There was only one thing I could do. Heart thumping, I opened his stall. Shadow bolted through, down the aisle and out the door I’d left open. The staccato sound of hooves echoed on the hard ground as he thundered away.
I stared at his empty stall and felt chilled way deep inside of me.
When I went back to bed, I couldn’t get warm. Even an extra blanket and quilt didn’t help. Under a mountain of covers I still shivered.
Chapter 10
Saturday, April 29, 1961
“Russ, you know anything about this?” Aunt Bess demanded the next morning pointing to Shadow Dancer’s empty stall.
“Nope.”
“Well he sure in heck didn’t open his own stall door.”
Flushing, I stammered, “I…I did it. I let Shadow Dancer free.”
Aunt Bess looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “You did what?” she roared.
I took a step back. “I…I…I…let him out. I didn’t want him gelded. I had this dream and he…”
“You didn’t want him gelded?” Aunt Bess growled. “You wanted him to go free? Whose ranch is this? What you want has precious little to do with it, young lady.” She turned to Russ.
“Come on, let’s saddle up and see if we can find him.”
She turned around and looked at me. “Maryann, you best stay outta my way,” she said curtly.
I stepped back. For a moment I thought she’d hit me; she looked so mad.
After they left, I went back to my room. It didn’t feel like my room. It was just a place to sleep and hang up my clothes. I had no ties to anything here. None of my things, except my clothes, were unpacked. I’d avoided the boxes stacked on the floor of the closet. They contained my Boston life. I wasn’t in the mood to face their contents. Not today. Not when all I could think about was Shadow Dancer.
Did I do the right thing letting him go? What else could I do? I couldn’t let Aunt Bess geld him. My thoughts went around and around like a hamster in a wheel.
“God, please keep Shadow Dancer safe,” I prayed. “Don’t let them geld him.”
I paced the confines of the small bedroom. Just a bed, a desk, a night stand and a dresser, Sparse like the rest of the house. No frills. Only the necessary things. Nothing extra. I was still getting used to it. It didn’t feel like my room. Would it ever? When I tried to remember my room in Boston I had trouble recalling the details.
The big black portfolio standing against the desk in the corner taunted me. So far I’d avoided opening it. Now I had all day to myself. Who knew when Aunt Bess and Russ would be back. The rest of the day stretched before me like a clean sheet of drawing paper waiting to be filled.
Dragging the large, heavy case to the middle of the room, I threw it down on the rug and unzipped it. Out spilled drawings in different sizes. Riffling through the sketches, I flipped through evaluating each piece. It seemed like a hundred years ago when I had created them. Then I pulled a sketch I’d made of Dad while he was working at his desk, head bent over plans for a house he was creating. My eyes watered. Right behind it was a sketch of Mom dressed up for a fancy dinner party she was going to with Dad. I’d captured her long, graceful neck, her pensive expression. My fingers traced the lines of the sketch as if I could connect with her. It seemed like Mom and Dad had been gone forever. When I’d created these drawings I was a different person.
Zipping up the case, I shut the door on my old life.
Impatiently wiping away tears, I grabbed the largest sketch pad I owned. Sitting down, I pulled it onto my lap and grabbed a stick of charcoal from the pencil case next to me on the floor. My hand flew over the sketch pad. Soon Shadow Dancer filled the paper. I couldn’t capture him quickly enough. Impatiently, I tore off the page and tossed it aside beginning another pose, another angle. My hand lagged behind the images that flashed in my mind. I couldn’t keep up. I couldn’t draw fast enough.
Several hours and dozens of sketches later, I finally got the rudiments of the scene I envisioned. In it Shadow Dancer reared — half in sunshine, half in shadow. His regal head turned looking at me as his graceful body leapt in the air. I’d captured it all: his beauty, his unique coloring, the promise of maturity.
