A Horse of Her Own

by Annie Wedekind

  “Exactly,” Jessica said, with a small, mischievous smile. “In fact, this could be your chance, right?” Jane blushed. Jessica never missed a thing. But even if Emily’s new horse acted up, she doubted that Susan would drop her to Advanced II. The horse was supposed to have enormous potential, and Emily was a good rider.

  She decided not to take the bait. “So what’s his name, anyway?” she asked.

  “Lancelot,” Jessica replied. “The noble knight. Scratch that—the nutty knight.”

  Beau nickered as Jane entered his stall. “It’s just like any other day,” she told him, and herself. She stood for a moment with her cheek against his neck, feeling his warmth and taking deep breaths of his dusty summer smell. He turned his head and nibbled ruminatively on the end of her T-shirt. She stroked his muzzle. He had a large, plain face—an honest face, Jane thought, and a very intelligent one. “Time to get beautiful,” and as Beau sighed, she laughed. “I swear you speak English, boy.”

  She started with the currycomb, moving in broad circles over his back and hindquarters, avoiding the sensitive skin on his legs. Then she ran the hard brush in vigorous strokes over his coat and finally used the soft brush over his head and legs. She combed out his mane and did the best she could with his tangled tail. Beau leaned heavily on her as she raised his right foreleg to pick his hoof, and she reminded him that she was not a crutch. He relaxed further, and Jane resigned herself to propping up his weight with her shoulder as she tugged at the clumps of grass and mud.

  Yes, taking care of a horse was a lot of work, she thought, but it was work Jane loved. She remembered the very first time she came to Sunny Acres, and how Jose, the barn manager, had taken her hand and led her into Brownie’s stall. “If you want to ride horses, you must first learn to care for them,” he’d said, his kind face smiling but serious. “Remember that anything really worthwhile takes a lot of work, a lot of love. And being around horses is just about the most worthwhile thing there is.” Jane remembered how enormous Brownie had looked—Jane’s head barely reached his chest. Jose had placed a soft brush in her hands and showed her how to brush as much of Brownie’s coat as she could reach, then helped her up on an overturned bucket so she could clean his back and mane. “Talk to him,” he’d instructed. “Get him used to your voice and hands. Let him know you’re going to be friends.” And Jane had been talking to—and caring for—horses at Sunny Acres ever since.

  “How’s Beau today?” Jane let the horse’s leg down and looked up to see Jose outside the stall, pitchfork in hand. He and his family were from Mexico, and he often told Jane stories about the Tijuana track, where Seabiscuit raced, and the great Mexican horses and jockeys. His grandsons Ricky and Gabriel worked at Sunny Acres, too.

  “He’s fine. His tail’s a mess, though,” Jane replied.

  “You take real good care of that horse,” Jose said.

  “Well, you taught me.”

  “I taught just about every girl who rides here, and not all of them learned the lessons. They just want to ride—let someone else do the work.”

  That was true, Jane knew. Not everyone liked Sunny Acres’ policy that riders must care for the school horses they rode as if they were their own, from grooming to mucking out their stalls to cleaning their tack. She often saw the other girls, especially the ones who boarded their horses, giving their mounts to Jose or Ricky or Gabriel to groom and to cool out after riding. “Well, what are they paid for?” Alyssa had said once. But Jane thought that the Reyes family had plenty to do anyway; after all, they did the real, everyday work with the school horses and the barns, in addition to the maintenance of the fields and riding arenas, and a myriad of other chores.

  “It’s not really work for me,” Jane said gamely, then laughed as Jose raised his eyebrows, looking pointedly at Jane’s dirty fingernails, the dust and slobber on her T-shirt, and the sweat that beaded up on her forehead.

  “Sure,” he said, and winked at her.

  Jane’s muscles were burning, and sweat poured down her face. They’d been doing a posting trot without stirrups for ages now, it seemed, but still no word from Susan to walk. Beau had a big, jogging stride, and Jane concentrated on rising and falling evenly, not being bounced around by his natural springiness of step. She checked the position of her lower leg, tight and behind the girth, heels down as if they were pressing into stirrups. She tried to keep her upper body steady, her hands in position.

