“Oh? I’m not sure what cutting horses are.”
“Basically, they cut cattle—separate them from the herd—and direct them to where the cowboy needs them. There are big competitions for cutting horses, and a good one can earn his owner a ton of money. There’s a good market for trained cutting horses. That’s what I hope to tap into.”
“When’s this guy arriving?”
“A few days. And she’s a woman. She comes with her own living quarters—a humongous trailer. Her name’s Mallory—Mal—Powers. She’s famous in training circles. I’m lucky to get her.”
“I hope I get a chance to meet her,” Amy said.
“You will—she’ll be here probably six months or so. It’ll be like having a new neighbor, at least for a while.”
Amy couldn’t help but notice the enthusiasm that crept into Jake’s voice as he spoke of his new trainer. She nodded. “That’ll be nice,” she said.
At the barn Jake loosened the cinches of the two saddles.
“Can I walk Daisy to cool her down?” Amy asked.
“Nah,” Jake said. “Neither one of them is hot. We walked almost all the way back. I’ll rub them down a bit and turn them out to pasture.” He looked at Amy. “I enjoyed this,” he said. “You’re a natural at riding. If you want to use Daisy again, just call here and one of the guys will bring her in and tack her up for you. As long as you keep my place in sight, you can ride wherever you like.”
“Alone?”
Jake laughed. “Not alone. Daisy will be with you. Look—the way to learn to ride is to ride. So sure, anytime you want.”
“Wow—that’s great, Jake. Thanks. I’ll certainly take you up on your offer. And I had a wonderful time today too.”
The next morning the rush of sunshine into her room once again awakened Amy. She tossed back her covers, swung her legs to the side—and groaned. Both of her thighs felt as if someone had tied knots in the muscles, and her calves screamed at her when she attempted to stand next to her bed. Her legs were as stiff as two-by-fours, and her seat reminded her of the time she’d spent bouncing in the saddle before she’d caught on to the rhythm of the gaits. She hobbled to the bathroom, lurching as waves of pain grasped her legs in a vice-like grip. Nutsy cocked his head inquisitively at her.
“Riding pains,” she grumbled to the cat, as if he’d asked her a question. “Not a big deal.” She groaned again.
A very hot and overly long shower helped, at least to some degree. Amy stood to the rear of the stall, directed the showerhead on her legs, and let the heat and the gentle pounding do what they could. She dried and dressed, not bothering to even run a brush through her hair. She noticed as she limped down the stairs that she’d misbuttoned her blouse but decided not to worry about it. She made coffee, fed Nutsy, and sat glumly at the kitchen table. A few hours of horseback riding and I’m a cripple? This is silly. I’m in good shape, I’m healthy—or am I? Is this going to happen every time I ride? If so, I’ll stick to my Jeep. She looked at the clock and then looked at it again. Five after ten? I haven’t slept this late in fifteen years. This is impossible. How can a few hours of riding—
The chimes of the doorbell cut through her reverie. I’m not home. No matter who it is, I’m not home. I’m in a rest home. I was taken away by ambulance because I couldn’t walk. I have a rare leg disease.
The chimes sounded again. Amy stood and hobbled to the door. Through the peephole she saw a handsome, casually dressed man about her age looking back at her. Maggie Lane stood next to him. They were both smiling.
“Hi, Amy,” the guy said, apparently seeing her eye at the peephole. “I’m Ian Lane—Reverend Ian Lane. You’ve met my wife, Maggie. We stopped by to say hello, to welcome you to Coldwater. Got a minute to chat?”
Amy panicked. Excuses that might chase them away raced through her mind, and none of them worked. She pawed at her almost-dry, flyaway hair and looked down at the strange way her blouse was gathered—kind of bunched—at her stomach.
“Amy?”
She opened the door and forced a smile. “Hi, Reverend Lane. Hi, Maggie. Come on in. You’re in luck; I just made some coffee.”
Ian’s smile slipped away for a millisecond, and his eyes showed his confusion as he looked at her. “Umm, sure,” he said. “Coffee sounds good. If it’s no trouble, I mean.”