Standing the sketch pad on the floor and propping it up against my bed, I stepped back and looked at it. My eye studied the drawing, a preliminary to the large oil painting I planned. Back and forth I scanned it looking for flaws. Even my critical eye found little to improve. My fingers were black with charcoal and my shirt had smudges. I rubbed my hands on my jeans. I didn’t care.
To my great satisfaction and exacting standards, I nailed him. Shadow Dancer jumped off the page.
For the first time all day, I smiled.
* * *
By dinner time it was dark. Russ and Aunt Bess weren’t back yet. Where were they?
I closed my eyes and prayed, “Keep them safe, God. And please protect Shadow Dancer.”
Late in the afternoon I fed the horses in the main barn. Shadow Dancer’s empty stall filled me with guilt and I walked quickly by. One of the ranch hands invited me to the supper they were making in the bunk house. Thanking him, I declined saying I’d wait until Russ and my aunt to get back. Truthfully, I had no appetite.
Going down to the kitchen, I grabbed a can of soda and some chips. Then I sat down at the table to wait.
Would they find Shadow Dancer? What happened if they didn’t? What if something happened to him? Did I do the right think letting him go? I had to; I couldn’t let them geld him. My thoughts circled around and around until I wanted to scream.
Just after it got dark, I heard voices.
I met Aunt Bess at the door. She looked tired.
“Did you find Shadow Dancer?” I asked. She didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry I let him loose,” I cried as she hung up her jacket and hat. “If anything happens to him I’ll just die.” My voice broke.
“Oh child,” she reached over and rubbed my arm. “No one’s gonna be dying around here.”
She sat down at the table ignoring my question. “Any coffee?” she asked wearily.
“”I made a fresh pot,” I said, quickly pouring her a cup. When I first arrived, the first thing she taught me was how to make a good pot of coffee. Like most of the cowboys on the ranch, she took her coffee black. I was the only one who drank it with milk and sugar on the rare times that I had coffee. Usually I drank tea.
“Thank you.” She took a long drink from the mug, set it down and looked at me.
“Sit down, Maryann. We need to talk.”
Dreading what she had to say I sat down at the table across from her. I knew she was mad. Maybe she’d send me back to Boston, to Mrs. Lawrence. I tried not to cry.
“Did you find him?” I repeated, trying to guess from her expression if she had.
“Yes, we found Shadow,” she said with a sigh. “It took us most of the day — and he’s hurt.”
“He is?” I shrieked. “How bad?”
“He’ll mend,” she said. “His legs got cut up some. Nothing we can’t fix. We had quite the time catching him.”
“I’m just glad he’s all right.” Then I started crying. “I thought you were going to send me back to Boston to live with Mrs. Lawrence,” I sobbed.
“Oh Lord, child, why would I do that? This is your home now.”
“I let Shadow Dancer lose,” I cried. “And he got hurt — and it’s all my fault.”
She reached across the table and grabbed my hand tightly in hers.
“Look at me,” she commanded.
I raised my watery eyes to hers.
“Now you listen to me. I love you, Maryann. No matter what you do, I love you. This is your home. I’d never send you away — never. Do you understand?”
I nodded, incapable of speech.
“I want you to remember something, young lady. Every action has consequences. So the next time you think about doing something I want you to think about what could happen — the good as well as the bad.”
“Yes, you let Shadow out. And yes, I guess it’s your fault he got injured. Though I’m confident we can get him healed up in no time. Since you are responsible, you’re the one who’s gonna doctor his legs every day before school and after supper. Russ will show you what to do. Does that sound fair?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered, grateful Shadow was back and hadn’t been hurt worse than he was.
She came around the table. I stood up.
“Thank you, Aunt Bess.” She pulled me to her and hugged me so tight I couldn’t breathe.
“Come on, let’s get dinner going.” We headed to the kitchen.
We had hamburgers and fries. I made the salad. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I smelled the burgers cooking. I hadn’t bothered with lunch. Fixing the salad calmed me down. I wasn’t used to working in a kitchen. Making a salad was something my aunt taught me to do.