  The other girls looked tired, too—Jane saw Liz and Shannon sneaking a few moments of sitting when Susan’s back was turned—but Emily looked positively frazzled. Lancelot was trotting fast and choppy, his head high, fighting Emily’s tight grip on the reins. He kept trying to break into a canter, and Jane could hear Emily calling to him to slow down. He fought her, desperate to run, his vibrant chestnut coat growing dark with sweat, his mouth starting to foam at the corners where the bit dug in. “I’m getting this crazy horse a curb bit tomorrow,” Emily said to Alyssa through clenched teeth as she passed her. Alyssa smiled serenely back, posting easily on Ariel’s liquid stride. Emily glared at her, then yanked on the reins, hard, and shouted, “Whoa!”

  “I don’t think shouting is going to work, Emily,” Susan said with a warning note in her voice. “Okay, everybody walk. Emily, let’s think about what you’re doing. You need to calm your horse down, take it slow and steady. No yelling and no punishment. He’s in a new place with strange horses—have some patience with him.”

  Emily took a deep breath and nodded, but Lancelot continued to tug at the reins, shying and skittering into a fast jog, his whole body like a coiled spring about to be set loose. He champed on the bit, tossed his head, looked at the other horses in wild-eyed challenge. He was paying no attention to his rider, who grew more and more tense and stiff in the saddle.

  “Pick your stirrups up and knot your reins, everybody,” Susan said, and seeing the look of disbelief on Emily’s face, she added, “You, too, Emily. Just give it a try. If you can’t control him, you can take them right back.”

  Jane tied her reins just above Beau’s withers and let her arms relax at her sides. She loved this exercise—riding without reins, guiding Beau with only her legs, seat, and voice. It made her feel tall and free, and when Beau responded well, it was like they actually were, as Susan had said last week, a centaur. The pressure from the bit relaxed, Beau stretched his neck down and snorted.

  “Posting trot,” Susan said, and the riders urged their horses forward again. The group was a bit chaotic at first; Bess took a corner sharply, and Bebop decided to wander to the center of the ring and stop under the shade of the trees. Beau was going well, though he, too, would not go deep into the corners until Jane applied a strong inside leg. Susan noticed. “Very nice, Jane! See how he responded when you corrected him? Next time use that leg before you reach the turn and see if you can keep him to the rail all the way.” Jane focused, sweat stinging the corners of her eyes, entirely absorbed in Beau and his position along the rail. She no longer had any sense of the other riders, except when she approached their horses and either guided Beau around them—a tricky business with no reins—or slowed him down with her voice to stay behind them. She felt so good, she stretched her arms up above her head, then windmilled them from side to side, eyes straight ahead, keeping her balance well. “Very nice indeed,” Susan said approvingly as Beau jogged by her.

  Suddenly Jane heard the pounding of hooves behind her, a thunderous tattoo, and Beau pinned his ears back and jerked his head up sharply. In a flash of red, Lancelot was beside them, bounding in a great leap around Beau and shooting past them down the long stretch of the arena. Emily was thrown up onto his neck, clutching at the reins, trying to stop him. Beau had startled, and Jane grabbed the reins and brought him to a standstill, watching the blur of flame in the trees at the far end of the ring.

  “Everybody halt!” Susan yelled. The magnificent horse was now galloping back toward them, his head high, his eyes showing their whites, the face of his rider pale and
tense above his blazing mane. She leaned back, sawing at the reins, and he stopped abruptly and reared. Emily screamed, and the other horses stirred uneasily; even Ariel pranced under Alyssa’s firm hand. It was all over in seconds—Lancelot’s forelegs sawed the air, then he plunged back to earth, took a mighty but awkward leap sideways and forward, and Emily, precariously balanced on the very back of the saddle, lost her stirrups and fell to the earth as Lancelot sprang forward, racing his shadow around the ring.

  Susan ran to the fallen rider, but Emily was already up, dusting off the seat of her britches and looking at the enormous chestnut horse with an unattractive mixture of disgust and apprehension.

  “Holy-moly,” Robin said to Jane, pulling Bess up beside her.

  “That’s the first time I’ve seen Emily look scared,” Jane replied.