“No trouble. Come on.” Amy turned away, leading the couple to the kitchen, acutely aware of how ludicrous her short, baby steps must look to them.
“Amy?” Maggie asked, her voice conveying concern. “Are you OK? Is this a bad time? We should’ve called first, but we were driving right by and...”
“We’d be happy to stop another time,” Ian said.
Amy collapsed into the chair she’d vacated. She sighed. “Reverend...”
“Please—Ian.”
“Ian, then. I went horseback riding for several hours yesterday. I’d never been on a horse before. Today I feel like I’ve played a full game in the National Football League. I need a pair of leg transplants.”
Maggie took the Mr. Coffee carafe and topped off Amy’s cup. She opened a cupboard, removed two cups, and poured for herself and Ian. “I hope I’m not being too presumptuous, but you don’t look like you’re ready to play hostess.”
“I’m not—and thanks, Maggie.”
Ian had settled into a chair across the table from Amy. Maggie sat to her right, looking concerned. “Let me tell you a story,” Ian said. “I know you met Maggie. You may or may not know that she runs a horse operation, is a barrel racer, and was almost born on horseback. We went riding together one day when I was courting her, and it was my first time.” He smiled. “I know exactly what’s going on with you. I thought I was going to die. I learned that riding uses a bunch of muscles that simply don’t get used like that otherwise. For what it’s worth, it’ll go away in a day or so. I promise.”
“But does it happen every time? I don’t think I can go through this again.”
Maggie and Ian laughed, but there was only kindness in the sound.
“No, no, no!” Maggie promised. “The more you ride, the less you’ll stiffen up.”
For the first time that day, Amy’s face showed a real smile—one she actually felt. “Whew. That’s a relief.” She paused for a moment and looked at her guests. “I guess I’m not much of a country girl.”
“You can’t learn everything there is to learn about the West immediately. It takes some time,” Maggie said.
“Well, I’ve got lots of time, anyway. And I’m a quick learner.”
“Good,” Ian said. “Say, who were you riding with?”
“Jake Winter from the next place over. He let me use a nice old mare named Daisy. She’s a sweetheart. We took quite a ride.”
“You couldn’t have had a better riding instructor,” Ian said. “When it comes to horses, even Maggie looks up to Jake.”
Maggie nodded, agreeing. “And Jake takes wonderful care of his animals.”
“I saw that yesterday,” Amy said. “The way he was with his horse and with Daisy.”
“Look,” Maggie said, “we need to get out of your hair, Amy. We’ll get our house tour next time. You need to soak in a hot tub and take it easy.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t better prepared for you guys,” Amy said. “Please come back soon.”
“We will, Amy,” Ian said. “And our church is open to you, of course. Sunday services are at nine and eleven.”
Maggie stood from her chair and Ian did too.
“Stay where you are. We’ll let ourselves out,” Maggie said.
Amy took the advice about the soak. After Maggie and Ian left, she lurched her way up the stairs and into her bathroom. She peered into the mirror. Her hair looked as if there’d been an explosion on her head. The bunched blouse made her cringe.
She groaned and bent to start the hot water running into the tub.
On yet another spectacular Montana morning two days later, Amy took her breakfast coffee outside. She was walk
ing much easier than she had for the past forty-eight hours. Her muscles had stopped arguing with her, the pain in her legs was gone, and amazingly enough, she was actually looking forward to riding again.
She stopped short as she stepped out onto her porch; she’d gotten a new neighbor overnight. Curious, Amy walked to the fence separating Jake’s property from her own. Beyond the pasture, tucked next to the steel building, was a large—almost mobile-home-sized—travel trailer. Amy had no skill in estimating the length of such rigs, but she didn’t need skill to tell that this unit was not only large but also expensive. It seemed to avoid the boxiness of standard travel trailers and was instead smoothly streamlined in appearance. The side facing Amy had a long awning that obviously swung out from a compartment below the roof, and there was a grill and several lawn chairs under the awning. A cable TV antenna protruded from the roof, looking like a miniature radar tower. She noticed that the windows facing her had no air-conditioning units, which surprised her until she saw the rectangular AC housing on the roof. All the comforts of home, she mused.
