Another Kind of Cowboy

by Susan Juby

  The only neat thing about the Ford house was the barn and the field. Turnip was, as always, perfectly turned out, and so was Detroit.

  Still, there were a thousand reasons money was important. Alex hated being at the mercy of Ms. Reed and he hated that he was basically a charity case at Limestone. He worked, cleaning stalls and mending fences and maintaining the rings, to pay for his lessons, but even so, Fergus and Ivan were giving him a good deal.

  Then there was the issue of gear. He took excellent care of everything he had, but there was so little of it. Cleo’s tack and clothes were not only top of the line, they were the best money could buy. And she was so careless about all of it. She was always getting in trouble for riding with dirty boots or leaving bridles in a heap, the bits crusted with slobber, or doing a so-so job of grooming her horse. It was like a science with her, or an art: how to get by with the least possible work.

  Alex looked at his watch. Cleo still hadn’t finished saying good-bye. It was always like this. He practically had to tear her away from Grace and the girls. For some reason Cleo loved hanging around his house. She came over every chance she got and followed Grace and the twins around like a puppy. She loved talking to Grace about her hair and the twins about their desire to become movie stunt women. Didn’t she realize how completely screwed up his family was? His father lived in a motor home in the front yard, for God’s sake.

  The smallest, bitterest part of Alex thought Cleo should be satisfied with all her money and leave him the few things that were actually his, like his tacky, unkempt family.

  Then he felt bad again for being selfish.

  Alex had never had a close friend before. If this was what it felt like, he could do without.

  He was just about to go and drag Cleo from the house when he saw Colette Reed’s car pull into the driveway.

  Great, he thought. Just what I need. He lived in constant fear that Ms. Reed was going to change her mind about letting him keep Detroit at home, or worse, take him back entirely. Or what if she asked him to pay some huge leasing fee, which she’d be within her rights to do. Alex’s solution was to avoid her as much as possible. An added bonus was that he got to avoid his father at the same time.

  Please don’t come over here, he thought as he peered cautiously into his rearview mirror at Ms. Reed’s car. He heard the front door of the house open and slam shut and saw Cleo stride out. She waved at him but instead of heading for the IROC, she walked over to Ms. Reed’s car. He saw her exchange words with his father and Ms. Reed, and then she came trotting back.

  “Ready?” she asked, after getting in and slamming the car door.

  “Easy on the door,” he said. “What were you doing?”

  “I was just helping May bandage a fake wound. Maggie’s sprained wrist was making it hard for her to help.”

  “No, I mean what were you talking about with my dad and Ms. Reed?”

  “Oh, just now? I was telling them about the clinic. I thought they’d like to come and watch you ride, and I knew you wouldn’t tell them.”

  “You did what?”

  “I invited them to watch the clinic with the guy from Spain. Your dad should see how well you’re doing. He still doesn’t understand dressage. This will help. And Colette, if she has half a brain, which I doubt, will be impressed when she sees how you’re doing on Detroit.”

  “The Spanish Riding School is in Vienna,” he said in a tight voice. “Which is in Austria. Not Spain.”

  He hoped she could tell from his voice how angry he was. Unfortunately she wasn’t looking at him or listening. She was checking her cell phone for messages.

  DECEMBER 9

  14

  Alex

  ALEX TIGHTENED DETROIT’S girth one more hole. He imagined the instructor asking him to ride a ten-meter circle and him sliding off to the side and then underneath the horse. Your seat, the instructor would say, his accent refined and reflective of the Spanish Riding School, could use some work. The crowd would laugh, appreciating the joke.

  Alex looked down the row of stalls to see if Cleo was getting Tandava ready yet. She wasn’t. The mare needed a long, careful warm-up to burn off energy so she was able to focus on her work. But Cleo never took the time to do it. Too selfish, Alex thought, and then felt guilty. He’d almost forgiven her for inviting his father and Ms. Reed to this clinic because he’d finally convinced himself that they’d never show up. They were probably loaded when Cleo had told them about it and had forgotten. He could only hope.