  “I would be, too,” Robin answered truthfully. “That horse is acting like he’s totally untrained. But at least she’s not hurt.” Indeed, Susan was checking Emily over, and Emily was shaking her head and gesticulating with her arms, obviously indicating that she was fine—but furious. Susan left her and flagged down the galloping horse, walking calmly toward him with her left arm out to the side, as if blocking him from afar, and her right hand stretched out, palm cupped, like she had something in it for him. Lancelot stopped and, surprisingly, allowed himself to be caught with a minimum of fuss.

  “You’re smart, but you’re acting dumb,” Jane heard Susan say to the horse, surveying him with her keen, observant eyes. She checked his girth, the fit of his bridle, and ran her hands down his legs, searching for any discomfort or injury that might be causing the horse’s behavior. Apparently, she found nothing, and she led him back to his rider, who was staring at him with a very grim expression on her face.

  “Can you get back on?” Susan asked. Emily nodded, and Susan gave her a leg up, then led Lancelot to the center of the ring, where he stood, trembling, sweat darkening his brilliant flanks.

  “She’s got serious guts,” Shannon said, but Jessica shook her head.

  “No, she wants to get even,” she said. “If I were that horse, I’d look out.”

  Susan set up two simple cross-rails on opposite sides of the ring. “Okay, everybody, take the first one at a trot and the second jump at a controlled canter. Emily, you stay here, and if you feel like you want to try it, go ahead and bring Lancelot out after Lady Blue. Robin, take Bess first, please.”

  The riders filed out behind Bess, picking up a trot and all going easily over the low jump. Liz kept Lady Blue well behind the others and looked nervously over her shoulder at Emily as she finally asked her horse to trot. For a moment, Emily hesitated, and Jane felt sure she was going to stay where she was, but then she brought Lancelot behind Lady Blue, and he picked up a fast, nervous jog. They approached the jump and Lancelot suddenly burst into a canter, exploding from Emily’s hands like a cannon, and he bounded toward the jump in three huge strides, sailing over it with several feet to spare.

  “Well, now we know he can jump!” Susan shouted, but Emily didn’t reply. Her lips were set in a grim line as she tugged at the reins, trying to slow Lancelot down. He stopped abruptly, and now she had to switch tactics and urge him forward. He went into a fairly controlled canter, but as he neared the second jump he shied abruptly, almost unseating her. Jane had just cleared the first jump for the second time, and she saw Emily pull up next to Lady Blue and ask Liz something. Liz handed Emily her crop, and Emily gave Lancelot a heel in his ribs.

  He started forward immediately, heading again for the second cross-rail. Jane, her stomach knotting, brought Beau away from the rail and stopped him in the shade, hoping that Susan wouldn’t notice her with all the dust and commotion of the other riders trotting and cantering around the arena. Lancelot eyed the jump warily, his ears pointed forward, his head tossing. “You just went over one exactly like it, you big silly,” Jane whispered to herself. “Why make such a production now?” Emily had a death grip on her reins, but she was simultaneously digging her heels into Lancelot’s sides, and the big chestnut was in a frenzy of confusion, springing forward, then coming to a sudden halt five strides before the jump. He froze, stock-still, and Jane found that she was holding her breath. “Turn him around,” she whispered. “Let him get into a nice easy trot, let him look at it again from farther away.” But Emily seemed determined to take the jump from a near-standing position. She kicked Lancelot again, he took three jolting strides, then ducked away to the right, hitting Emily’s leg against the rail.

  What happened next seemed to take place in slow motion, the seconds stretched out unendurably. Jane later realized that she’d shouted, “Wait—” even before Emily’s arm raised high above her head as she grabbed her reins in her left hand and slashed at her horse with the crop, bringing it down again and again on his hindquarters. Lancelot wheeled and plunged and gave a shrieking neigh of pain and perplexity. Before he could bolt, Emily swung off his back, flinging the reins over his head, and bringing the crop down again with all her strength. Lancelot reared, and Emily fell backward in the dust, letting go of the reins and rolling over to avoid the hooves that came plunging earthward once more. She was back on her feet in a flash, and before Lancelot had time to escape, she grabbed the reins and brought the crop down on his neck.