The clip-clop of a shod horse drew Amy’s attention to the road. Wes Newton, riding a tall gray horse, waved to her and turned his mount into her driveway, jigging his gait from the walk to a jog. Amy sipped her coffee as the cowhand rode toward her, his eyes sweeping over her lawn.
Wes drew rein a few feet from Amy and offered her a smile. “Mornin’, Miss Amy,” he drawled.
“Morning yourself, Wes.” Amy smiled. “How about a cup of coffee? I have a fresh pot in the kitchen.”
“It’s a rare day I turn down an offer like that, Miss Amy—black, please.” He nodded toward the lawn. “While you fetch the java I’m going to look over the grass a bit. I figured on bringing the rollers over today and getting this mess fixed up for you. Jake, he figured we could do it a bit sooner, but I argued him out of it. I tol’ him the ground wasn’t ready yet. He’s all in a lather to get the job done.”
As Amy turned toward her front door to pour the coffee, Wes added, “He got a half dozen of them bushes too.”
She turned back. “Six? Only four of mine were damaged, and one of those wasn’t completely wrecked. I don’t need—”
“Yes’m,” Wes interrupted. “That’s what I tol’ Jake. Sometimes talking to him is like talking to a fence post. Anyways, you’re getting six new bushes.”
“I’ll see if I can change his mind,” Amy said.
Wes nodded as he swung down from his saddle. “Sure,” he grunted. He dropped the reins in front of his horse, said, “Stand,” and walked away from the animal. The horse didn’t move, and when Amy came back out with Wes’s coffee and a fresh cup for herself, the gray was in precisely the same place he’d been left. Wes completed his walk around the lawn and accepted the mug from Amy. She noticed he held it in both hands as he took a long drink. Amy cringed. The coffee was still steaming hot. She’d seen the cowhands in Drago’s drinking their coffee the same way, gulping it down fresh from the pot, as if it were a cold soft drink. Most of them, too, held the mug in both their hands.
“Ground’s good, Miss Amy. We’ll be back in a half hour or so.”
“Fine, Wes. Thanks.” She looked over at the travel trailer. “That’s Jake’s new trainer, right? Mallory Powers?”
“Yes’m. Quite a rig, ain’t it?”
“It sure is. I’ve never seen one like it before.”
“You won’t see another one, neither. Mal had this one custom built. She’s particular about stuff.”
“You know her, Wes?”
He took another drink from his mug. “I know her,” he said. A long moment later he added, “I knew her pa too. She’s a good trainer—has a gentle hand with horses.” Amy waited for the “But...” that all but hung in the air between them like a neon sign. When Wes didn’t comment further she was mildly disappointed and more than mildly curious about Mallory Powers.
Working on her novel was impossible with the snarling and growling of the machinery outside. Amy pushed out from the kitchen table, switched off her laptop, and went to watch the process of returning her lawn to its pre-horseinvasion state.
There were two cowboys on four-wheeled ATVs towing fifty-five-gallon barrel-sized rollers behind their machines. The men worked well together, one running horizontal lines across the lawn, the other vertical. The gaping indentations were disappearing rapidly, leaving nothing in their places except slightly scuffed dirt and some dead grass. A cowhand on foot with a large sack was casting seed onto the bare spots. A small backhoe with a wagon behind it was using its scoop to pluck out the damaged bushes. The wagon contained six new bushes, their roots wrapped in wet burlap. The fellow on the backhoe let his machine idle as he studied the sheet of paper he held. Amy rushed up to him.
“I don’t really need six new bushes,” she said. “I’m sure Jake can take two of these back and get credit for them.”
The driver—Amy could see now he was quite young—shook his head, grinned, and held the paper out to Amy. She took it from him. It was a rough drawing of the length of her driveway with dark Xs to indicate which bushes should be replaced. Underneath the diagram, in neat handwriting were the words: Don’t let Ms. Hawkins scare you away. I want all six of these bushes planted. It was signed simply, “Jake.”
“Well,” Amy said. “I guess you’ve got your orders.”
“Sure do,” the young fellow agreed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to work.”