“Boy, that smells good,” said Russ coming in from the barn. He’d put the horses away after they came back.
“I fed the horses in the main barn before dark,” I told him.
“Thanks, Maryann. I figured you did. That’s a big help,” he smiled at me and I felt I’d done something right.
“How’s Shadow?” I asked.
“Sore, but he’ll mend. After supper I’ll show you what to do for his legs.”
“Okay, thanks.”
There was little conversation during dinner. We were all too hungry.
“Are you going to call Doc Hanson, or do you want me to?” Russ asked while Aunt Bess poured another mug of coffee.
“No, I’ll call him tonight,” she replied.
I must have looked puzzled because she turned to me. “I’ve decided not to geld Shadow Dancer,” she said.
“You did?” I couldn’t believe it.
“I had all day to think about it. He’s the only colt Winter Dream had so I’m gonna preserve that bloodline and use him at stud.”
Speechless, I stared at her.
“Well, he made me so darn mad by breeding the mare when I’d planned to send her to that fancy stallion in Texas,” she explained.
Russ took another bite of his burger. He didn’t say anything. I noticed his struggled not to smile.
Letting Shadow out was wrong. I knew that and was sorry for letting him loose. But it made Aunt Bess change her mind about gelding him.
God does answer prayers. Today he answered mine.
“Thank you, Lord,” I whispered under my breath, grateful for Shadow’s safe return.
Chapter 11
Over the next week, I doctored Shadow Dancer’s leg. Slowly it began to heal. He was confined to his stall and only let out in one of the small pastures by himself. Russ didn’t want to take the chance of him getting injured by roughhousing with another horse.
Saturday, May 6, 1961
On Saturday, Aunt Bess and Russ went to look at a stallion an hour away. Russ helped me feed before they left.
Afterwards, I began grooming one of the colts. I had plenty to do while they were away. Getting the young horses used to being handled and standing still to be brushed was important. I’d spent all morning working and was just about to break for lunch when
I heard a horse squeal from the other side of the barn.
It frightened me and I ran to see what was wrong. All sorts of images went through my head. Nothing prepared me for what I saw.
Grady Gibbons stood in a stall holding a whip in one hand and his horse, Freeman, with the other. He jerked painfully on the horse’s mouth every time the animal pulled back. Freeman was so frightened, the whites of his eyes showed. Blood streaked his chest. His whinny was shrill with fear.
“What are you doing?” I screamed, trying to grab the whip out of his hand.
“Get the hell outta here, kid.” He shoved me roughly aside. I jumped right back at him.
He pushed me harder and I landed on the ground, the breath knocked out of me. Freeman continued to whinny frantically when Grady’s whip hit him again. I stumbled to my feet then pulled at his arm. Then, something snapped. Grady dropped the reins and turned around. Freeman backed away into the corner, squealing, as far from the whip as he could get.
“I told you to stay away,” he growled at me. His hot, heavy anger scared me.
The whip cracked above my head. He deliberately aimed for me. I put up my arm to shield my face. The whip sliced through the denim jacket, like a hot knife through butter. It wrapped around my arm and its tip sliced my cheek like a razor. Seconds later, I felt the pain and I reeled from it. The wound burned.
Abruptly I sat down, unable to stand.
“Maybe next time you’ll listen.” His dark eyes glinted like a wild animal.
The whip snapped above me. I struggled to get out of the way. My legs wouldn’t cooperate. They felt like rubber. Since I couldn’t stand. I put my arm up and ducked to avoid Grady’s whip.
A shot rang out. Grady whirled around. Russ stood with his smoking pistol pointed at the ceiling.
“That’s enough, Grady. You’re fired. Get your things and get the hell outta here.” Grady leaned forward to pick up the horse’s reins. Like all working horses, Freeman was trained to stand when his reins were hanging down. He backed up, snorting, when Grady reached for him, snorting and squealing in fear.
“Leave the horse,” Russ barked.
“What’d ya mean? He’s mine,” Grady snarled.
