by Diana Stone
“I think she may fix the problem. Not to say you didn’t do your part, but I think an old friend may get her to change her mind,” he hopes.
“It’s interesting that the city entities know about my snake adventure. I guess the police and fire department report things and they all end up on her desk.”
“She’s a good person to know. She and mom are also friends.”
“Where is your mother? I keep forgetting to ask.”
“She only stayed for a couple of days after the ride, then went back up to her neck of the woods. We speak every few days, I told her your abbreviated snake story. She also knows Abbie. I never thought about it, but Mom can speak with her if the mayor doesn’t change her mind.”
“I never thought of Mrs. Johansen as having a first name and of ever being a kid taking riding lessons. She seems so regal and distant,” I confess.
The evening winds down as we drive home chatting about the dance, the snacks and drinks, and the people. I really enjoyed myself. It was so nice dancing with such a good dancer. He drives up to the house and turns off the ignition.
“Jess, I like you, I want you to know that,” he says while facing forward in his seat.
“I like you too.” Not a very original response from me.
“Would you like to go to the Nottingham Festival in Simi Valley next month?” he inquires.
“Nottingham, as in the Renaissance Faire?”
“Right, we could drive down for the day, and be back later in the evening. Or stay for dinner and maybe find a place to stay if it gets too late?”
“That’s nice of you to ask,” I’m dragging my feet, so to speak. “I’m not into the Renaissance Faire.”
“Neither am I, though I’ve never been. I only ask because I received their email and checked their website. They have mead. I’ve only tasted it once, so I have no idea what good mead tastes like. They have cider drinks mixed with mead and chocolate port. Which I thought you might like. There is also a list of strange and interesting foods like meat pies, scones, and tarts,” he pauses, “they have vendors selling incense and sun catchers, there are Shakespearean vignettes on stage. It looks like fun.”
“Hmm, I’ve never been.” Is it worth the drive? I don’t want to stay overnight, it’s too soon with this man. I know I somehow ended up in bed with Jack. That wasn’t planned, but this would be. “Let me think about it and I’ll let you know.” I try to sound eager too, but I’m actually using my old standby answer to stall for time.
“Okay,” he looks let down like a guy told NO to a date. “Well thanks for the great evening,” he looks out the windshield and not at me. “I’ll be leaving on business tomorrow night,” he adds, “Just until Thursday. I’m finalizing the work on one of my new medical devices.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say to that. It sounds like he’s leaving because I snubbed him. It that why? I should say something so this doesn’t fester and get out of hand. What shall I say? I need time… time to switch gears. I’ve lost the other man, I don’t want him back. But for some reason, I need time with my relationship with Eric.
He looks at me, “It’s getting late, and I have to get up early for the flight tomorrow.” In other words, Get out of the car.
“Okay, thank you for the great dance.” I get out and walk toward the door. I turn and wave when I get inside, then he pulls away. That was courteous of him to wait. I guess I don’t warrant a walk to the door since I kind of blew off the next step in our relationship.
What do I want? Which man is best for me? My intuitive voice tells me it’s Eric. My normal voice tells me Jack could be the one…. With a lot of work. I’m not afraid of hard work, but which voice is correct?
I can’t sleep. I slept for three hours and now I’m wide awake. I can’t get comfortable. Actually, that’s not entirely true, I’m perfectly comfortable. It’s that my brain won’t shut up. It keeps thinking. I mush my feather pillow, then scrunch it up and make a divot for my ear so I don’t get ear pressure. Then I roll to the other side, with my legs stretched sideways across the queen-sized bed. Really, I’m awake because I’m wondering if I should go to the Faire. I don’t want to lose my relationship with Eric. But Jack may be interested again. He was certainly attentive at the dance. What do I get with stupid Jack, anyway? I would get a lot if he’d just step up to the plate and make a commitment, get his divorce started, and get on with his life. On the other hand, he is arrogant and acted like a spoiled jerk at the restaurant. I don’t want to deal with that forever.