  He checked his watch and realized he had only twenty minutes to warm Detroit up before his lesson with the Spanish Riding School guy. He pulled on his gloves, which he noticed with dissatisfaction were not leather, straightened his helmet, and led Detroit to the outdoor ring.

  The instructor may have attended the Spanish Riding School in Vienna, but he looked straight from the Elderly European Gentleman’s Academy of Questionable Taste. The man was old. Older even than Ivan and Fergus. He wore a white turtleneck and a yellow, ankle-length winter coat. He’d gelled his hair back against his head so fiercely it looked as though he’d just gotten out of the pool. He was deeply tanned and had a cigarette lodged in the corner of his mouth. The expression on his face could be summed up as unimpressed.

  Alex entered the ring a few minutes before the previous rider finished. The girl was on a lovely gray horse. From the little bit Alex had seen she wasn’t a bad rider. She wasn’t amazing or anything, but looked as though she had a decent seat and soft hands.

  The instructor did not agree.

  The man stared at the girl, whose face was red with the effort of riding or maybe the stress of riding in front of the small crowd. The instructor’s small black eyes squinted against the smoke that leaked up from his cigarette. The girl kept looking over at him, as though she wasn’t sure whether the lesson was over or not.

  She slowed her horse to a walk and gave him a furtive pat.

  “That was Phillipa Grant on Hernando’s Hideaway,” the announcer said into her portable microphone. She, too, was looking around like she didn’t quite know whether the lesson was over or not.

  “Do you have any final comments?” the announcer asked the instructor. The man very slowly took the cigarette from his mouth and spoke loud enough for the microphone to pick up his voice.

  “She too fat,” he said.

  Alex nearly fell off his horse. Every head in the place jerked around. The rider, who was slightly plump but certainly not fat, gaped openmouthed at the instructor like he’d just sprouted horns and a tail.

  The announcer tried to smooth things over. “It’s winter. Maybe Hernando has been getting too much hay,” she said with a weak laugh.

  The instructor waved his cigarette around, nearly getting the announcer in the eye. “No,” he said. “I mean the rider. She flabby.”

  “Holy shit,” muttered Alex to himself as he wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

  The crowd murmured nervously.

  The girl on the gray horse was nearly purple now—her face was a mask of anger and hurt feelings. As she rode past Alex he could see that she was blinking back tears.

  The announcer lady forged ahead. “Yes, well, ahem. Next up we have Alex Ford riding Detroit. Detroit is a nine-year-old Dutch Warmblood.” She cleared her throat nervously and stepped quickly away from the instructor just in case he came at her again with his cigarette.

  The man rolled his head on his shoulders as though about to perform a complicated exercise routine, but he said nothing. Alex felt his body stiffen and his heart rate jump. He didn’t know what to do. He was used to following directions in lessons, not doing his own thing. Detroit’s stride shortened as he picked up on Alex’s nerves. From the expression on his face, the instructor might as well have been watching a three-legged goat limp its way around the dressage arena.

  Alex rode past the spectators. Fergus leaned forward from his place in the front row of the bleachers and whispered, “Just ride.”

  Alex nodd
ed. Pretend you’re alone and that this weird little man in the long yellow coat isn’t staring at you, getting ready to tell you you’re homely or your legs are too skinny or your ears stick out. He pushed Detroit into a trot. He was still getting used to Detroit’s big trot after so many years of riding Turnip’s gentle jog. He reminded himself to relax and try to follow the horse’s movement. Just as he was finding his rhythm, he heard a commotion near the entryway. A flash of red caught his attention. Someone was signaling him. Alex slowed Detroit to a walk and looked, confused, toward the noise.

  “Helloooo!” cried Colette Reed in a loud, inebriated voice. Alex closed his eyes for a moment. This was a nightmare. The only thing that would make it worse was if his dad was here, too. Sure enough, his father stood right behind the redheaded realtor. Even from the other side of the ring Alex could see that his dad’s dress shirt was buttoned up wrong and he seemed to be swaying in a nonexistent breeze.