“Not anymore. You just sold him to me. You’re not fit to ride a horse, let alone own one.”
“You’ll regret this, Stokes.” Grady swore. “You owe me wages and if you bought this pitiful horse of mine, you owe me several hundred for him, too.”
Russ reached in his pocket, pulled out his wallet and counted out a handful of bills. “Here, this is more than enough,” he said holding out the money. “Now get the hell outta here before I call the Sheriff.”
Grady grabbed the bills. “Mark my words,” he said glaring at Russ. “You’ll regret this.”
As soon as he left, Aunt Bess ran in. “What happened? I heard a shot.”
“Grady went after Maryann with a whip,” said Russ. “I just fired him.”
“Oh, dear Lord. Is that man loco?” she gasped.
Russ helped me to my feet. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“I’m okay,” I lied trying to keep my balance on legs that still felt wobbly.
“Here let me take a look.” Aunt Bess stepped closer to examine my wound.
“I’ll get some antiseptic to put on this,” she said.
“Here, sit down.” He led me to a chair in the corner of the tack room.
Aunt Bess came back a moment later with a bottle of medicine. She dabbed it on my cheek and I jerked from the sting.
“I fired Grady,” Russ said. “Hell, I shoulda shot him for what he did to Maryann.”
“Maryann, what possessed you to go after that crazy man?” she asked.
“I…I came around the corner and saw him beating Freeman,” I stammered. “I had to make him stop.”
“Well good thing Russ put an end to it,” she said.
Russ began examining Freeman.
“Is he going to be okay?” I asked.
Now that Grady was gone, the horse had quieted and stood still letting Russ pet his neck. He looked at the marks on Freeman’s chest.
“Nothing time and good handling won’t fix.”
He turned back to me. “Are you gonna to be okay?”
I nodded.
“You don’t have a licka sense,” Aunt Bess muttered putting more medicine on the cotton.
“I don’t know,” said Russ. “The way Maryann saved Freeman kinda reminds me of something you’d do.”
“Oh really?” remarked my aunt.
“I know this hurts,” she said more gently. “I don’t think it will leave a scar.”
“Let me get Freeman cleaned up,” said Russ. As he led the horse away, I heard him mutter under his breath, “Fool kid.”
I still f
elt shaky when we went back to the house.
Aunt Bess insisted I take it easy and the next day let me stay home from church
“You need to regain your strength for school tomorrow.” She looked at me. “How does it feel?”
“It’s okay,” I said, tired of her fussing over me. I was glad to stay home. I hadn’t slept well. Although I couldn’t remember my dreams I knew Grady was in them.
I was disappointed to miss Rick at church. I was relieved to escape everyone looking at my face and having to explain how I got the wound.
Monday, May 8, 1961
School on Monday was a circus. Stories about the red mark on my cheek spread like wildfire. In one version, I single-handedly rescued an entire herd of horses from rustlers. I was asked so often about it that I wished I had printed cards so people could read the account instead of me having to explain it over and over again.
Suddenly, I had more status. Students who’d barely acknowledged me before now spoke to me. The healing scab on my cheek became my badge of admittance. The attention made me feel like a singer or an actress who became an overnight sensation. The fickle behavior of my peers made me shake my head.
Lisa did more to fuel the fire than quench it. “I don’t know how you did it,” she marveled. “I would have run for help. I never would have gone after that man myself.”
“There was no one to help,” I explained impatiently. “Aunt Bess and Russ were gone. I was alone. The hands were out fixing fences. I had to do something. I couldn’t let him whip his horse.”
At lunch time, Rick met me at my locker.
“What happened,” he demanded, staring at the red welt on my face.
I’d had a whole morning to come up with witty answers to the same tiresome question. “Oh, I zigged when I should have zagged.”
Rick’s whole face tightened. “Who did this to you?” His question sounded angry and harsh.
“Grady Gibbons whipped his horse. I tried to make him stop.” I shuddered at the memory. ”He lost his temper and whipped me instead.”
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