I march down the hallway to the kitchen. Standing here perusing the refrigerator and pantry. I could have some crunchy kettle chips, or a grilled cheese sandwich, or a spoonful of peanut butter. Five minutes later I’m leaning against the counter waiting for the toaster and crunching on chips with a spoonful of natural peanut butter. It’s natural, no trans-fat, and no hydrogenated oil. Just roasted high-calorie peanuts.
It occurs to me that perhaps I should check the Nottingham Festival website. I perch on the barstool and flip open my iPad. It’s easy to find online and actually looks interesting. Just because I’ve never gone doesn’t really mean I won’t like it. I don’t have to dress up and it will be a mead tasting day. Perhaps I could try out a fortune teller while I’m there. I can hang around the tent and ask the people coming out if she’s real or if it’s a bunch of garbage. Okay, I’ll go. It’s late, so I’ll send Eric a text.
“I went on the Nottingham site and it looks like a lot of fun. I’m sorry I wasn’t eager earlier, I had to see what you were talking about. Have a productive trip and can’t wait to taste test mead when you return.” There, that should mend fences, I hope.
I wonder if Valerian will put me to sleep. It says I need to take 3-4 capsules. Yuck. It might make my stomach feel sick, then I’ll never sleep. I’ll read. I should read boring stuff like insurance newsletters. So I read them and finally fall asleep.
34
Who’s In the Pasture?
It’s a warm Sunday, and as usual for the weekend, I’m leading two rides. Once in the morning, the other in the afternoon. I’ll be leading rides all week since Marc and Veronica are out of town on a weeklong cruise in the Caribbean. The ship stops in the Cayman Islands. Eating, sunning, dancing and touring. She showed me photos on the website before she left. Light blue, clear warm water, and all the fish, turtles and rays we never see swimming off Malibu beach.
I feel a little prick of envy. But it’s not my place to be envious. She worked hard to get to where she is. I worked hard, then had to start all over after the divorce. I won’t do that again. No mixing my money with any man’s money. My mother knows several women who are past retirement age and they barely scrape by. That’s what happens when a partner messes up your life. Either by gambling away all your money, or divorcing you after you quit a great niche job. No, I won’t be commingling my funds, as they legally call it. I don’t have the ability to make a mound of money every year and invest in great businesses. I simply have a couple of horses, which I can now deduct on my taxes, and my job as a trail wrangler. I guess I can still be a health insurance agent. It won’t make me a rich woman, but it pays the bills and gives me a certain amount of freedom.
I come back to the present. Every horse in the string is plodding along. They seem to match my mood. Both of my girls have settled into the routine. It’s pretty much the same trail every day. I ride one of them in the morning and the other in the afternoon.
After the final ride and the tasting, I hose everyone off and turn them out for dinner. I slowly trudge up to the house. Maybe it’s after the excitement of the dance, but I’ve been low all day. I don’t believe that ‘The cosmos wants to expand my unlimited potential’ today.
I keep checking my phone. Eric simply responded “K” to my text. “K” Oh great, I bet he’s upset that I didn’t want to go to his Nottingham Festival. Darned man. I will read on the patio and eat kettle chips. If I drink tea with inflammation-reducing sage leaves it will balance o
ut my crummy dinner of potato chips—I think.
My mind would like to work on something, but I have nothing to give it to think about. How can I analyze any more of Jack than I already have? Eric might be terrific. What more can I decide? I need more info and more time.
I should get involved in something. Perhaps I should become active in the community? I took a wine tasting class, but I’m losing interest in continuing in-depth wine classes. I live here in the wine country and I’m losing interest in wine? This is Eden, how can I get callused to its offerings? Perhaps I should take my focus from men and put it somewhere else. Great idea. Now, where do I put it? A second job might help. I bet I sit around thinking too much. What if I were too busy to think? I’ll see what kind of work I can do around town. I don’t want to work outdoors in the heat of the day, but I have a gap between morning and afternoon rides and my evenings are also free.
In the meantime, Monica told me about another show on PBS that’s inspirational. I may as well give it a look-see. It takes ten minutes to find it on their site, which isn’t too easy for the over thirty crowd. I can’t complain too much, the show is great. The contestants are creative and ecstatic, making dinners I’d love to eat. I’ll have another mug of tea to stop me from opening the pantry door for a snack. I have a better idea, tea, and a snack.