  “Bloody Cleo,” Alex whispered under his breath. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? This was all her fault. Didn’t she understand the critical importance of keeping the different parts of one’s life separate? This was a dressage clinic, not a beer garden. His father and Ms. Reed had no business being here.

  Why couldn’t Cleo have kept her mouth shut? As he rode past Ms. Reed and his father he smiled tightly, then looked over at his coaches. Ivan nodded and Alex was reminded of what he’d said about Alex’s ability to make the horses believe in themselves. Detroit needed him to keep it together. Besides, it wasn’t possible to die of embarrassment or Alex would have been dead a long time ago.

  Alex moved Detroit into a trot, sat still for a few beats, and pushed the big horse into a canter. Soon he forgot all about the audience, including the man in the middle of the ring, his father, and his father’s girlfriend.

  After a few minutes, the man’s cigarette came out of his mouth and he took two steps toward Alex, who was circling Detroit on the far side of the ring.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “I want to see a bit more straightness.”

  Don’t we all? said the voice in Alex’s head, but he just nodded.

  “Down the long side, shoulder-in,” said the man, puffing vigorously between words.

  The yellow-coated man had Alex ride a leg yield across the diagonal, first one way, then the other. He asked for a lengthened stride down the long side at a canter and at a trot. Alex was working so hard, he forgot to worry. By the end of the lesson Detroit had grown lighter in his hand and was swinging through his back. It was a marvelous feeling. Dressage had done it again: blocked out all his troubles.

  “This is enough,” said the man as he lit another cigarette. “Your horse is a bit out of shape, no?”

  Alex nodded.

  “He’s a nice horse, though. It’s perhaps possible do some things with this horse. And you, you have a lot to learn, but it might be possible to do some things with you, also. A bit of natural talent there, I think.”

  Alex’s eyes widened and he swallowed.

  The announcer was on her way into the ring when Ms. Reed grabbed her arm.

  “That’s my horse,” said Ms. Reed into the microphone. Then she turned to the small crowd and continued in a theatrically loud voice, “Oh, Brian, isn’t it lovely to see your son on my horse?”

  Alex didn’t hear his father’s reply. Instead, he quietly thanked the instructor and dismounted. On his way out of the ring he passed Cleo, who was leading Tandava in.

  “Well?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  He pretended he hadn’t heard her and kept walking.

  “There you are!” said Ms. Reed, making an unsteady beeline for Alex, dragging Mr. Ford behind her.

  “Wasn’t he a good boy!” she exclaimed in a high falsetto. She went to touch Detroit and he flinched away from her hand.

  “Whoa,” whispered Alex.

  “I was just speaking to a woman who was saying Detroit would be the perfect horse for her daughter, but I told her that he already has a rider. Can’t let my beau’s son go without a horse, can I?” she said, staring at Mr. Ford. Alex couldn’t read his father’s face as he looked at his girlfriend. It wasn’t a look of love, that much was definite, and Alex felt a flare of anxiety go through his stomach.

  DECEMBER 9

  15

  Cleo

  WHENEVER YOU GO to a clinic with someone you don’t know, you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance that you’ll be dealing with a jerkweed. I knew as soon as I saw Phillipa’s face that this guy was from the dark side. Phil should know that when you get a bad one, all you can do is suck it up. She’s got Svetlana the Sour Soviet for a coach, for God’s sake. You’d think she’d be used to it.

  I didn’t say that, though. I tried to be sympathetic.

  “Hey, Phil, a little rough in there?” I said as I walked past the Stoneleigh trailer where Phil was brushing Hernando. Phil lifted her arms slowly, as though they were made of lead, and every stroke of the brush pushed her closer to the edge of exhaustion. She didn’t turn around even though I knew she heard me.

  “Did the guy give you a hard time?” I asked.

  This time she did turn around and I saw that her face was blotchy from crying and her lips were kind of white. She looked terrible, to be honest. Not at all attractive.

