupboards, and the floor to be safe. For a second the kitchen was dead quiet. Stevie cleared her throat. “I’m afraid dinner is going to be a little late,” she announced.
THAT EVENING, BACK in the bunkhouse, the girls giggled into the night. They all agreed that the McHughs and the Martins had to be the best guests ever—second only to The Saddle Club.
“At least, The Saddle Club when we’re not cooking,” Stevie joked. After the kitchen fiasco, the two couples had volunteered to drive into town and pick up pizza for everyone. That, Carole’s garlic bread, and the salad had made a great meal.
“The only problem now is how we’re ever going to live this down!” Lisa wailed. “I’m beginning to think I deserve an F in home ec, not a B-minus. I’ve burned toast before, but I’ve never come so close to burning a house down!”
From their beds Stevie and Carole laughed. It was good to hear Lisa making jokes about her grades. They knew that when the time came, she would work like crazy to get an A, the way she always did. But a few months ago she wouldn’t even have been able to make jokes about it.
“Oh, well, we’ll figure it out in the morning,” said Stevie. She was suddenly hit by a wave of tiredness. Kitchen trauma was exhausting!
“Good idea,” said Lisa. “I’m bushed.”
“Night,” said Carole.
AS SOON AS she was outside, Carole felt a wave of relief mixed with apprehension. She could finally have an uninterrupted visit with the black mare. But how would that help the horse in the long run? It seemed as if everyone were conspiring against her—against them both. The cold and her eagerness to get there made Carole sprint to the barn. She walked directly to the mare’s stall, opened the door, and slipped inside. The mare came toward her out of the shadows. Whispering to her, Carole led the horse noiselessly through the barn and out into the night. She hopped up on her back. The mare began to walk toward the trail, then to jog. It broke Carole’s heart to have to stop her, to will her to turn around and go back. If only Frank would see things differently! If only he could forget about his investment and do what was right for the mare! “I know how you feel,” she said aloud. “I honestly do.” She reached down and patted the black shoulder. “I feel like I belong with those horses, too.” The plan that had been forming deep in her consciousness pricked at her mind. Slowly it came to her that she knew what she was going to do—what she had to do.
But still, for a long time Carole sat on the mare’s tall back in the moonlight. She was filled with fear—or not exactly fear: Somehow she knew she would be safe with the mare. It was more a combination of guilt and misgivings that wouldn’t go away. She could almost hear the voice of her riding instructor, Max, echoing in her head: “Never ride alone without telling someone where you’re going.” What would Max say to her riding alone, intending, planning, hoping to keep her destination a secret? To her taking a horse that wasn’t rightfully hers? To her riding without tack on territory she didn’t know well at all? Shutting her mind to hundreds of doubts, Carole nudged the mare forward. She was doing the right thing. She had promised the black mare that she would help her, and she wasn’t going to break her word.
WALKING HOME, JOHN Brightstar almost didn’t see the horse and rider in the near distance. The horse was black and the rider was wearing dark clothing, so they blended into the darkness. But once he noticed them, there was no doubt in his mind who it was. He stopped and listened. Just as he expected, he could hear faint whispers floating toward him. He cocked his head. He hesitated. Then he continued on his way home.
CAROLE WASN’T THERE when Stevie and Lisa woke up. Lisa took one look at the empty bunk and was sure her friend had slept in the mare’s stall.
Stevie seemed to have the same idea. The fact that she didn’t say anything proved it. Neither of them mentioned Carole’s absence. All of a sudden it had become a forbidden topic. It seemed as if whoever pointed it out first would be the bad friend—the overprotective, interfering friend.
“Ready for breakfast?” Lisa asked briskly. She was determined not to tell Stevie about having seen Carole go out the night before.
“Sure! Whenever you are!” Stevie replied, her voice a little too eager.
Soon they were too preoccupied to worry, though. At breakfast, despite the fact that neither of the girls ate much cereal or toast, they filled up pretty quickly—on humble pie.
Kate set the tone. She sat down at the table and looked across at her father. “Dad, did you forget to take a shower this morning?” she asked innocently. “Oh, right,” she said, grinning wickedly at the two members of The Saddle Club, “I forgot: You had one last night, courtesy of Lisa!”
Frank chuckled.
Stevie glared. She tried to change the subject. “Gosh, another cold day,” she said pointedly.
Frank looked at her sternly. “Look, if you’re cold, just tell me, Stevie. Honestly. I don’t want you to feel you have to use the whole house for kindling!”
The Martins and McHughs tittered. “Don’t worry,” one of the wives said, “you’ll soon be marvelous cooks. You’ve already perfected a very difficult technique: the flambé!”
“Flambé?” Lisa asked, knowing she was setting herself up.
“Right. That’s when the chef lights a dish on fire. Of course, he usually restrains himself to the one dish …”
“You know, I think I understand why they changed the name from home economics to nutrition and household management,” said Kate.
“You do?” Lisa asked in a small voice.
“Sure! It’s not all that economical to burn down the family ranch!”