What’s going on outside? Through the open window, I hear galloping and whinnying horses. They often run and play but this seems more extreme. I’ll go check, just to be sure they haven’t managed to get out and are running around the vineyard. Yes, it’s happened before. Now we chain the gate shut. If too many inquisitive mouths play with the gate latch it will flip open and the herd will go explore the neighborhood!
Jamming my feet into my running shoes, I grab my phone and gun… just in case. I also slip into my shorts in case I meet anyone out there. I’d hate to confront a trespasser in my thong undies.
There’s a huge cloud of gray dust over the pasture and they’re still running. I hear the hooves running in the right place. At least they’re not running down the driveway, visiting the neighbors and trampling their vines! The moon is hidden behind a cloud. I’m carefully jog-walking and trying not to trip in the blackness. My eyes have yet to adjust to the dark.
There’s a dark car parked down at the bottom of the drive. Hell, I hate having to confront people like this. Especially in the middle of nowhere, very much alone. No one else is home and we don’t have any dogs. I take a quick look at the horses. I can’t see through the dust, how can they see to gallop? I hear a thud and a human grunt and swearing coming from the pasture.
I don’t know how many people are in the car and how many are in the pasture, but it’s time to call the police. I know I’m still invisible in the darkness and dust. Quickly I hit my Favorites button for the police. The dispatcher comes on and I give her my address and situation. I have to find out what’s going on in the pasture.
Then I hear, “You fucker, you’re gonna die!”
I drop the phone into my pocket and race to the fence. Bending over, I squeeze through the boards, and immediately have to jump back, dodging a galloping horse. In the process, I slam my back against the fence, making me wince. I think it’s best to stand here a minute and listen. I’ll get smashed if I go searching through the throng of crazed horses. I wait a few adrenaline-charged moments, but I have to find out what’s going on.
The dust settles a little, and the moon slips clear from the cloud. There’s a human figure about thirty feet from me. It looks like a man. He’s holding up his hand with something glinting in it. One of the horses runs past, and he lunges forward trying to stab her. The horse gives a kick with one leg, but misses the man.
Looking back and forth like I’m about to dash across a busy four-lane highway, I move forward with my .38 at the low-ready position. I’m not going to announce my presence. I need to get closer, without getting crushed by the herd.
Two horses come running up from the bottom of the pasture. They run right through the middle of us, blocking my view. I hear “Gotcha!” The moon is now clear of the clouds, and I see the human is Pickett—holding a bloody butcher knife.
He sees me at the same time and screams… “You bitch, I’m killing your horses!” He shrieks a horrible, chilling sound. “Abbie was gonna marry me.”
He jumps back from two horses as they run past. The air is heavy with dust, and it’s distracting both him and me. I can’t see anything to aim at, it would be shooting blind, and my bullets could hit the horses. I have to move to get clear of the dust and make sure I don’t get run over. I’m trying to keep him in sight, but it’s impossible. I can’t get a clear shot.
The moon is at my back so he can’t see my .38. I raise it to take a shot, concentrating on where I think he will be. Part of the mob is running back uphill again and one of them knocks into me. I’m shoved to my knees, but I manage to scramble to my feet. Suddenly, there he is, about twenty feet in front of me. His face is contorted in rage. His right hand is clutching the knife, craving to plunge it into my flesh. He lunges at me. I shoot and it hits him somewhere… I know it did, but he’s still coming at me. I shoot again, and again. That’s three rounds. I have two left. He stumbles and falls flat. He’s struggling to get up. I’m damned well going to shoot him again. I won’t let him get up to come for me again.
One of the idiot horses runs over me, hooves mashing into my back and legs. Shit, I dropped my gun.
I have dirt in my eyes and mouth. I can’t see. I’m crumpled on the ground. I’ve been mowed over by 1300 pounds. I can’t feel my left leg, it won’t move. My back may be broken and I can’t breathe. I’m gasping for breath, trying to get air into my lungs. I manage to pull in a few tiny breaths and make my lungs expand. Blinking and rubbing my eyes, they’re tearing and streaming out some of the dirt. Now I can see a little better.