  Then Susan, running all out, reached her and grabbed her wrist, shouting, “That’s enough!”

  All of the other horses had stopped, their riders frozen in their saddles. Everyone stared at the frenzied chestnut, trying desperately to get away from the girl who stood before him, crop clenched in her right hand, staring at him in crimson-faced fury.

  “Emily, walk away. Now!” Jane had never seen Susan so angry. But neither had she seen any rider at the farm treat her horse like this.

  Emily threw Lancelot’s reins to Susan, turned on her heel, and stalked toward the gate. Suddenly she turned. “It’s your fault,” Emily said in a low voice.

  “What did you say to me?” Susan demanded.

  “I said it’s your fault. I never should have ridden that horse without reins. I’m going to tell my father you put me in danger. It’s your fault.” She turned and stomped out of the ring, and Susan opened her mouth to yell after her, then took a deep breath and turned back to the sweat-drenched horse, standing with his head held high, his great chest heaving.

  “This lesson is over,” she said quietly, and placed her hand on Lancelot’s neck. He started back, as if she were going to hit him, and she shushed him softly, then led him away. As they passed Beau, Jane looked at Lancelot’s chiseled head, still held high, and saw to her amazement that water was pouring from his eyes.

  Chapter 4

  The First Long Night of Six (Long?) Weeks

  Jane found the note tucked inside her sleeping bag as she unrolled it over the mattress on the top bunk of her bed in the cabin she’d call home during the next six weeks of camp.

  Dear Jane, Please don’t go to camp. Love, Lily.

  Jane smiled and squeezed the piece of paper tightly in her palm before putting it inside one of the leaves of her sketchbook. The note was part of a long-standing tradition between Jane and her sister—one that Jane had started when she was six years old. Lily, then ten, was going to camp for the first time, a dramatic arts program that was only a week long, but it was the first time she’d been away from home alone. Jane remembered the cold pit in her stomach as she’d watched their mother pack Lily’s things the night before she left. So Jane had written a note in a childish scrawl and hid it in one of Lily’s tennis shoes, packed in the bottom of her duffel bag. Dear Lily, Please don’t go to camp. Love, Jane. Lily found the note her first night at camp, burst into tears, and called her parents, begging them to come and pick her up immediately. Mr. and Mrs. Ryan dissuaded her, scolded Jane, and then let Jane and Lily talk on the phone for an hour, until Jane fell asleep, the phone curled under her arm like a teddy bear.

  Jane and Lily had been writing these notes to each other ever since. Now the
y were funny, especially ones that said things like: Dear Lily, Please don’t go to the school lock-in. Love, Jane and Dear Jane, Please don’t spend the night with Robin. Love, Lily. But although the notes had become a joke, and the sisters prided themselves on the ones tucked into each other’s backpacks on the shortest of overnight visits, Jane also knew that part of them would always miss each other when they were separated—no matter for how short a time. And this was certainly the longest time Jane had ever been away from home. This six-week session was something of an experiment. Since starting the camp nine years before, the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrys, now had a group of skilled riders on their hands and had decided that a longer course of instruction for the older girls, in addition to the one- and two-week sessions for the newer riders, might be popular. It was: Everyone from Jane’s group had immediately signed on. But six weeks was nothing compared with Lily’s upcoming separation from her family—gone until Thanksgiving, and then only home for four days!

  They had never gotten into each other’s hair the way so many other siblings did—their interests were so different, they were so different, that they were actually interested in what the other was doing and were genuinely admiring of each other’s talents. Lily hung Jane’s pictures in her room, and Jane never missed a single one of Lily’s plays. Jane thought it was amazing how her sister could become another person so fully, inhabiting a character like growing a new skin. She sometimes shivered as she watched Lily transform into Helen Keller, or Alice in Wonderland, or Juliet. And Lily thought Jane was astoundingly brave just for getting on a horse. Of course, Jane knew there was no bravery in it—but she still appreciated Lily’s wide eyes and open mouth as she described difficult jumps and near escapes from branches and fence rails. To Jane, these things were easy compared with the thought of being on a stage, hundreds of eyes on you, expected to perform. Now that, Jane thought, was true bravery.