Within a pair of hours Amy’s home was quiet once again. Her lawn looked better than it had since it’d been planted, and the driveway snaked its way through the neat lines of green shrubs. She stood on her porch for several minutes taking in and thoroughly enjoying the work done. Then, she nodded to herself, walked to her garage, fired up her Jeep, and headed for Coldwater.
Ingram’s Book Nook was at the end of Main Street in town, housed in a rather small building that had once, many years ago, been a saddle and tack repair shop. Now it was lined with wooden bookshelves and two sale item tables and scattered overstuffed chairs with floor lamps positioned next to them. There was a store cat named Kafka who alternated his time between sleeping on the display in the front window, patrolling the store for mice, and batting a cherished golf ball around the shop. Amy loved the place and had since the first time she’d walked in the door.
The shelf of horse books was long and well stocked. After much consideration, Amy selected a novel titled A Good Horse and a Three Dollar Compass, which was the story of a long and arduous ride made by a young Texas physician in the 1870s through a blizzard, in order to save the life of a young mother. Amy paid at the counter, scratched between Kafka’s ears, and went out to her vehicle.
Jake’s truck was in the driveway, and Wes was sitting outside the steel building, just as he had been the day Jake’s horses had torn up her lawn. “Jake around?” she asked after greeting Wes with a smile.
“Right where you found him last time,” Wes said. “He’s watching Mal work with a horse. Go on back.”
The building was less intimidating this time. Amy walked through the business area, the book tucked under her arm, and along the aisle leading to the central arena. As she approached the door she felt the thudding of hooves in the soles of her loafers. She tugged open the door, entered the arena, and walked up to stand next to Jake. He didn’t notice her, so tight was his focus on the horse in the dirt-floored enclosure. She stood back a half step and a foot to his side. Her eyes ran over the side of Jake’s face, the length of his lean body, the forward tilt of the brim of his Stetson before she looked away, afraid he’d catch her inspecting him. He didn’t; he was still unaware of her standing there, and his gaze was still riveted to the horse.
Or is it the rider he’s so intent on? Hard to tell. If I were a man, I’d sure be watching her.
Mallory Powers’s straight, honey-blonde hair was a bit more than shoulder length, and it f lowed behind her as she rode. Even at a distance, Amy could see that the woman’s face was a classic o
f contemporary beauty: fine cheekbones, a nose that was small and perfectly straight, large eyes, no doubt blue, with long, luxurious lashes, rather thin lips that were now tight in concentration. It was easy to see that Mallory was tall—perhaps five-foot-ten, like Amy—even as she sat in the saddle. Her long, jean-clad legs promised to be as tightly muscled as were her arms, which were visible in the sleeveless blouse she wore. Amy noticed the woman’s boots. They were Western rather than cowboy, with a lightly stitched design against the tan of the leather but no other decoration. They were practical and serviceable but quite feminine too. They made a positive statement about the woman who wore them. Amy looked down at her own fashionable loafers and grimaced to herself.
The thought struck Amy that Mallory would be at home in an L. L. Bean advertisement, wearing a fancy backpack and paired with a ruggedly handsome, forest-ranger type.
Amy poked Jake’s arm lightly with the edge of the novel, and he turned to her, startled. His face broke immediately into a grin. “Amy, good to see you.” He looked at the book. “What’s this?”
“It’s for you. A little thank-you gift for having my place put back together.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.
“You didn’t have to replace all six of my bushes, either. Here, take it.”
Jake took the book gently from her hand and inspected the cover. “I read about this story in Western Horseman. I’ve been meaning to stop in town and pick it up or order it. Thanks, Amy, thanks a lot. I know I’ll enjoy it.”
His obvious enthusiasm over the novel brought a broad smile to Amy’s face. “I hope so. That’s why I got it for you.”
“See? A pretty lady shows up, and Jake forgets all about me,” said a mock-pouty voice. “I’m really hurt.”
Amy and Jake both shifted their attention from one another to Mallory Powers, who was sitting on the horse a few feet from them.
“Not hardly.” Jake laughed. “You’ve got that horse changing leads like a champion,” he said. “Mallory, meet my friend and next-door neighbor, Amy Hawkins.”
Chasing the Dream Page 5