  “He called me fat,” she said.

  “Oh, shit,” I said. Then I caught myself. “You’re not fat. You’re Rubenesque, or whatever they call that.”

  Phillipa frowned. “Do you have any idea how much bigger girls hate it when skinny girls try to make them feel better by calling them Rubenesque?”

  “Okay, stacked. You’re stacked. Is that better?”

  This time she did smile a bit.

  “Anyway, you definitely aren’t fat. The guy’s just a nasty old bastard. He’s jealous of your youth.”

  Phil nodded, wiping at her nose with the underside of her wrist in a gesture that was somewhere between ladylike and hayseed-goes-to-town.

  “Did you see his hair?” she sniffed.

  “Dude, I saw his turtleneck and his yellow coat. That was enough.”

  “And the way he chain-smokes?”

  “Totally. He may not even make it to the end of the clinic. He may just keel over from lung disease in the next hour or so.”

  She nodded and gave me another weak smile.

  “What are you doing later?” she asked.

  “Besides licking my wounds after this guy beats me down? I was actually planning to go to Alex’s.”

  “Oh, right,” she said. “What about tomorrow? You want to hang out?”

  “Actually, I was going to be at the barn and then maybe go by Alex’s place again. You know, after.”

  I should have asked her to join me. I hadn’t spent time with her for ages. But I didn’t want anyone else coming to Alex’s. There barely even seems to be room for me there. So I didn’t invite her and Phil’s face shuttered again. She nodded, muttered, “Good luck,” and went back to brushing her horse.

  When I got into the ring, I quickly looked at the instructor. His yellow coat was too big on him and his cheekbones looked carved from stone. He didn’t say anything to me, so I walked Tandy. I really wasn’t all that nervous because I didn’t care what he thought. I’m not like Alex—riding isn’t my whole life.

  I kept walking Tandy around while I waited for the hatchet-faced man to say something, but he just kept puffing away on his gasper and staring at me like I was a germ he didn’t want to catch. I passed Fergus and Ivan, and Fergus whispered, “Ride.”

  I turned and mouthed, “I am,” back at him.

  The lesson went on like that for about ten minutes. I just walked Tandy around the ring and the instructor smoked harder and harder.

  Usually in a clinic situation, the instructor will ask you to put your horse through its paces so he or she can evaluate what areas you need to work on. Then he or she will ask you to do a few exercises. But this guy wanted to play games. Too bad for him. If he wanted to teach me, he’d b
etter get teaching.

  I started gazing up at the roof of the arena to let him know that I wasn’t very impressed. That got a reaction: I heard the sharp, irritated intake of breath. When Tandy and I came around the end of the arena again Fergus stood and leaned over the railing. “Stop messing around,” he hissed.

  Fine. I put Tandy into a trot, then a canter, then brought her right back to a walk. Our transitions were perfect. Take that, Yellow Jacket!

  During my time at Limestone, Ivan had ridden Tandava and practiced her piaffe and passage. He said it was to keep her training up until someday I was ready to ask for those movements.

  This lesson was so pointless I decided that it would be sort of fun to blow Herr Hatchet Face’s mind by showing him that Tandy and I already knew the high-level movements. Or at least she did.

  To prepare, I collected Tandava’s walk and then asked her to do half steps, which is how you start asking for passage. Passage is a fancy diagonal trot that requires the horse to be extremely collected and to carry a lot of its weight on its haunches. It’s an upper-level movement, and I wasn’t trained to do it, so I’d never asked for it before. But it was time for me to stop acting like such a sheep and waiting for someone to give me permission. It was time I started pushing the boundaries. I shortened the reins and increased the pressure of my legs. Tandy began to snort softly and she gave me a few half steps. I got this excellent, floaty feeling in my stomach.

  What the hell. Might as well go all the way. I tightened my grip on the reins some more, sat back a little, and spurred Tandava on without letting her go forward. She seemed to rise under. She was going to passage! I’d done it!