I’m in danger of being crushed again. Dark shapes are running past me. Where is it? I’m scanning the ground, looking, looking... There it is, in the dirt to my right. Thank goodness it’s my Smith. It’s impervious to everything. I drag myself the few feet to my lifeline. My fingers curl around the grip; it feels good in my hand… it will save my life. As I pick it up and knock off the dried manure, I hope it really is impervious. I have to believe—if that does any good. I’m focusing on the gun in my hand. I have two bullets left, I remember that.
I hear the car start. Is he getting away, or is there a second person? I don’t see Pickett in the pasture, I don’t see him anywhere.
My leg is frozen with pain. Pain is a good thing, it means I’m not paralyzed. My back also agrees to work with me. This means I’m relatively okay. It’s time to dig deep and go after him. Getting to my feet, I start hobbling as fast as I can toward the open gate. I have one thought in mind—I can’t let him get away, I won’t let him. He tried to murder me and my horses. The driver jams his foot on the gas, and the car surges forward. I aim and shoot one round into the fleeing car, somewhere on the driver’s side. At least it will identify the getaway car.
Suddenly the car stops and reverses at full speed toward me. Shit. I’ve gotta get out of here!
I hobble to the barn as fast as I can. I have to get to cover. The red brake lights flash on just as I make it through the double doors. I stop to look back and see Picket dragging himself out. He’s using both hands on the door frame, leveraging himself out. The car starts rolling forward, down the driveway. He hasn’t put it in park. He looks around for me, ignoring the car rolling downhill. There’s a gun in his right hand.
“Where are you, bitch?” he forces the words out in a ragged, choked voice. “You’re gonna pay,” he howls.
He stumbles after me, into the barn. All I can to do is hide in the dark. I want to run away, to run and hide in the hills where he’ll never find me. I know this area; I ride it and hike it. But I can’t run. I can barely move my right leg, and my left is only just beginning to function. I look around wildly, wondering where to go. I hobble toward the
stalls on the right and stumble through the partially open door. I slip into the stall and collapse against the closest wall. Then I slide to the floor and tuck as much of myself as possible under the big feed tub. I need a plan… fast.
When he passes me, I’ll blast him with my final shot. He’s in bad shape with my bullets in him, but he’s strong enough to come after me. I’m taking a huge risk hiding in the empty stall. It’s dark in here, but I’m essentially trapped.
The Clint Eastwood movie, Two Mules for Sister Sara, is clear in my mind. Clint always wore spurs that jingled. The bad guy who was chasing him knew that. During the final gun battle, Clint hung his spurs on a bush, then he hid a short distance away. When the bad guy got closer, Clint threw a stone at the spurs, making them jingle. The bad guy revealed himself when he stood up and shot at the spurs. Clint shot him.
I need to make this work now—in real life.
There’s a carrot on the floor. Can I be saved by a carrot? As he hobbles into the barn, he’s silhouetted in the dim moonlight. I see the semi-automatic pistol in his right hand. Shit, one bullet of mine against fifteen of his.
I throw the carrot against the bottom of the barn. It makes a slight thunk, but nothing worth mentioning. He must have heard it, because he chuckles—a rasping sound. I have no idea if he knows this is a set-up. I’m crouching here, hoping if he shoots, my bullet will hit him first. I’ll roll after I shoot, so I won’t be in the same place for longer than a second.
The inside of the barn is dark, so he stands for a few minutes, listening and probably letting his eyes adjust. I didn’t have to since I know the barn day or night. He’s taking too long to pass me. Slowly, so slowly, he moves closer. Is this a game I’ve lost, or will I be the victor? He stops at the partially open stall door where I’m hiding. I’m now tucked under the feeder on the left side. He’s breathing heavily. He leans his weight against the door and slides it completely open. He roars, “Die, bitch,” and starts shooting into the stall. He wildly sprays bullets over the walls until the gun locks back, empty. He’s still pulling the trigger on the empty weapon. My ears are ringing with the intensity of his attack.