In the midst of the laughter that followed, John Brightstar appeared at the door. He often turned up at breakfast to grab a bite and get instructions from Frank. He took one look at Lisa and began to grin. “Heard you had a hot time last night,” he said.
Everyone guffawed except Lisa and Stevie. Lisa scowled. Stevie gave the entire table her haughtiest look. She stood up. She summoned what shreds of dignity she still had. “Has Mrs. Devine eaten breakfast yet?”
Kate shook her head. Stevie pulled Lisa up by the elbow. “Do excuse us. We need to see to the comfort of the lady of the house.”
“Uh, yeah,” Lisa said. Bright crimson, the two of them fled the scene.
They got tea and toast from the kitchen, put it on a tray, and marched upstairs to Phyllis and Frank’s bedroom. The only good thing about all the teasing was that it had made them allies again, and both girls knew it.
“We’ll never live it down!” Lisa wailed.
Phyllis sat up in bed and laughed. “You already have with me,” she said. She eyed the breakfast appreciatively. “I ought to get the flu more often. Now tell me the whole story, start to finish.”
Stevie and Lisa flopped down in chairs. “Lisa and I thought it would be fun to make a fancy dessert.”
“Like tarte …”
“Tatin,” Stevie supplied.
“Yeah, or crème …”
“Brûlée,” finished Stevie.
“So we found a couple of recipes, and—”
Phyllis opened her eyes wide. She was staring at them with dismay. “You didn’t use that French dessert cookbook, did you?” The girls nodded. “No! That cookbook is a curse! It ruined my first dinner party ever. I should have thrown it out then!”
Now Lisa and Stevie were all ears. “Your first dinner party ever was ruined?” Lisa asked, taken aback. She couldn’t imagine Kate’s efficient, creative mother having a kitchen fiasco of her own.
“Yes, it was terrible!” said Phyllis. “It was when Frank and I were first married. He was in the Corps, and he’d invited his superior over for dinner, and the man’s wife. Little did the woman know that when she said yes to the invitation, she was also saying yes to getting tomato soup spilled on her best dress, having her hair scorched …”
Beaming, Stevie and Lisa settled in for a long story. This was the kind of home economics they could take!
CAROLE FELT STRANGE. In a way, she had never been so afraid in her whole life. But in another way, she had never been so calm. She had a purpose, a mission: to set the black mare free. “And you won’t ever have to come back,” she promised. The mare seemed to nod as if she understood.
After hatching her plan, Carole had returned to the stable and slept in the mare’s stall. She had ridden away at dawn, before anyone could stop her. The sun was rising in the sky now, but the frigid February wind cut through her jacket. The thought of what she was wearing made her smile. She had been too afraid of getting caught to go back to the bunkhouse, so she was still clad in her long underwear, flannel pajamas, and boots. And the mare looked like a backyard pony, being ridden with nothing but a halter and lead shank.
Another thought made Carole stop smiling, though. It made her feel sad and lonely: the fact that Stevie’s and Lisa’s waking up would have meant getting caught. At one time Carole would have told her friends everything. They
would have helped her plan the escape. Heck, they would have insisted on coming with her. But the black mare had come between them. And right now, something inside Carole was telling her that she had to put the horse first.
“We’re almost there, girl,” Carole whispered. They were. They had reached the frozen creek and were nearing the mountain. As soon as she found the herd, Carole was going to set the mare free. After that she was going to try to scare the herd off so that they wouldn’t come back for a while. When Frank saw how happy the mare was in the wild … Well, Carole hadn’t thought much beyond that. But she was certain a dramatic gesture like this would change his mind. Shivering, she pulled her coat tighter.
Minutes later the mare raised her head and sniffed the air. Carole tensed, listening for the stallion. They had walked on a little farther when she heard the whinny. The mare heard it, too. She neighed back at the top of her lungs. Her body shook so hard that Carole laughed. Carole nudged the mare forward. She didn’t want to let her go until she had joined the herd. “Come on, girl, let’s walk on up,” she urged. But the mare had other plans. She gathered her body underneath her and sprang forward! Carole nearly had the breath knocked out of her. She clung to the black mare as the mare raced toward the stallion’s whinny.
The pace was blinding. The ground sped by in a blur of white. Carole felt tears in her eyes. It was the fastest she had ever ridden in her life. They galloped over the snow toward the mountain. All at once there was another horse galloping beside them. It was the stallion himself! He raced the mare until, his teeth bared, he began to turn her toward the herd. Carole was certain she would fall off. Her arms and legs ached. She couldn’t hold on any longer. She felt herself slipping, slipping … She closed her eyes.
The mare slowed and stopped. Carole opened her eyes. She sat up. They had come to a secluded knoll at the base of the mountain. It looked out over the creek. There was snow above them and below them. The stallion had led them there. He had led them to his home and his herd. Carole counted seven mares, three of which were heavy with foals. Two had foals by their sides already. Blinking into the sunlight, Carole had to rub her eyes. She felt as if she’d died and gone to heaven.